Puppies. Tiny children blowing kisses. Those perfume ads full of Gwyneth Paltrow's flowing blond locks and a bike basket bursting with pink confections.

Sweet is fine -- to a point.

But don't use the word to describe my wine. It makes me sound so ... simple.

Maybe that's why my brother-in-law, who works in a wine store, tells me customers often begin their inquiries along these lines: "I don't like sweet wines. Where is your Riesling?"

Not that every Riesling is candy in a glass, but most fall into the category of "sweet." And if a sweet-from-sniff-to-swallow Riesling is your thing, it's best to tell your wine seller that's what you're after.

Perhaps it's because we associate sweet with innocence. Science has confirmed that sweet is the first taste an infant expresses an affinity for, a biological necessity given the sugar in mother's milk.

Maybe deep down, we're rebelling against that first taste, casting it off in favor of sour and bitter flavors. Like leaving behind pink pinafores and training wheels, graduating from sweet to dry indicates a wine drinker's maturity and sophistication.

Or maybe the American market has been inundated with the sugary one-note of White Zinfandel for so long that many of us are unable to think of sweet wine as anything but simple.

The sweet tooth

I rolled these thoughts around in my head as a friend and I headed to a tasting of sweet wines at The Wine Merchant in Raleigh last month.

I asked this friend because I know of her unabashed affinity for all things sweet.

The wine tasting we were headed for wasn't the sort I would choose, I thought, but it would be interesting to see what a sweet tooth might like.

Good thing my condescension wasn't palpable.

As we started sipping, working our way through three bars' worth of sherries, ports, Madeiras and more, I began to understand just how complex and sophisticated sweet can be. A peek at my pal's tasting notes revealed the range of nuances a sweet tooth can suss out, as well.

The smokiness in the Domenq Amontillado Sherry reminded her of her first taste of whiskey. The Blandy's Madeira Alvada spoke of acid and pears. She wrote that the Jackson Triggs Vidal Icewine was "too sweet even for me." And the Cockburns 10-year Tawny Port was "warmth in a glass."

Our servers expounded on the history and methodology of the wines, and I grew more and more impressed with what it takes to coax the sugar from the grapes in just the right way to create each distinct flavor. At the last table, we found our persistence rewarded.

The sweet treat

Among the waiting treats was Oremus 3 Puttonyos Tokaji Aszu, as powerful an example of complexity informing sweetness as I have ever tasted. The wine glowed a golden orange under the store lighting, and the nose was full of flowers and honey. It hit my tongue and spread like a ray of liquid sunshine, sweet but not cloying, well-bodied but not syrupy, the very essence of a late summer afternoon.

It was as if some dedicated soul had plucked a million honeysuckles and pulled the style from each, catching the single drops of nectar and bottling them in an instant.

Turns out, the actual process for making Tokaji, or Tokay as it translates in English, is almost as labor intensive.

According to James Halliday and Hugh Johnson in "The Art and Science of Wine," Hungarians have been making Tokay for ages. The political turmoil and communist rule of the 20th century dealt serious blows to the nation's wine industry. In recent decades, it has begun to recover. Thus the resurgence of Tokay.

To make Tokay, winemakers let grapes linger on the vine until they dry out or are affected by botrytis, a disease caused by mold. This drying and molding withers the grapes and concentrates the sugars, leaving small quantities of super sweet juice to be expressed after workers pick the grapes by hand.

The "puttonyos" on the label refers to how many buckets of the liquid are added to dry wine to make the finished product.

Our server's description of the process enchanted me almost as much as the wine. I was transported to an Eastern European vineyard, where I marveled at the patience and craftsmanship behind the wine. Every sip took on new meaning.

I chided myself for having believed I was beyond falling in love with something sweet. The word, like the wines it describes, has many shades of meaning.

My friend ordered the Tokay, a bit of an indulgence at $40 for a 500 milliliter bottle. I expected she would squirrel it away for a while, but the next time I was at her house for a gathering, she had it on the table. When she saw my wine glass was empty, she filled it with the sunny liquid and handed it to me with a smile.

How sweet.

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