Good grief, I think I’m drunk.
After siphoning and getting that first mouthful of wine a few times and tasting just to see how each wine is progressing and not wasting that teeny tiny little glassful that just won’t fit in the jug, I’m feeling quite nice.
I don’t drink regularly, my Dewar’s on the rocks-days long gone after taking quite a while to get established. Even wine at dinner is not an established evening tradition. I will have it sometimes, then, and always a beer or maybe just a half with pizza. At events where mixers are offered, a Bloody Mary is my winter drink; Vodka Collins for the warmer weather. It’s been a few years for the Collins.
A lady in my shop just smiled and asked me if I was making anything with fruit this year. We talked a while about jellys and wines and how to slip the skins off peaches (the bitch–why didn’t she come in and tell me this two weeks ago?) and then she left.
As I swaggered from the pride, I’m sure, of using the gifts of harvest, it struck me: Racking wine is a messy process and clothes and counters and floors–and clothes!!!–are almost always splotched and sticky scented.
The woman’s smile, her questions? To satisfy her curiousity that I’m simply not a drunk.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology