Wine in My Blood

Since childhood, I've been fascinated by wine. I have my mother, father, aunts, uncles, and grandparents to thank for that. I still drink over-oaked Chard with my 89-year-old grandmother in her kitchen when I head over to see my grandparents. Some in my family preferred whiskey, others quaffed copious amounts of Stag or Budweiser (full flavor, of course), but what always stuck with me were the bottles of red wine, opened, poured, debated, and eventually clanging together as the last of them were cleaned up at the end of a random Tuesday night, Christmas Eve, or Thanksgiving gatherings.

The wine itself ranged from humble "Two-Buck Chuck" from Aldi to the more prestigious bottles of Robert Mondavi (back when it was still a name to brag about and somewhat exclusive) or Caymus. I remember my uncle bringing a bottle of Johnny Blue for Christmas and giving anyone who wanted to try it a sip, I slammed it like it were a shot of Jim Beam! Outrageous, I know. My mom tells a great story of my dad bringing home a bottle of 1982 Dom Pérignon (1982!!!) on New Year's Eve after work, the punch line being he passed out before my mom could even get a drop in a glass. Like a steadfast wine-o she was compelled to consume it all upon walking into the living room to find my dad passed out in his chair, deciding on the spot that he and her three kids under the age of 4 were finally giving her the peace and quiet she probably deserved the entirety of 1990.

Without realizing it, my family was teaching me something important: wine brings people together and if you open a bottle, you damn well better finish it even if you have to happily take one for the team. Wine fills glasses, starts conversations (and fights), and gives people a way to connect whether you've known each other forever or you're meeting for the first time in years.