Grapes on the vine, stomped and sitting still until peak fermentation. Fresh wine, fresh from the barrel. I’ve been to the Biltmore Estate in North Carolina, I’ve been to the wine tasting. I will never forget the lovely Chenin Blanc we brought home, which I was so hesitant to drink because it was so delicious and good and I didn’t want to waste it. We might’ve opened it on Easter.
I have been very wine-drunk before. In roller coaster spiral of adolescence. I can’t even blame it on naiveté, but being in love and feeling lost. Going glass for glass, as my crush’s kitchen began to shine, tossing the now empty bottle in the recycling as my head felt giddy and large like a hot air balloon, my eyes feasting on my surroundings. Everything interesting and feeling emotions slip through me so that I could feel them intently and analyze them. Vomiting ensued about two to three hours later. Heaving, launching my upper body holding the fence of a nearby schoolyard for support. The night is still vivid. The hangover even more so. I couldn’t drink red wine for a full year after that. Room spinning, head swimming and pounding. I’ll never drink like that again.