Mistakes Were Made
A story of a wine conversion.
In second grade I’m weepy. All the girls in class have been bragging about their big, fancy, fluffy white wedding dresses. There will be parties, bigger and fancier and fluffier than the dresses. There will be money stuffed into Hallmark cards, money they will use to buy the fanciest Barbies and the Barbie Dream House and the Barbie Dream Car. And Ken. And another Ken. Did I mention the Barbie Dream House? All the girls in class are about to have their First Communion. I am not.
I ask my mom if I can also have a Communion, whatever that is. TBH, I just want the Barbies. She looks at me, slightly aghast. How could I, child of feminists, want a “wedding dress” and a big party and dolls that set unrealistic body expectations?
Then she says: “Fine. You want a communion, let’s first go to Mass.”
Cool. Off we go to Mass. I’m excited, but then I’m suddenly very worried. There’s a lot of kneeling. There are men in robes. There’s a somber atmosphere, like a funeral where they also ask for money.
I never return to Mass. I never have a Communion. I never get the Barbie Dream House.
In fifth grade my friend’s family converts to Pentecostalism. At first, nothing seems too weird, other than the Amy Grant tape we blast daily. But soon there are subtle signs, like grace before dinner, or those Jesus-y craft-y signs above the door. Or the time they take me to their new church and people writhe on the floor and speak in tongues. I’m so terrified by this experience I never sleepover again.
In college, my roommate and I are waiting for a friend when a meek girl in sensible florals walks over and says, “Hey, I’m Kara! Have you met Jesus?”
My roommate says, “Hi. We’re Jewish. So sorry!”
Kara runs off, but it was only half true. My Dad is Jewish but I am not Jewish in the technical sense. I grew up without any particular religion, other than a secular tree at Christmas, and the brief moment my parents joined the Unitarian Universalist church. Neither of us can figure out why Kara is so scared.
In adulthood, I start a business with a friend (never do this, btw). Before our business goes south, his evangelical parents gift me a Bible, leather coated and cute, with a classy little red tassel to mark the pages. I’d never read a Bible and I wonder why the font has to be so small. I don’t want reading glasses just to read Genesis. But I dutifully try. I think my friend’s parents sense me searching for something to fill the giant hole in my heart. Desperate for control over this situation and feeling like the Bible was a gift meant to manipulate, I throw it down my apartment building’s trash chute. The trash room smells like pizza. Thunk! I think about also ordering pizza.
The only useful thing they teach you when you get a degree in writing is to avoid passive voice.
“Mistakes were made.”= bad.
“I made mistakes."=good.
“I made mistakes” is active. “I made mistakes” takes responsibility.
This is the point at which a lazy writer might again say: I grew up. Mistakes were made. Blah, blah, blah. It’s not that I’m lazy exactly, but also I am writing you from my bed.
During our recent time of great pandemic/political/climate despair: I didn’t leave the house much. Probably you didn’t either. I mindlessly scrolled Instagram, stalking what people had to say about wine and getting annoyed by their highly technical, highly boring takes on wine. I began a conversation with the air. I won’t call it praying, but I also won’t NOT call it praying. I wondered: Could there be a new way to talk about wine? A way that isn’t a turn off? That isn’t too bound up by traditions and norms? A way that can meet people where they are? Could we make wine inspirational rather than aspirational?
The other day I’m on a walk, looking at million dollar estates perched on a chilly ocean, contemplating their astronomical heating bills, when Billy Joel’s “Summer, Highland Falls” suddenly appears on my Spotify. The sun gazes through wispy clouds, ethereal, haunting me.
they say that these are not the best of times/But they’re the only times I’ve ever known.
Oof.
Wine is an act of faith in the best of times, but especially in the worst. Faith that the vines will flourish. Faith the grapes will ripen. The weather will hold. The clouds will rain. The smoke will spare. The bottles will age. Faith people will buy it. Drink it. Enjoy it.
For me, drinking wine and writing about wine is a faithful act. I trust the farmers and the winemakers believe in doing good. I trust the bottle is worthy of my $20, $40, or $100. I trust, even in the midst of endless suffering and despair and extreme division, there will be people around me to share a glass with. I have faith that tomorrow there will be friends around a table, talking and laughing about wine.
If you’re thinking, Um Kaitlyn, this sounds cheesy. Have you been watching too many Hallmark movies? You’re not wrong.
Truth is: I’m not a wine professional in the technical sense. I have no official certifications. I have a Wine Bible of sorts, but it sits on my coffee table and pretty sure my son squired applesauce on the cover.
Starting this newsletter to document my experiences with wine is my own religious conversion. In this religion we try to make wine more accessible, less stuffy, less something that old dude in the golf shirt buys to impress his girlfriend and more something for everyone else. You. Me. The guy at the coffee shop. We definitely don’t worship at the wine ratings altar. Our worship is more hands on. We drink wine. We talk about the wine. We talk to winemakers. We ask them real questions, personal questions. We’ll talk about their beliefs and their fears, but also their joy too.
So yes. Mistakes were made. I made mistakes. My life unrolled before me, a glittering red carpet of mistakes and mishaps. But then I drank wine. I went to Napa. I went to Sonoma. I went to Oregon. I went to the local wine store. I went to the big box wine store. I started to think about wine differently, less as a thing I drank out of necessity (at a bar, at an awkward wedding) and more as a thing I believed in. I saw the wine light. Sitting at a winery in Sonoma with my friends, all of us vaccinated after a terrible year, giddy to be together, sharing bubbly. I was suddenly joyful. Despite the 107 degree temps, and the tourists taking selfies next to us and their rude comments about the wine, I said (to myself? Not sure...maybe this is like one of those sitcoms where I’m narrating everything??):
Let’s do this. This thing here? This joyful feeling? This wine elation? Let’s get other people in on it too. Let’s create an altar for good people, great wines, the best times.
Amen.
Thanks for being here. Please come back next time for a candid convo with the winemaker behind some of the best wines I’ve had all year.
-Kaitlyn