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Friday, November 27, 2009

post-thanksgiving w(h)ine

Finally, at the ripe age of twenty-one, I was ready to enjoy my first glass of wine at my grandmother's house. For years, I've been waiting to be old enough, classy enough, refined enough to sip and experience the bitter, relaxing taste of my Uncle's expensive Chardonnay.

Indeed, after a week of being under the swine flu curse, I was very much looking forward to it. In fact, I thought getting through the day would be easier with a little wine under my belt.

We entered my grandmother's house. My hair was coiffed, my cheeks pinched. Suddenly, I felt like a woman. Older, experienced, mature. The smell of turkey and my cranberry sauce greeted me as I walked into the small, crowded kitchen.

The cork popped. Here it was, the moment I had been waiting for. Beautiful glasses of the forbidden fermented fruit were passed around by my father. One to my grandmother, to my mother, both of my uncles and my aunt.

Then, something horrible happened. A glass of sparkling, jumping, purple liquid was placed in my hands by my father. The world slowed as I accepted and thanked him.

How thoughtful. Welch's Sparkling Grape Juice.

I felt as though I had been doomed to the "kid's table" with paper plates and mix-matched plastic silverware as the liquid tickled my nose and throat.

Dejected, I had no choice but to quickly down four glasses of those frothy bubbles. Then I proceeded to wipe away my purple moustache, like a thirteen-year-old boy.*

*I know this because my thirteen-year-old brother did the same thing.
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