Confessions / Semi-drunken rants

What’s the big deal about wine, anyway?

NO. Really. 

I know this is mommy-blogger anathema. Sort of like saying, “I’m actually not so fond of solo trips to Target.” (No Targets here in Belgium, but being in any store alone makes me feel like Holly Golightly at Tiffany’s.)

Look, wine and I used to hang (as some of you know). And we still get along just fine. But only in meal-accompanied small doses. In short, wine is either fancy food-friend or so much cloudy-sleepyland, with no other feels for me, none. Unless you count mild next-day headache.

Coffee and wine

With you on the coffee, but I clearly don’t deserve the other.

So what is this with always the wine? I’m looking at you, every other mommy blogger. And also freshly retired grandmommy Facebookers. (And Hafiz, Sufi poet.)

What is it?

What about beer? Beer is just as interesting, aesthetically. Monks make it (sometimes), you know. Prayerfully. They pray over the beer, see, so that we don’t have to. Drinking the beer is therefore the realization of the beer-making monk prayer (I’m pretty sure). It’s a sacred act, almost. You want to write a ghazal, Hafiz? Drink two Belgian triple Karmeliets and your pen shall whirl across the page. Dervishly.

Is it a gluten thing? Because I’m trying to be more empathetic about that, even though I secretly think that, in an ideal world, we’d all get to live mainly on bread and monk beer. (And also cheese.)

I know it’s not the antioxidants.

“First, put the kids to bed, then pour the wine.” It’s the thing said on all the blogs and all the posts, but I just can’t bring myself to believe that all of you regularly drink copious amounts of wine. Meal-lessly! Can the sisterhood please be less headachey? Maybe if we still hiked up our skirts and stomped barefoot on grapes, then sure. OK! That would be proper Dionysian, and I would dig it.

Except that instead, I’m stomping barefoot mainly on (surprisingly sharp) Smurf figurines and all the missing marker caps. No community wine stomping crate here, and, furthermore, not even naked Dionysian cult virgins to join me with their drums and pipes and torches. And, you know what? That’s ok. Because by the time I get the kids to bed, rarely do I feel up to ecstatic-dancing with a frenzied mob up a Grecian mountainside.

Really I want a beer. (Then sometimes another beer.)

monk-tending-sick-patient

Thank you, good monk. THANK you, for this compline salve.

And thank YOU for reading my little post-nightcap rant. Cheers to all the mommas of the vine, but please pass me the barley and hops.

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