A long time ago, in the far land of San Francisco State University, my roommates and I tried to open our first bottle of wine. Because we were young, naïve, and had a palate trained for bean and cheese burritos, our understanding of good alcohol was peppermint schnapps in hot chocolate.
Unsurprisingly, none of us owned a corkscrew.
A chopstick, hammer, and two hours later, we successfully opened that bottle of wine.
We celebrated by partaking the red liquid in our finest Walmart coffee mugs.
Needless to say, I’ve grown up and now drink wine out of wine glasses. Not necessarily the correct shape of glass (that’s science and I’m an English major), but at least out of the wine designated drinking device.
At least most of the time I do.
As an adult, I date a winemaker and live in Napa Valley; through the rules of vicarious living, I am now a quasi wine professional.
Armed with a background of burlesque dancing, and shitty charcoal drawings, I bring you the literary delicacy of Wine for Misfits – a wine blog for people who like to drink.