Okay, it’s out in public. I confess: I drink box wine. It alternately embarrasses and amuses my children. One couple, oenophiles, tasted it once and pronounced it “thin.” My oldest son, who came late to wine appreciation, once adorned my bottle tree with a box. But a lot of people come to happy hour in this house, and a lot of wine is drunk (though some bring their own). Happy hour is a whole different story. But box wine is cheap and just fine for my unsophisticated palate. Yes, on some occasions I drink a chardonnay that I think is good and oenophiles might just as barely palatable. In fact, I know it’s kind of an old lady thing to drink chardonnay—but I like it.
Today I bought a new box and opened it for a wee bit with my lunch. Except it wouldn’t open. I have my technique down pat, and it just wasn’t working. So in a thoughtless moment of brilliance, I got a sharp knife and cut along the perforated lines in the cardboard. You guessed it—I slit the plastic liner holding the wine, and wine began to drip everywhere. Well, I wasn’t about to waste a whole box, so I got out the largest contained I have and drained the box into it.
When done the container was heavy and with my shaky balance I didn’t feel good about trying to put it in the fridge. I left it on the kitchen counter for Jordan. Jacob and a friend came in first, and announced it looked like urine. Then Jordan came in and demanded an explanation. She put her foot down and said her mother was not ladling wine out of a huge icebox dish. I put my foot down and said I was not throwing away all that wine. A standoff in what might be the first of several such as we blend our households. Guess who won?
The wine went down the drain, with a promise to buy me a new box. I think it’s the first step in the child becoming the parent.
But she busied herself with decorating my house for Christmas—since this is the year we’re downsizing, she went for simplicity, sort of. While I sat in a chair and sipped wine from a bottle. The house looks good, Christmasy, though we’re missing some familiar decorations. Lights are out in the attic, and I suspect Christian just missed them.
‘Scuse me. I’m going to have a good-night glass of wine.