Okay so the other evening I wrote about an adventure in which I ducked in and out of a grocery store for a bottle of peach juice and I don’t think I ever actually explained why.

I needed it for brewing stuff, for the batch of peach wine that I back sweetened and bottled this evening.

It’s been bulk aging since August or early September, I think. So our secondary fermentation is complete and all the little yeast babies have died.

Their spirits are still with us.

Once the yeast dies there isn’t too much of a chance that the pressure inside the bottle will cause an explosion. Probably. When you’ve racked off the wine into a clean container enough times, and no more dust is falling out of solution, it’s time.

The ironic thing about all of this is that I can’t actually drink more than a very small amount of alcohol, at the moment. It’s this medication that I’m taking. But, fuck, is that a worthwhile tradeoff.

It helps that I just really enjoy the process of brewing. That’s where most of the joy is, anyway.

So this evening I asked my parents to help me out, taste testing this batch, as I added sweet peach juice until it was palatable. Because, fuck, this one fermented all the way dry. She needed a little help.

Mom and dad made ehhhh noises as I added sugar a little at a time, mixed it in, gave them a taste in a small drinking glass, until it had turned out okay. At the point when their tongues tingled in the back, as the wine splashed down, it was good enough.

I made one bottle that was much sweeter than the rest, as a treat.

And as I was doing that, Evie was also moving around the kitchen making snickerdoodles, and we were all listening to John Denver & The Muppets Christmas album, and Mom and Dad were on the computer looking at hats to buy one another as a gift exchange. Mom is getting tipsy, Dad is tired enough to be cracking jokes.

I felt happy.

And the thing about Christmas is that I used to feel like there was a certain way that I ought to be feeling. A particular spirit, a vibe. It’s like something I almost remember but can’t put my finger on. It was magic. It had to do with short days and the smell of pine, with oranges and cookies. It was lights on a tree or snow on the ground. It was a certain collection of music. Old movies. Tradition, the festival we come back to. Gift giving. More than the sum of the parts.

I don’t find that feeling in those things. Not anymore, or at least not right now. Not more than a very little bit. Maybe it is something that gets lost over time.

So instead of missing it, or longing for it, I’m letting it go. There’s a good time to be had right here, without pining for something I don’t have, can’t hold.

It doesn’t even have to be a good time, all the time. It just is.

Sometimes it’s just – moments like this one.

Evie puts together a fucking kick ass outfit with hoop earrings and a French tuck. I sloppily apply eye liner because I keep meaning to learn how to do that thing. I find out that I got a 95 on my third of three logic exams, which puts me at a 96.7 for the class. I will take it. The kid I was virtual-tutoring got a 90 and passed with an 85. I feel proud. The cats fight in the hall upstairs, and the dog curls up at our feet under the table.

It’s December 18th, 2020, and things are going to be alright. And I love you so much. And I don’t usually say always, but I that’s what I generally mean in the words I don’t say.

I hope it’s a very sweet evening.