I just tasted the dandelion wine.

It’s been sitting on the back of the counter in a gallon jar for weeks, fermentation lock bubbling away. I’m a little more than nervous about my winechild.

It might’ve gone bad. Tasted off, or turned to vinegar.

But she burns like alcohol, and she’s sweet like wine. She tastes like dandelions.

I hadn’t noticed how much I’d been holding my breath over this.

I notice that I’m feeling relieved and hopeful. I’m feeling like I have that much more to be careful with, as I get through to the end of bottling and aging and the rest of this. I’m also noticing a strange absence where there might be resentment about one more thing to watch over and worry for.

I think it’s because I happen to really like this.

And it’s just – some stuff in a jar on the back of the counter. It’s a small thing. The world isn’t going to fall apart if it goes south.

But the little taste I had made me happy, on some random Monday in June. And I think that makes it important.