By the time I’m three or four wine glasses down I consider myself to be in a state of transcendence.
There’s a space between the cosmos and the heavens. After four wine glasses, I’m there in between filling that gap acting as an intermediary connecting the green brown solid earth and the blue skies.
I feel my soul stretched out right before me ready to have a conversation with my corporeal self. Though incarnated I feel disembodied. The giddiness of wine makes me feel empowered like a child in a distant remote village gifted a bicycle to commute to school.
No this is not drunkenness. It is not inebriation because that suggests irresponsibility. In fact, I drink well within my means otherwise why would I be indulging Cellar Cask when there’s Cabernet Sauvignon to chap my lips to?
Wine drinking is metanoia. It is shape shifting to a higher self. Maybe it’s the red of it’s colour suggesting a form of transfusion. Inducing life and enhancing existing consciousness.
I have little respect for beer imbibers. The bottle is amorphous, the fluid itself is frothy, spiritless and lacking in personality. It’s a plebeians’ drink, the refuse of society and only those who lack peerage would give it second thought. Drinking beer is akin to inflating your stomach with air – keeping it full but bereft of substance.
Contrary to the wine glass. Whose girth resembles that of a voluptuous wench. A wine glass is a mermaid. It is a tall curvy lady standing on brittle glass stiletto heels cat walking on solid ground. Wine glasses are Toni Braxton, Ciara and Beyonce throwing their hair back in music videos.
Wine remains peerless. It is alcohol comparable to none. It is a beverage second to naught.
While beer strangles your throat with bubbly barley, wine caresses it. It washes down with the sensation of silk as if stitching royal satin down your digestive tract. Wine is in the Bible. It is the only vice Jesus cared to brew.
Wine is nature. It is grapes, a fruit only nipped and nibbled on in tables on Bridgerton.
Next time you question the place of wine in the league of recreational drinks, ask yourself what the Pope gets high on. Then you’ll know what’s Kosher. Slainte!
