If there were some kind of contest for lack of rural aptitude, I would definitely own that thing. Guess what stupid thing I’ve done now.
Did you guess “put in a vineyard in the Back Forty”? You’re right!
You can’t just buy a few grape vines and stick’em in the ground, it turns out. Instead, you have to enclose the entire acreage in deer fence, run power and water out there, install irrigation lines, and erect what the vineyard guy is calling “a little house” for reasons I have yet to grasp.
Yeah, I said “vineyard guy.” You are obliged to engage one of these, because, remember? You don’t know jack about growing grapes.
That’s bad enough, but then you have to have arguments with your winemaker about what to call the winery, even though the first harvest is still at least two years out. We’re gonna be making rosé, so naturally I wanted to call it Summer Winery. It has its own flippin excellent video already.
However, the winemaker, my longtime sidekick Stingray, has put her foot down. “Summer” is apparently the worst winery name since “Mommy’s Juice.” Her reasoning eludes me. “Rosé isn’t just for summer anymore!” she keeps insisting. Fine, I counter, but we’re talking about a name, not a set of instructions. You don’t take it literally, it’s only meant to suggest a certain mood, elicit a certain feeling. It’s poetical, a metaphor. Is pasta alla puttanesca eaten only by prostituted women? Pull yourself together, woman!
This fight isn’t over.