Then I was like, actually? Screw that. I will tell you my secret:

I don’t remember what vintage of Ryme Cellars rosé I drank out of a motel coffee mug in the middle of Death Valley last week. I think it was 2022, but maybe it was 2024, or the one in between that, and honestly I could text Megan right now and just ask her and eliminate all my embarrassment, but then I had a revelation which was this:

Normal people — non-wine professionals or casual wine drinkers, whom I hope are among those reading! — do not pay attention to what vintage of wine they drank or are drinking or are buying. “Vintage” means something, sure; like, they get it that it came from that year’s harvest, and that that year’s harvest and resulting wine apparently, in theory, taste different than the other vintage of the same wine, but they don’t really care, or notice, and it’s lightweight annoying that wine professionals make it out to be such a big deal when 99.9% of the wines the rest of us are drinking are just the vintage that was available when I wanted a drink. In fact, no other beverages make this out to be such a big deal, which makes them more approachable, and so perhaps we will drink those.

To save my professional face, let me clarify that I do know, legitimately, that the 2022 versus 2024 vintage of Ryme rosé, and the one in between those and before and after that are all completely different. I was with Megan in the Ryme cellar when we tasted one of the vintages out of tank and it screamed of watermelon Jolly Rancher and made me want to affix my mouth to the spigot of the tank and crank it all the way open, but if I’m being completely unprofessionally honest right now, I didn’t take notes when I was there, and I don’t remember if it was the ‘25 or ‘24 because I was more preoccupied with how beautiful and warm a spring day it was, how desperately in love with Megan and Ryan Glaab I am, how fun and funny and real and inspiring they are, and how if they didn’t live all the way in Healdsburg which is an hour and a half from Napa where I live, I could make them my best friends. I was totally caught up in Josiah telling Megan, there in the cellar underneath the disco ball, that the four of us need to plan a dinner or a double-date day where their kids babysit ours and then we adults all run off to microdose and, like, swim in a river. Ideally with this rosé and a prosciutto and roasted red pepper sandwich eaten off paper napkins, kind of like I did with whatever vintage Josiah and I drank out of those motel coffee mugs in Death Valley last week.

The point of me writing this whole story has nothing to do with vintage variation or nuanced tasting notes of the Ryme rosé. (Although if you insist on a tasting note, I think there were cherries — slightly underripe ones, still warm from the day ‘cause you plucked them off your neighbor’s tree this evening as you passed by their yard walking the dog. And a red, dry, dusty sandstone minerality… although that could have been the literal desert blowing its bits all at you as the moon rose over the dunes. A twinge of herbs, along with an errant moth that landed in your mug and you fished out before finishing the wine in happy, thirsty gulps because why would you waste perfectly good albeit lightly mothy wine?)

The point of me writing this whole story is that I will always, always, always buy Ryme rosé or probably Ryme Cellars anything anytime I see it, no matter what vintage — and you should, too — because not only do I have a huge crush on its incessantly innovative yet completely unassuming makers, Ryan and Megan, but because it is a wine for adventures, for road trips, for moon-rise-over-the-desert walks with your favorite partner in crime. Because it isn’t too cool to get stashed in a motel mini fridge or sloshed around in a bathroom waste basket full of ice. Because it’s just as happy in a proper stem as it is poured into dinky black mugs that might have the last guest’s lipstick still smeared on it. Because it’s a true delight paired with that little plastic tray of prosciutto, pack of pre-sliced fresh mozzarella, and jar of roasted red peppers you bought at Safeway on the drive into the desert, all smooshed into a semi-stale bun and held in your lap while you stare up at the night sky and bat away the moths.

Death Valley was fun. And I like wine like this.

Do you feel like more people should be talking about wine like this? Do you think more people would enjoy reading about or drinking wine if it was talked about like this? If you do, consider subscribing or forwarding this to someone who might enjoy it. I write this whole column because I believe our world needs more fun and more joy and more play. And I believe wine can bring it to us… at least it’s brought it to me. And I love to share.

Help me pass it on.

xoxoxo
Stevie

Especially in the wine industry, where Q4 is supposed to be our bread and butter, so the pressure is on to perform and achieve and meet goals before EOY, and yet… our profession seems to be continuing to flush down the shitter. I talked to a friend at lunch a couple weeks back where I hypothesized that the reason we’re all so particularly bothered by this scenario is because we sell a product that actually gives meaning to our lives. Wine is so deeply personal to us, as a product, that we take its present floundering personally, too. Most of us got into the wine profession because we recognized the joy and community and sensuality and beauty it offered, and we wanted to evangelize that in some way, so for it to be floundering casts our entire life’s meaning and joy also into question.

So, there’s that.

And then heaped on top is all the other bizarro-world BS! For me, in no particular order and not a comprehensive list, here is just a tiny taste of what the inside of my brain sounds like:

1. WHAT AM I DOING IN LIFE and is all the talk about manifesting to the universe a real thing? OR do I need to go suck a fat one and succumb to a fate of sitting in a funky office, training AI how to take over the world and market rotgut to our waning souls?

2. Why is Daylight Savings Time even still HERE?

   1. Is it a ploy to drive profits to the energy companies?

      1. If so, I will rebel. [Stevie builds a fire.] Hmm. How bad for the environment actually is a real fire in a real fireplace?

         1. Do I care anymore?

3. Why didn’t I get that job?

   1. Or that grant?

      1. Or that party invitation?

         1. How long has everyone actually hated me?

            1. Do I care anymore?

4. How many miles would I need to run to burn off the 5.75 slices of Texas State Fair pecan pie I ate in the last three days?

   1. Would it be inappropriate to make pecan pie again tomorrow? Do I have enough butter on hand?

   2. I should really write about food and wine pairings. That is an acceptable thing for a wine writer to write about.

      1. Except, the only pairing for pecan pie is Madeira, and I’m soooooo bored of every wine person begging anyone else to care about Madeira. Shut upppppp already. And pass me that Madeira.

5. Speaking of pie, I need new pants. How long will barrel jeans be popular and should I invest?

   1. Could I just tailor my wide-leg jeans to look like barrel jeans?

      1. You would need to expand the waistline also.

         1. Ugh, going to the tailor. Who has time for it?

            1. Did I ever pick up that blouse from the dry cleaner’s? Well, shit.

6. It is December and I still have not finished the first draft of my book that I took all this time off to write, and so-and-so and such-and-such finished theirs, and theirs are going to sell, and mine will not, and this has all been utterly pointless, what the fuck am I doing with my life and STOP telling people about your not-a-book book already!

7. Where is that Rick Rubin book I bought on creativity? That will help me procrastinate and feel better.

   1. What all did Rick Rubin produce again? Googling now…

      1. OH SHIT RICK RUBIN LOOKS JUST LIKE NATE READY FROM HIYU FARM. I’M DEAD.

         1. Now I will spend 18 hours watching videos from Hiyu Farm. Those beard dreads tho I CANNOT.

            1. I am so mean.

               1. Note to self: paywall this article.

                  1. This is not an “article” I don’t even know what to call such a ridiculous rant.

I could go on, but it’s depressing and now I’m offending people.

Instead, I will tell you why I think I am really floundering, and it has nothing to do with Daylight Savings, or all the literal and figurative darkness, or my job, or Nate Ready’s sartorial convergence with tradwife couture, which I should actually consider converting to, because it would solve the barrel jean dilemma…

I think I am floundering because I don’t know what to say about the wine industry anymore. And if my entire Substack is devoted to wine, where does that leave me?

[Stevie hides the Substack notifications of unsubscribes.]

I’m not sure what to say anymore because I feel like I said a lot already these past couple of years — I called a lot out, and I begged for heaps of change. I also shined a light on a lot of what’s going well — so well!! But now the wine industry is just kind of boring me and pissing me off. Since most of you reading this are in the wine industry, this will make a lot of you very hurt and angry with me. I am sorry. I wish I were nicer. But a whole two years has gone by since I started writing, and still so little has changed! I am so impatient. I want to bring the joy back to wine already.

[Stevie huffs, flounders further.]

Gandhi said “Be the change you wish to see in the world” so that is what I will do. I will just keep plugging away at resiliency in my own tiny way.

I believe the real allure in wine is not in the native yeasts or the barrel-aging regimen, not in the label design nor the IG campaigns. I am tired of writing about those things, and I think most consumers are tired of reading about them, too (or, wait — was anyone ever actually interested?).

I believe the allure of wine is in the community. In the sensuality. In the slowness and inefficiency of making it and the utterly grounding, meditative and ultimately wonderfully hedonistic nature of opening a bottle and drinking it. Oooh, it’s all so countercultural! And yet… I think that’s exactly what our world and our industry needs more of in this season of floundering, so that is exactly what I will share. My little countercultural, hedonistic, grounding, community-cultivating stories.

[Stevie types fast! Hits send before thinking better of it!]

Here is one short story of joy even in this season darkness. If you like it, let me know.

On Wednesday, we went up to our friends’ house for a not-Thanksgiving pre-Thanksgiving dinner party sleepover. These are my favorite kinds of hang-outs. We opened several bottles of really, really nice wine, because we are wine people and that is something that wine people tend to do when they’re together. I won’t brag about them, because that is obnoxious and also something that wine people tend to do. But I will tell you that I also brought and opened — just for me! — a bottle of my current favorite wine, Dos Minas Torrontès, because after this episode, it’s now a thing for me, and because I was making Tom Ka soup, and Burgundy does not pair with Tom Ka soup. The bottle and the soup and the company and the coziness of the night were a total antidote to my seasonal floundering.

If you, too, are floundering right now in your life or about AI or just about December and your deadlines and the darkness, I cannot recommend an evening of Tom Ka and Torrontès enough. They are tropical sunshine and over-the-top hedonism yet also a beacon of simplicity, of non-fussy nourishment and soul- and friendship-nurturing in all the ways I think we all really need more of.

Here is how to make Tom Ka:

1. Turn off your devices. Hide them good.

2. Obtain Torrontès at your local independent wine shop, or substitute any supremely aromatic and high-acid white wine of your choosing.

3. Call a friend and ask if they can come to dinner. Tell them it won’t be fussy and that they can spend the night and you can’t wait to see them. Hang up fast and hide your device again, better this time.

4. Find galangal. This is admittedly rather hard to do but I’ve had luck lately at Whole Foods (shmeh). The Asian markets were all three sold out (WTF)?! Hold it and your very strongest/sharpest knife tightly, then peel it and slice galangal into fat coins and maybe grate some with a microplane too if you feel sassy. Or don’t.

   1. Do not substitute ginger, or if you do, don’t tell me about it.

5. Also find makrut lime leaves. Also rather hard to do, but if Whole Foods and the Asian markets fail you, call me, I actually planted a tree.

   1. Do not skip this or substitute anything, or if you do, also don’t tell me about it!!!

6. Now find lemongrass. This part is easier. Peel one or two outside leaves, chop the top couple inches off, and cut the rest of the stalk into 2-inch segments. Bash them with your knife butt. Maybe grate some with a microplane also if you love lemongrass as much as me and you’re not serving it to your child who incorrectly hates lemongrass and therefore must not actually be your child. Rude.

7. Warm up some broth/stock (I don’t know the difference and am pretty sure those two words are synonyms). Just pour into a big pot however much looks like a good amount of soup for however many people want to eat soup. Any kind of stock will do: vegetable, chicken, seafood, whatever! Seriously there are way more relevant things to stress out over than this. See above.

8. Add galangal, lime leaves and lemongrass to simmering stock.

9. This is a good time to open your bottle of Torrontès, especially if you are asking yourself questions like, “Is this too much galangal? Not enough?” Or “Do these lime leaves smell like Trix cereal or Fruity Pebbles?” The correct answer to all of those questions is YES. Now, admire the similar aromatics of soup vs. Torrontès. Mmmm, amazing, isn’t it?!

10. Gather any protein and vegetables you like or have lying around waiting to not be wasted. Ideas:

    1. Mushrooms

    2. Eggplant

    3. Squash

    4. Peppers

    5. Brassicas of any kind (a brassica is a cruciferous vegetable, also known as things that might smell like farts when over-cooked — cabbage, broccoli, Brussels sprouts, kale, collards… you get the idea)

    6. Tomatoes, why not

    7. Chicken

    8. Shellfish

11. Add protein to broth and let it simmer for a few minutes until it’s not pink anymore.

12. Now dump in a can of coconut milk and your other vegetables! Use more coconut milk if you need it to obtain your desired soupiness. Sorry I forgot to tell you earlier you need coconut milk.

13. Now season the soup to taste with a heavy-handed mixture of the following: salt, fish sauce (if you’re asking, Squid brand is what’s up!), lime juice, granulated sugar, some form of chili spice heat-deliverance product. Ideas:

    1. Thai bird’s eye chilies (can leave whole, bash with butt of knife, slice in half lengthwise and de-seed or not, slice into rings… depending on your spice preference, the aforementioned suggestions ranging from least to most spicy)

    2. spicy shrimp paste

    3. jalapeños

    4. Huy Fong Sambal Oelek

    5. I only care about the galangal and lime leaves, nothing else!

14. Hopefully your friend has arrived by now! Pour them some Torrontès, pour yourself a bit more, and taste the soup again. Season again and don’t be shy about how much fish sauce or lime or sugar you use. You want it to really punch! Punch this season in the FACE! The intense aromatics of the Torrontès should match the intensity of aromatics of the Tom Ka, which should match the intensity of the love and light you feel in the room.

15. Namaste, and all that jazz.

THE END.

It would be helpful to me if you could all comment after reading this something along the lines of: GOOD SHIT.

I’ve been trying for several years to pick apart what makes me tick, why I am the way I am, and how I can get off this crazy train. I have read all the books and gone to my maximum allotment of subsidized therapy, and I still can’t shake my deep desire for the general public to replace the name in the cake jingle of my childhood: Everybody doesn’t like something, but nobody doesn’t like Sara Lee! Stevie! (You simply extend the first syllable of my name a little longer, “Ste-ee-vie!”)

I drank another bottle of Torrontès last night and really went down the worm hole: What does my love for Torrontès say about me??????

I got into a huge fight about a week ago (it wasn’t a fight, more a playful debate that did, however, end up with smashed glassware and me hiding under the table… more on that later, maybe) about how much I love Torrontès. There it is, ladies and gentlemen: I love Torrontès. Do you want to also look in my underwear drawer? Some of the pairs are easily over a decade old and are alarmingly stretched and stained, but they’re soft, seamless and familiar and I got them five for $15, and now you can only get one for that price on closeout! FINAL SALE — but what if they ride up?! Anyway, I’m sorry to tell you about my undies, my only point is that it’s a little embarrassing to announce that I drink Torrontès easily twice a week — and absolutely by choice.

You’re either reading this as a legitimate wine professional who is about to click “Unsubscribe” because my palate has just been made, or you’re a casual drinker who used to buy from my shop and you’re confused: What is wrong with Torrontès? Well dear latter audience, according to “wine professionals,” this Argentinian grape is like the wine version of a basic bitch Pumpkin Spice Latté. Actually, that’s not quite right, because now the PSLs have a whole ironic cult following, and Torrontès definitely does not have that. (Yet? YET?!?! Maybe this post will go viral and Torrontès will get its time in the spotlight!) If we’re going to draw out analogies, PSLs are more like, I dunno, Cupcake Chardonnay. Torrontès is a Mango Dragonfruit Refresher. Seriously: Who even buys those besides children??

Like a Mango Dragonfruit Refresher, I love Torrontès because it is simply delicious. It is unapologetic about its frisky aromatics, bopping around and play punching you in the face, all lemongrass and lychee, gardenia for days, is that… coriander? Oh you had a bad day? CHEERFUL ANYWAY!! Come to Mama! Unlike its flat-bottomed aromatic cousins Viognier or Gewürztraminer, Torrontès pinches you in the butt with its surprising acidity so that you whip around “Excuse me? Did you just…?” It did. And you are actually not upset; you take it as a compliment and you stand a little taller, walk with a little more swagger, smile coyly all proud of yourself, “Girl’s still got it!”

Anyway. Everyone else in the wine industry (unless they are from Salta, in Argentina, where they are obligated by contract to root for their home team) does not find Torrontès worthy of their glass. Those aromatics are just… too much. Even more offensive because it is cheap: My favorite, Dos Minas, currently retails for $13. “Two Chicks” is a reference to the two women who hand-harvest the wine from the sustainable-certified, sandy, 65-year-old Finca El Retiro vineyard up over 5,400 feet elevation in Cafayate. Say whaaaaaa? You read that all right. For THIRTEEN DOLLARS Y’ALL.

“Pooh. We like to pretend we are rich and only drink fancy grower Champagne or punishing minerality white Burgundy or musty-ass sulfur-free Chenin Blanc,” the wine cognoscenti scoff. Despite the fact that, unlike any of those sommelier-approved selections, Torrontès perfectly meets and matches the intensity of aromatics in pretty much every food I like to eat most — foods that my debate partner, the one I got in a fight with, also adored, I knew, because we’d cooked or eaten them together: carnitas, Bahn mi, Thai red curry, baingan bharta, I could go on.

IF I HAVE TO WALK INTO ANOTHER JBA-NOMINATED LAOTIAN / EAST AFRICAN / MODERN INDIAN RESTAURANT WITH TEN PAGES OF BURGUNDY ON ITS LIST I SWEAR TO GOD.

And that is how the fight began. “You know what I’d rather have 100% of the time with any of those foods?” my opponent challenged me. “RIESLING.”

Which made me shut up.

But. Which later? Got me very confused about why and how Riesling became a darling, which made me wonder if it was Paul Grieco in 2008 when he started the Summer of Riesling campaign at Terroir and made all those tattoos and T-shirts, which made me actually feel positive that that is when it started, which made me realize that Paul Grieco is the kind of person about whom people say: GOOD SHIT.

I mean, I certainly do. I was four months into my tenure in NYC when Paul first launched the Summer of Riesling at Terroir. Obviously, I worshipped Paul like a God, because he was. Is. [Fun fact, Josiah interviewed with Paul for a job that summer but remains convinced that part of the reason he didn’t get the gig was because he woke up that morning with a massive mosquito bite on his eyelid that made him look like Quasimodo. Not exactly the look Paul was going for.] When Paul opened Terroir, he transformed our chintzy little stuck-up wine industry into a punk rock playground, and if you were anybody who wanted to be anybody in wine, you went to Terroir, and you drank Riesling. I did! And to show that you were in the in-crowd, you wore your Riesling tattoo and put Riesling on your list. I did! My generation and those who came up behind me are, as a result, still putting Riesling on their lists.

But not Torrontès.

I am still wondering why. I am thinking about what Riesling has that Torrontès doesn’t. About what Paul has that I don’t. It might be a penis and Canadian citizenship. Or slate soil and steep hillsides. Or an appreciation for punk rock music and residual sugar… or stylistic breadth and range….

But what I am thinking, or I was thinking as I finished my third glass last night, is that I actually have a sneaking suspicion it is just a cool disregard for so desperately wanting to be cool. To be thought of as amazing. And brilliant, hilarious, beautiful, perfectly balanced. (nb that could be because you were born with a penis in Toronto, so perhaps from the moment you started breathing you weren’t piped oxygen infused with the message that other people liking you is the single most important qualifier of your future and forever success…).

Torrontès is simply not Riesling. It is seldom balanced, and it’s a character actor, not a leading lady. It’s outrageously zesty and jacked up on acid while also high in alcohol.

Which, come to think of it, sounds alarmingly familiar... [Stevie stares at her reflection in the pale lemon liquid at the bottom of her glass.]

I drank the rest of the bottle myself because no one else was interested. At the end of the day, I have no brilliant revelation or moral of the story other than, Oh well, I guess. More Torrontès for me.

I am still cringing at having to type “wine writer.” I wrote exactly this, in fact, in the essay I had to submit as part of said scholarship’s application:

“So, like, what kind of writing? Wine writing?” my friend Jasmine asked me when I explained to her that I was selling my several very successful and beloved brick-and-mortar wine hospitality businesses to go back to writing. 

“GOD NO,” I balked. “Wine writing is awful; I can’t stand reading it.” 

I explained to her that my writing was about humanity and connection and community, about why we’re all here and how we make the most of it. My writing consisted of stories told through the lens of or alongside a very delicious and historical beverage made of fermented grapes—a beverage that happens to be in peril seeing as how the World Health Organization has deemed no drop safe for consumption, and how the margins of an already-impossible industry are getting squeezed tighter every day, and how marketers inside keep selling the same bullshit exclusive luxury narrative that alienates women, BIPOC, LGBT+, differently abled and neuro-diverse individuals… 

“And! And!” I gasped for breath. 

“Mmhmm. Sounds like wine writing,” Jasmine quipped.  

M.F.K. Fisher wrote, “So it happens that when I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and the hunger for it.”

I realized, thanks to Jasmine and Ms. Fisher, that when I write of my thirst for wine, I  am really writing about love and the thirst for it, and community and the love of it and thirst for it. I first fell in love with wine when someone pointed out to me that a bottle is too big for one person to drink alone; it’s a product—unlike anything else I can think of  today—that’s inherently designed for sharing in physical community with one another. 

And so, when I write about wine, I’m really writing about humanity and connection and community.

Humanity. Connection. Community. They’re all I care about; they’re literally all that keeps me going on my worst and darkest days. Finding and fostering and proliferating them is why I believe I was (all of us were?) put on this planet. And I find them—pure and glimmering and evocative and sensual—nearly each time I sip and savor a bottle of thoughtful, resilient wine.

And so, I write about wine.

But let’s back up a bit. A year into Resilient Wine, I realize some of y’all don’t know me—don’t know who I am or where I’m from, where I’ve been, and why I have any qualifications to write what I’m writing right now.

I got to meet Ruth Reichl at the Symposium. I made her take a photo with me, which was incredibly awkward and whose outcome downplays how much she probably wanted anything other than to take photos with tiny plebeians. I didn’t tell her that she was part of the reason I’d left publishing and gone on into wine retail and hospitality. I didn’t tell her she was part of the reason I was back, 15 years later.

I was fresh out of college and writing about food and travel for a luxury lifestyle magazine when I moved, in 2008, to New York City for an editorial job. I’d planned, hopefully, to leverage that into an eventual position at Gourmet (where Ruth was Editor-in-Chief). But it was 2008. And the magazine I was working for quickly folded. And then Gourmet folded. I went from being paid to eat out at Manhattan’s best and fanciest new restaurants to borrowing money from a friend for groceries. I needed work. Any work.

I took a freelance recipe copyeditor gig at Martha Stewart Living, dragging myself from East Williamsburg way out across Manhattan to 601 West 26th Street—past 11th Avenue—by 7:30am. I’d work through lunch and clock out at 3pm so I could speed walk east to Avenue C, where I had to open Alphabet City Wine Co. by 4pm. Walking was generally faster than relying on the odd combination of crosstown buses and L train timing needed to get there, but most days, I had to literally run past Temperance Fountain to make it on time.

This was Avenue C in 2008, so usually I had to hose bodily fluids off the front steps of the shop before checking in the day’s deliveries: cases of Uruguayan Tannat and Cru Bourgeois Bordeaux, or Cirò from Calabria and Torrontès from Salta. I wanted to learn about wine so that I could add it to my writing repertoire, and the owners were happy to teach me. They let me borrow books, I was welcome to sit in on tastings, and they trusted me to run the shop solo most nights before I pulled the rolling shutter down over their storefront at 10pm. I’d shuffle home to eat, sleep for a few hours, shower, and be back to MSLO by 7:30am tomorrow.

I pitched freelance stories where I could, vying for bylines about wine with what I noticed were mostly old white guys. I couldn’t stand the way they talked about my favorite beverage, the way they spoke over their audience, using ostentatious tasting notes like obnoxious overlords. Did they even know what they were talking about, I wondered?

Did I?

I hated wine writers because they were spectators: pointing out how strong men stumbled and how doers of deeds could have done them better. I did not want to be one of those cold and timid souls who neither knew victory nor defeat.

If I wanted to write about wine, I needed to get in the ring.

So I headed back into restaurants and wine retail (much to my mother’s and my overdue student loan balances’ dismay). In between long, sweaty nights of service and tedious, clumsy days of sales, I read and I studied and I tasted and I spit (usually). I was privileged to get to do so under the tutelage of what I now look back and see were New York’s best and brightest sommeliers. To help me solidify my own learnings, I offered to copy-write for their shops and restaurants and bars, honing my writing craft while also gaining direct insight as to what real life guests actually wanted to buy, to learn about, to hear from salespeople.

Eventually, I had enough experience (and chutzpah) that I decided to open my own wine shop and bar. Then a restaurant. When I got annoyed that women were still facing excessive challenges within the industry, I founded a non-profit to help address that. Finally, I opened a third business. By then, of course, there was no time to write.

I had toiled in the arena for a decade and a half; had pulled my three businesses successfully through a global pandemic; had helped spur change for the face of an entire industry. My face was marred by dust and sweat and blood; I had strived valiantly; I had erred; I had come up short again and again. My feet hurt. My kid missed me. My marriage was suffering. And my deeply creative soul was awash with longing.

I was ready to write.

I realized, at last, that I finally felt qualified to do so.

“I told them that they should be embarrassed about the content in their 60-page food section,” Ruth said, matter of factly. She was sitting onstage with Toni Tipton-Martin, another food storytelling luminary (Toni was the first black woman to serve as food editor at a major newspaper, in 1991 at the Cleveland Plain Dealer), discussing their shared time at the Los Angeles Times in the 1980s and how Ruth had become the paper’s food editor.

“So they asked me to take it over. I said to them, ‘No, I don’t want to do it; I just want you to have someone good do it.’ But they insisted that was me,” Ruth explained. “It was another instance of the world telling me to take a chance.”

So here we are. Fifteen years after bidding adieu to wine writing, I find myself facing another instance of the world telling me to take a chance. I’m back—and fully loaded with what I can nearly guarantee is more boots-on-the-ground, blood-sweat-and-dust-marred, daring greatly insight than almost anyone else writing about wine right now. Come at me.

Toni closed out the Symposium’s keynote address with an observation and a rallying call: “Risk taking matters. Your authentic feelings matter. That is your voice. Hold tight to it in the face of all you do.”

I’m a wine writer. Who hates wine writers.

Maybe, through this work, I can change that perspective… if for no one else, at least for me.

Most of that is subject for another day (a book?!) and more therapy. Today, I want to tell you about what it feels like to sell a wine shop.

But not just any wine shop.

Our wine shop. The wine shop that I once-upon-a-time thought I’d work in forever. The wine shop that, on days when I was really feeling myself, I honestly believed was the greatest wine shop in the whole entire world.

I feel the pain in the right side of my back, where the bottom inside of the shoulder blade points toward my spine. It’s a sharp stab and a dull ache, somehow both at the same time, and its pitch rises in shrill harmony with my swiftly escalating feeling of aimlessness and worthlessness. It is new—or maybe just newly noticeable, now that I have the time and space to observe it. It is either from sleeping in a funny position, from overzealously pruning the lemon tree, or from hunching over my computer in bed yesterday. But I am equally convinced that it is the physical manifestation of grief that is racking my body now. It is the palpable discomfort of simultaneously wanting so badly to do something more, something different, anything other than what I was doing the last 12 years… and also at the same time desperately craving the ability to peacefully slip back into my old, well-worn and memorized shoes.

This morning, I check to see if the Buyers have changed the Bay Grape Instagram password yet. They have not. I double check to make sure I deleted all 12 years of DMs (did you know you have to painstakingly do this by tapping each of them one by one?!), especially the weird hellos sent in 2014 by long-lost childhood friends or the mildly off-color early Pandemic days’ comments Michelle and Kat meant for me personally. They really should have texted, in retrospect.

Our last two Instagram posts announcing the final, official hand-off of Bay Grape garnered a combined 1267 people likes. “Not bad,” I muse, involuntarily assessing my worth by the count. There are 73 comments, mostly of congratulations, a few of sadness, and a handful that really give me the feels. “Legends. Never forget what you did here.” I choose to give equal observation to the disarming number of people who have not congratulated us… have not said anything… who are just carrying on without a care or any outreach to us at all. It hits me that many of those I misunderstood as friends may have just counted on us as accomplices, aids in their abetting. I wonder how often I will get invited to dinner anymore.

I tap to delete names of old friends I’d forgotten, of up-and-comers we collaborated with, of former inspirations and people I know in one context now but had forgotten or didn’t realize I knew in another back then, so many years before. People who have made amazing inroads whom I worry I didn’t give proper attention to when they were first coming up. People I know well now and didn’t realize were fans from the start. Those we’ve fallen out of touch with and whose soured relationships I regret, and those I’ve become closer with whom I wish I’d gotten to know sooner. Businesses who have come and gone. Employees who have come and gone. I review the love and support and wonder why I was always so focused not on that but instead on the haters. There weren’t hardly any haters, it turns out.

Bay Grape was the wine shop to rival all wine shops. It was built on a premise that sharing good food and drink offers invaluable and all-too-rare-these-days in-person opportunities for diverse members of our community to share experiences, stories, and laughter. It was built to democratize wine: specifically our motto was “make wine less douchey,” and we set out to change the literal and figurative face of the wine industry. When we opened Bay Grape on a block that one guest coined the “Sesame Street of Oakland” due to its diversity, we were a young white girl and a young brown guy, guileless and earnest and ardent, and we deliberately built our shop’s airy aesthetic, our team’s quirky multifariousness, and our global wine selection in service of genuinely welcoming every single person who walked by.

We tasted every single wine before we brought it in, building up meaningful relationships with the soulful producers and their butt-busting, valiant importers and distributors. Every bottle earned its shelf space, worth our recommendation because it was delicious but also typical for its style, made responsibly and with respect for our planet and people, and it represented a great value. I’ve never seen a wine selection as thoughtful, well-rounded, diverse, sustainability-minded, great value-oriented as ours at Bay Grape. Importantly, I also had free-wheeling access to it—any bottle I wanted, any night of the week, at my literal grubby and thirsty little fingertips. I drank well, and I drank often.

Also importantly, I was profoundly proud every single day of the products and services I got to offer. I was outrageously thrilled to have the privilege of lifting up small and intentional producers from around the world by placing their products on our shelves. I was truly honored to get to share their stories with curious guests, and I was extremely delighted when we got to be among the first “believers” in a young winemaker crafting really compelling stuff. It was so gratifying to get to help them build their brands and watch their followings grow over the years. It was equally, if not even more gratifying, to watch guests grow their knowledge of wine with us over the years. I remember more than a few who started their wine journeys with us, casually enjoying a few bottles, delving gently into deeper explorations before ultimately realizing their calling… we watched and sipped and learned along with them as they grew into full-fledged, real-deal sommeliers or winemakers or importers or educators. We tried to always cheer everyone on, and we tried to give as much of our time and knowledge and encouragement as we could to those who passed through our doors. I adored this work.

Of course, I also made so many mistakes. I had been taught next to nothing about business management or team leadership in my previous positions (never mind how to even read a P&L or file annual legal entity renewals), and “learning by doing” I now know inevitably means “learning by failing.” (I am still deeply ashamed by failure.) I was often confused and lacked grace, putting on a tough and certain girl-boss face—as one does—but feeling overwhelmed and under-appreciated pretty much every day, all day, for years and years on end. I believed self-care was for children and time off would invariably result in business losses. I paid myself less than my staff, and I valued myself less than everyone. The toll, I began to eventually notice, was coming up past due.

Over a decade after opening our first location of Bay Grape and four years after the second, I am truly proud of all we accomplished at that little shop, and I am also so fucking thrilled to finally be done that I can hardly contain my stoke. I am overwhelmed with joy at the community we created, and I’m also so far beyond burnt out that I don’t know if I’ll ever find my spark again. I am ready to scream from the rooftops that I can finally prioritize myself and my family, and I also want to sob into my pillow, racked with grief over loss, deeply mourning the fulfillment I once felt in service. It is everything, all at once.

I loved, desperately, everything we created at Bay Grape in Oakland and in Napa. I heave with big, ugly, snot-dripping sobs on and off today because when I think of the kinds of places in the world that I most want to encounter, the kinds of places I most want to exist and I most want to support on this entire planet, I think of Bay Grape.

In my grieving state, hoping for a distraction from my messy emotions, I accidentally see the headlines because my credit card on file for The New York Times belongs to the shop that I no longer own, and I am being asked to update it. Everything that was good and wholesome and soul-nourishing and meaningful to me in the whole world was at Bay Grape. Wine. Sustainability. Education. Equity. Community. Joy. I see the news, and I worry in a gut-wrenching way that it’s all slipping away. I am so profoundly sad that I couldn’t do more to save it.

I am cold and lonely, a blank calendar page void of meetings blurring the parameters of my day like the morning fog dissolving the edges of the trees across the street. I watch the cars outside hurrying the children to school, rushing the adults to offices and appointments while I decide, perhaps it would be a good idea to put on real pants. My jeans are too tight in that area by the zipper that has been a constant problem the past two years, and my husband and kiddo—whom I told everyone I was quitting the shops to spend more time with—are both driving me fucking nuts with their attitudes and bickering, so as they leave without remembering to close the garage door, I do not tell them goodbye, or to have a good day, or that I love them.

I pause before pushing the button to close the garage. I decide to count how many bottles of wine we have on-hand, stacked there by the bikes in the corner. This will determine how long before we have to go shopping somewhere else and pay full retail price and be worried that we won’t like the bottle after all or be disappointed that it didn’t end up pairing well with the curry tonight. There are just over five cases. So we will need to do that in two months and four days. And then, forever after. It is too close for comfort. I am depressed, and I am so petty. This is what I worry about: not having free access to booze.

I check my email. There is none. I click over to the permanently open tab on my browser that displays my staff schedule. There are no more time off requests to process. Ever. I close the tab. I realize I should delete the bookmark. I do not.

There is a tendency humans unfortunately have to reminisce over the good old days, and to also never know they are the good old days when they are happening. I have been doing this a lot lately: excessively reminiscing over the good old days of Bay Grape—the days with Kamaria and Delia and Zach and Sam, the curious and fun and delightful days—and wondering if that was as good as it gets, if indeed the grass is always greener, if I had everything, in fact, but I was greedy and selfish and I walked away when I should have stayed. I wonder if I am just a lazy quitter.

Back at my desk, my jeans are really digging into the poochy part of my stomach that I cannot stand, and I remember how exhausting it is to put on real pants every day. I remember like it was yesterday (and, well… it was): It is exhausting wearing them uncomfortably, self-consciously, at work all day while wondering if everyone else is noticing how my stomach bulges at the zipper area. Plus, frankly? I need to fart. But everyone keeps asking for things, so I can never get a second alone to unzip and exhale for just one hot minute. I can also never finish a single task I started, the team and the guests and the partner are all getting mad at me for not properly prioritizing them, and every day feels more precarious and urgent and harried and horrible. Sales are down. Staff is short. I operate in eternal panic mode. The sparks of fun, creative joy I feel when I have a brilliant idea to host a forward-thinking event with illustrious guests and cool crudités with trendy miso dips that pair perfectly with really fucking thoughtful wines are invariably stamped out by a river rush of panic because there is not enough time in the day to craft enough soulful, artfully shot Instagram posts about it. I never get the filters right, and despite my excellent caption writing, the algorithm damningly diminishes each post’s reach, so now only 12 people saw it and none of them bought tickets and the miso dips required an advanced minimum order and it is going to be so embarrassing to host Javier when only four people are going to show up and SHOULD WE JUST CANCEL?! Also my staff just called out sick, and someone DM’ed me that miso dip somehow actually constituted cultural appropriation. I am about to crash into cancellation. Speaking of crashing: Did I tell you the one about how I realized I didn’t have car insurance for four years? Huh! Who knew. Not me; I was too busy holding in my farts and reconciling inventory discrepancies and trying to get in touch with Waste Management for an off-schedule pick-up because some dipshit saw our recycling bin overnight on the curb and decided to dump his old VHS tapes and dirty baby diapers into it. Have I told you how many times I’ve sorted other people’s waste out of our businesses’ recycling bins?

That was part of it, though, right? That was part of the legitimacy, the credibility: Our shop was tangible, physical, hard evidence that I was doing something worthwhile and worthy. It was a place people could walk into, could touch and feel and acknowledge that I was doing something REAL with my life, that I was doing something measurable that mattered for our wine industry, that was meaningful for our community. It also gave me an excuse (okay, AMPLE excuses) that I could point towards when things were hard or when I was lousy, and I could say: “This. This is why I’m having trouble. Do you see how I have all this literal shit to deal with?” I would hold up the dirty diapers and the VHS tapes. Brick and mortar hospitality is not for the faint of heart, and I carried it around like a badge of honor to show the world that I deserved respect and admiration. I was worthy.

This weekend someone asked me for the first time since the deal closed, “What do you do?” and I was deeply disturbed with my answer. “Oh, well, I used to own two wine shops and bars and a restaurant. I still have the restaurant. And… I write… I write about wine.” My fumbling was so lame. I *used* to own two wine shops? Who cares? I stammered, realizing that being a wine writer immediately cast me as less significant, less cool, less tangible and worthy, more self-indulgent and fluffy and obnoxiously precious. Whenever I hear anyone say “I write about wine,” I am careful to only roll my eyes when they can’t see me and to discretely save my gag reflex for later. A wine writer? Eeew. Even I can’t stand to read wine writing. What am I DOING HERE?

After I finish my tea, I try out a few other sample scripts in my head. “So, Stevie, what do you do?” I imagine a cool guest at a dinner party asking me.

“I’m writing a book. It’s about… why wine matters.”

Ew. So precious.

“I do copywriting and brand strategy for wine and hospitality clients.”

Meh. This one sounded like a legitimate job… but a boring one. It lacked the cool-kid mic-drop impact of “I own a wine shop and bar.” That one just hit. It carried cachet. People want to be friends with the girl who has a wine shop they can visit. But who wants to talk about copywriting for wine importers or brand strategy for RTD spritzes? (Unless you’re already a wine importer or you’re crafting a RTD spritz, in which case you’re one of 11 people already in my orbit and you’re secretly still kind of confused about why I sold my shops.) I wonder what is tangible in my work, now. I wonder if there is any there there.

It’s 10:00am. The fog has burned off, and it’s glorious outside—warm, cerulean skies filled with chipper chirping finches while the hills in the distance seem to glow they’re so green. I have a dinner reservation with friends tonight, and I’d like to help that pro bono church client with their website later this afternoon… but in between then and now, no one needs me.

No one needs me.

No one needs me.

I slip on my running shoes. This pair is brand new; I finally found time to buy them yesterday. The soles aren’t worn thin and there’s no frayed toe box awkwardly showing off too many years of wear and tear, way overdue for replacement. I lace them tightly, inhale wide and open, exhale slow and sure. I step over the threshold, down the stairs. I shake out the kinks and that ache in my shoulder a bit before easing into the fresh air, remembering my familiar, sure stride and an easy, relaxed pace. I am unworried about which direction to turn, open to exploring. I am sore, longing, grieving, sad, happy, alive, exuberant, unfurling. I am off to discover a new route.