The moscato slips across my tongue sweet and silver and light and washes the stress from my aching brain. It glows caramel and lemon, as cheap and comfortable as the clothes you scrub your floors in. I think I should develop more refined tastes, learn about the intricacies of the French terriors, distinguish the legs and noses and lingering aromas of something robust and classy.
But I love this easy sweetness. Why should I fight past the shriveled tongue and feign an adoration of over-dry shiraz? I am no vinophile. I have come late and tired to my appreciation of an evening glass. And so I drink the gentle grape – liquid candy in dancing light. And I toast to cheap wine and simple pleasure.