Fruit of the Vine

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It’s not that we never ate together as a family. It was the standard nightly ordeal of shared stories, gossip, and endless questions about school and work for which no one ventured serious answers and no one else listened. My sister and I complained too much so our parents learned to absorb themselves in their own conversations about law and family and the like. But Fridays lingered considerably longer, languished maybe like the meandering aftertaste in a good sangiovese. The food was never anything spectacular, but we stayed afterward to tear a loaf of challah apart and the wine flowed in reds and yellows and conversations became warm and open, growing in depth over hours and years.

The Baron de Rothschild once said: “Wine never dies. Instead it lives in the soul of the person who consumes it.” I have learned over the years that wine comes in many varieties; one of the hidden intricacies of the Sabbath. And such became the flavors of Friday nights, at first sickly sweet, when wine was liquid candy suitable for children, then crisp, dry, soft and sharp in different seasons and with different meals. My family was never the type to go for Manischewitz or the glatt kosher varietals; anyone can tell you that French words on the side of a bottle are more promising than Hebrew. I still cannot understand why so many people force themselves to swallow that grape syrup week after week. Shabbat should be a delight after all, sweetness sancitfied over time by a measure of refinement, with all the barely noticeable flavors and unspoken truths of a well-aged pinot noir.

I think the conversation flowed better because it started off the same way every time: three stock prayers for light, wine, and bread. We knew the process by rote: Baruch atah Adonia eloheinu melech haolam br’ei p’ri hagofen, then pass the cup around the table, beginning the weekend with a drink, which I have since confirmed as by far the best way to start a weekend. The odd guttural language fascinated me until I learned it: Blessed art thou Lord our God ruler of this and giver of that and so on. Turns out it’s not so magical or subtle, the words start to hit you like that oaky bite in a glass of chardonnay. But at the time it didn’t really matter what the word meant, as long as we all began the evening on the same page.

By the time I had learned that dry wines were far superior to sweet wines, much of the enchantment had worn off, and the ritual had condensed to rapid-fire prayers and consumption. Sorry but I just can’t stay for dinner, blessed be the car can I borrow it? Amen. And you can’t take that of wine if you’re driving anyway, so why bother with any of it?

I have grown to be less specific about what I drink on Friday nights. Beer is as good as wine, or vodka. It depends on where I languish each week and in what company, and prayers are usually unnecessary, so long as we give thanks to the good people at Park Liquor who asketh not for ID.

I take a sip of the fume blanc on the desk in front of me. Not bad for my budget, but far from sacred. I don’t even check whether or not it is Kosher for Passover. Even wine loses its mystique when you grow old enough to buy it for yourself, but it still ranks as the sweetest of all commodities. I sip The pale gold and I forget for a moment that winter still plagues Minnesota and my radiator is still broken. For wine cannot be confined in exile, and as it glides down my throat it whispers: “Next year in Jarusalem.”