One summer, before we were married, Marcus and I tried working on a vineyard in New Zealand to fulfill the romantic notion that working on a vineyard is all that it’s cracked up to be. After two weeks of squatting and standing up repeatedly all day as we thinned the vines under the watchful eye of our weather-worn supervisor, Wendy, the muscles in my thighs began to tear away from the bone. That’s an exaggeration. But seriously.
To this day I am painfully aware of the effort that goes into a bottle of wine. If you ever run across a bottle of Chard Farm sauvignon blanc from 2003, buy it and think of me.