tutus, Mersault, and just being enough.

There was a moment last week when I nearly broke down; tension bombarding my chest, emotions wading through my brain, tears burning my eyes with memory.  It took everything in my soul to keep the stream from breaking the dam I’ve created in my mind, one wrought with the ferved pieces of life I’ve tended to stash away over the years.  My walls are thick, y’all. 

I watched as my little princess danced the night away in her sparkly pink tutu, carefree and oblivious to the world around her.  The glean in her eye shined from the stage so brightly, like a distant comet projecting through the sky: even though a quick glimmer, the brilliant light is a travesty to miss.  My little girl was so happy.  And I was overcome with affection, caught between knowing true joy and the realization that I, too, am engaged in a delicate dance. 


The balance of time equity is fragile, with my heart and head generally pulling in three different directions at once, my body twisted and turned until my back is slammed against the wall.  The clock is ticking. Time will eventually run out.  Little girls will only wear tutus for so long.  


I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: being a working mother parent is hard. The pressures to surpass expectations during the day, coupled with the self-imposed high standards of home life, (and don’t forget the ever-increasing societial squeeze of personal perfection!), can be almost too much to bear.  Something has to give.  And usually it’s me. Let’s just say my yoga mat is lonely, y’all. (chocolate, anyone?)

The sommelier often wonders why I have so much pent up jealousy for his work trips to France, Spain, or Italy.  In truth, these trips are actually work for him, but I imagine fields of vineyards against a setting sun, full of grapes waiting to be harvested, as if gentle waves in the ocean were washing against his feet.  I long to travel there with our tiny dancer, showing her the beauty in the earth, tasting the sour skins that will eventually turn into a favorite vintage of deliciousness.  And I know someday we will… but not now. Not yet. 


For now I close my eyes as I imagine the old chateaus of Beaune glittering in the sun, dotting the landscape with their bright tiled roofs. Beckoning. 


For now I sip on a Premier Cru Mersault from Francois Mikulski, the crisp, lightly acidic Chardonnay glides down my throat in anticipation of summer, the thin veils of melon mingling in the minerality of the region.  My palate is electrified. 


And suddenly I remember; knowing that I am doing the best I can, claiming my weekdays and time in the most productive way possible, while balancing zoo visits and enticing new foods on the weekends. I have to be enough. Just balancing. Teetering. Realizing that even though I may claim to be, I am not superwomanI, me, myself… have to be enough.  

And in her eyes, I am.  She thinks I’m a queen.  And that’s all that matters, y’all. 

Happy Mother’s Day.  Cheers.  

a revival: carols, art, and Cabernet Franc.

The Deep South has a whispy nature, an ear of almost whining wind, akin to scratching strings of a worn violin or distressed wail. The sway is gentle.


Even though we drove through the night, the day beckoned us with promises of carols intertwined with stage. So, sommkid and I made our way to the Thomasville Center for the Arts to view an refreshed version of “A Christmas Carol” by the Red Hills Players.

Built in 1915, the center was originally the first public school in Thomasville, and has been restored to a community art mecca for the bustling town.


Each room restored with care, the floors squeak in memories of harried children, while the walls reflect beauty and history of the area.


The harmonies of the young singers were layered with care, the vibrancy of their voices rang with Victorian spirit. Sommkid sat on the edge of her seat, feverishly applauding every chorus.


We emerged the play refreshed in holiday spirit, de-Scrooged of months past in wallow and decay. Our souls revived.


As we walked out in a thick mist of evening fog, I promised myself this Christmas would be deep in love and tenderness, full of understanding and patience. I may even pair it with a Domaine Pierre Guindon Coteaux D’Ancenis Cabernet Franc.


Hailing from vines planted in 1973, this Loire Valley wine is luscious in deep, complex flavors, ripe with dark fruit and a hint of spice. A soft finish to sip by the fire. A perfect end to a slow, Deep South day.

A day for revival. A refresh of our minds, our souls, and our palettes.

No BahHumbugs here. Cheers, y’all.