Sangria and I met on rocky terms.
Extreme heat, dehydration, and nerves for an early date with the man who I later married were not the greatest settings for my first introduction to sangria. The slimy fruit, watered-down punch served at that fair was not forgiving.
Years later, my dear friend Cate was visiting from out of town. During our college years together, she had earned the nickname Happy Hostess for her great skill at feeding and encouraging frivolity among our writing club. While other college students went rushing out of the dorm for the weekend, we gathered around the couches with our poetry and short stories in hand, laughing until our stomachs hurt and carpe-ing that diem.
In all those meals and hangouts, the Happy Hostess always delivered tasty goods, so when years later she pulled a pitcher out of the fridge, who was I to refuse?

