The Worst Day of the Year

“Of course, it’s bottling day.” Commiserate with any winemaker about the snafus, gaffes, and chaos of bottling day and you’ll hear the same familiar refrain. After months or years of coaxing your wine into top form, only bottling day stands between your precious baby and the consumer. Your try to prepare, corral glass, foils, corks, and labels into orderly packs. But inevitably something implodes. On the spot. Something you never even thought could go wrong. And when it’s too excruciating to cry, you just laugh- a crazed, shrieking chortle. I’ve repurposed my bottling day experience as a Mad Libs word game, so any winemaker can customize my template to fit their own lousy experience. Feel free to play along with me. “Hey Kerith, I think you’ve got a problem here…” The voice trailed off, smothered by the ambient hum of rattling glass and bottling machinery.

“Mother (expletive),” I sputtered under my breath.

My glistening, (adjective) (noun) stood erect beside the truck. It was brand new. I couldn’t wait to hand (verb) my large (noun). I was (adjective) with anticipation. I thought I knew what to expect. The day before, I’d practiced (verb ending -ing) someone else’s (noun). I’d experimented with the (noun) so every thrust inserted the (noun) into my (noun) just right. Each push felt (adjective) and (adjective). I wanted the tip of my (noun) to barely kiss with the lip of the (noun), both parts lying flush. It’s a matter of wrist action.

But today was totally different. When I (verb) up, I saw a (noun) floating inside my first (noun), bobbing up and down the (noun) of (noun), like a (adjective + noun). Apparently my (measurement of length) (noun) were too (adjective) to plug the (noun). Each thrust of the (noun) pushed my (noun) straight through the (noun) and into the (noun). I panicked. I tried (verb ending –ing) more (adverb). I slowed each arm pump to squeeze my (noun) more firmly before (verb ending –ing) the (noun) inside. No dice. The darned (noun) slithered though the (noun), like wet slippery (animal) gliding past a (noun) of the (noun). So instead I just wacked harder, attacking my stiff (noun) with a hard (verb). That failed too. I finally discovered that (adjective) but firm (noun) placed the (noun) just inside the lip of my (noun), without going over the edge. It was precarious business. If you pushed too hard, you were screwed. At least it was a temporary fix.

Just when I thought I’d reached my climax, the (noun) began anew.

“Uh Kerith, can you please check these (noun)?” came the familiar voice of doom.

“Shi (complete expletive)!” I dropped to my knees and (verb) the (noun) for mercy. A (noun) of (number) shot down the (noun), each flaunting identical (noun) in their (noun). The (adjective) specimens (verb) faster than I could (verb) them off the (noun). They were coming too quickly. But at least I’d come. In that instant, I noticed another egregious (noun). Some (noun) were double (verb). Their (noun) were nearly (verb) but not quite. Rather than pull his (noun), the cocky (noun) just thrust another (noun) on top of my (noun). So I forced him to grab his (noun) from the (noun), (verb) them good and hard, and do it again. Until it was done right.

If you want to know the skeevy details of my bottling day experience, you can read my response below.

“Hey Kerith, I think you’ve got a problem here…” The voice trailed off, smothered by the ambient hum of rattling glass and bottling machinery.

“Mother Fairy Godmother Jiminy Cricket,” I sputtered under my breath.

My glistening, red hand corker stood erect beside the truck. It was brand new. I couldn’t wait to hand cork my large format bottles. I was brimming with anticipation. I thought I knew what to expect. The day before, I’d practiced corking someone else’s magnums. I’d experimented with the lug nut so every thrust inserted the cork into my bottle neck just right. Each push felt smooth and firm. I wanted the tip of my cork to barely kiss with the lip of the bottle, both parts lying flush. It’s a matter of wrist action.

But today was totally different. When I walked up, I saw a cork floating inside the first magnum, bobbing up and down the sea of pinot noir, like a miniature buoy. Apparently my 24mm diameter corks were too narrow to plug the bottle neck. Each thrust of the corker pushed the cork straight through the bottle neck and into the bottle. I panicked. I tried pushing more gently. I slowed each arm pump to squeeze my corks more firmly before nudging the cork inside. No dice. The darned corks slithered though the bottle neck, like wet slippery Steelhead salmon gliding past a tributary of the Russian River. So instead I just wacked harder, attacking my stiff corks with a hard knock. That failed too. I finally discovered that steady but firm pressure placed the cork just inside the lip of my magnum, without going over the edge. It was precarious business. If you pushed too hard, you were screwed. At least it was a temporary fix.

Just when I thought I’d reached my climax, the problems began anew.

“Uh Kerith, can you please check these foils?” came the familiar voice of doom.

“Shiatsu massage!” I dropped to my knees and begged the bottling gods for mercy. A phalange of 750’s shot down the conveyor belt, each flaunting identical nicks in their foil. The imperfect specimens collected faster than I could pull them off the line. They were coming too quickly. But at least I’d come. In that instant, I noticed another egregious mistake. Some bottles were double labeled. Their edges were nearly approximated but not quite. Rather than pull his mistakes, the cocky line operator just thrust another label on top of my old one. So I forced him to grab his blunders from the lineup, wash them good and hard, and do it again. Until it was done right.