My grandpa planted a huge garden:
He liked his peas.
He had apple trees too.
Every year he would harvest his crops and share with everyone.
He made applesauce.
He made grape juice.
Well, he kind of made applesauce and grape juice.
He would cook the apples and mash them and that = apple sauce.
I'll be honest. I'm not sure how he made the grape juice.
One night I was at his house and Grandpa said, "Noelle, will you taste my grape juice?"
I was instantly on guard. "Why Grandpa?"
"It doesn't taste right. I made it a few weeks ago."
(A few weeks could have been a few months in Grandpa's world.)
"What do you mean it doesn't taste right?" I asked.
"It just has a funny flavor. It's like it's got a kick to it. Just taste it!" my grandpa said.
I didn't taste it, but I smelled it. And boy did it smell.
"Grandpa? I believe what you have here is fermented grape juice. Some people call that wine."
Grandpa didn't laugh, he chuckled. And his whole body would shake as he was chuckling. And his eyes would tear up. And he wouldn't really make a sound. And if you saw him chuckle, you couldn't help but laugh along with him...no matter what the situation was.
So he chuckled and I laughed. A lot.
And then he said, "I really have been drinking wine? Oh...what will my bishop say?" And then he started chuckling again...for a good long time. And then he pulled his hanky out of his pocket and wiped his eyes.
I loved that man.