Dirty Chick

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Authors: Antonia Murphy
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to add and stopped trying. Within a month, I was brewing gallons of the stuff—on the back deck, in the bathtub, and in the pantry. Buckets of cider and wine were spilling out of the closets and crowding the corridors. The children tripped over them when they walked into the kitchen, searching in vain for a healthy snack. I hardly had time to go to the grocery store, and when I did, it was only to bring home twelve pounds of sugar and loose tea for tannins.
    One day, I snapped at the kids. “Where are the raisins?” I demanded.
    â€œ
Away
,” Silas announced. He was driving a toy car along the kitchen counter.
    â€œYou used them all to make booze,” Miranda said with the wide-eyed clarity that only a hungry three-year-old can muster.
    We brewed hard apple cider; quince and fig wines; beet, ginger, banana, and apple wines—but my favorite was the peach. This was partly because it tasted like peaches, but mostly because it lifted me up on feathery angel fingers and flew me to the Land of Enchantment. Then it dumped me there until Monday morning, when my kids looked dirty and the weekend was gone.
    The difficulty with homemade wines is that they’re strong, they’re free, and they don’t give you a hangover. I always thought the headache was a consequence of drinking too much alcohol, because it’s morally wrong to have too much fun. But it’s the chemicals in commercial wine that make us sick, not the booze. My wines contained fresh fruit, water, sugar, and yeast, and they never gave anyone a hangover. Essentially, they were intoxicating happy drinks that grew on trees and had no consequences.
    Except our being drunk all the time, which is a consequence itself if you’re trying to live a life that’s based in reality.
    â€œWhere are my pants?” I demanded the morning after an especially exuberant night of quince wine.
    â€œDon’t you remember?” Peter responded with a smile. “You took them off so you could scramble up the water tank to pick figs in your underwear.”
    â€œAh, yes.” I smiled, reaching for the coffee. “That was sensible.”
    Peter’s face clouded with concern. “Antonia? Maybe we should share some of this wine with our friends.”
    â€œWhy?” I demanded, sucking back my coffee. “I need it. I’m thirsty.”
    â€œWell . . .” Peter considered. “After the third bottle of cider, we tend to lose track of the kids.”
    â€œSo? They learn independence. They get to survive in the wild.”
    Peter ignored this. “Why don’t we have a party? Meet some of the locals out here. Give ’em a taste of our hooch.”
    â€œFine,” I said, scowling. “As long as it’s just a taste. I don’t want them cleaning me out of peach wine.”
    I was going to invite people for a barbecue, but Autumn had a better idea. “Get Skin to do sheep on a spit,” she told me Tuesday when she dropped by for coffee and a chat. “Best sheep you’ll ever eat. He’ll roast that beast all day.”
    Still feeling anxious about a person named Skin, especially one who roasts dead things on spits, I introduced myself to Lish, the school bus driver. With flowing Polynesian hair and a wide, warm smile, she was easy to approach. I clipped Silas in his seat belt and hesitated, then finally asked, “Lish, right? And your partner’s name is . . . Skin?”
    â€œYep.” She nodded. “Too bad for me, the mongrel.”
    The sparkle in her eyes told me she was joking. “Do you think he would mind cooking a sheep for us? Like if we have a party on Saturday?”
    â€œSure.” She grinned. “No worries. Glad to help.”
    â€œShould I . . . how much does he charge?”
    â€œAh.” She waved me away. “Just flick him a case of bourbon and Coke. He’ll be happy as!”
    â€œGreat,” I said,

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