Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

Category Archives: wine


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For good.

They were the whitest things I had ever seen. So delicate. When my mom handed them to me, I couldn’t believe they were my size. They weren’t winter gloves. And my birthday had passed. It wasn’t yet Easter. “Could I try them on?” “Of course,” she said. I slipped my chubby little fingers in the first one. And then the next. I wriggled the tiny faux pearl button into the opposite string on my wrist. I put each arm out. One at a time. And gazed at them, as maybe only little girls do. “Are they for good?” I asked, meaning for special occasions, holidays. “Yes,” she nodded. “They’re for YOU.” I beamed. It was me. I was the special occasion.

I wore them all day. Pulling my stuffed animals and baby dolls in my rusted wagon. Up and down the gravel road. I’m sure they got dirty. But I only remember the pureness of it all. Of the love given freely. My mother never waited for a special occasion. I knew I was loved. Every day.

We have a wine refrigerator. In it there are wines from the grocery store. Some that were gifts. Some that were purchased at very exclusive vineyards. I don’t pretend to know a lot about wine. I have caught myself at times thinking, when pulling out a bottle for a Tuesday evening, is this too good for a Tuesday? Should we save it? I shake my head and know – we are the good, the special, the occasion to be celebrated.

I encourage you to light the candle. Drink the wine. Wear the nice clothes. Eat the chocolate. Speak freely and often the words of love! For good!

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Dinner Theatre.

We were waiting to be served. And waiting. Dishes were clinking and clanking from the chosen few that already had their meals. The Chanhassen Dinner theatre was filled in the dim theatre light. Table by table people were delivered their pre-play food. Of course all were appeased with a complimentary glass of wine. And then another. The kitchen must have been having a problem. No explanations were brought forward. We were getting so hungry, my mother and I. 

We loved going to the theatre. We saw almost everything. It wasn’t just about the performance, we had a production of our own. The pre-shopping at Ridgedale or Southdale. The getting dressed while sipping skim vanilla lattes. Make-up. Hair. A dash of perfume. The excitement building. The drive to the theatre. Walking from the parking lot without wrinkling. Everything building toward the peak of receiving this meal. So the additional 30 to 40 minute wait seemed like a lifetime. The extra glass of wine was not in the schedule, and it started to take hold. My mom was getting chattier. Looking over this shoulder and that. “What could be taking so long?  Are they ever going to serve us?  I don’t understand. This has never happened before…”  She couldn’t get the next line out without laughing — the “Don’t they know who we are???” line. Oh how we laughed. Laughed with wine. Laughed without worry. Laughed with the knowledge that we WERE important – the most important of all (at least to each other). 

When the plates finally arrived, my mother napkined her lap, (a napkin that was already filled with laughter-tears). I did the same. She sat up straight. I followed. She smoothed out the sleeves of her ultra-white ruffled blouse. She was pure elegance, I thought. She balanced the fork in her polished hand. Lifted the vegetable to her mouth. She nodded in approval as she chewed. Swallowed, and said, “These are the best damn peas I’ve ever had!” I flung my napkin to my face to keep the laughter from snorting out of my nose. 

I don’t remember which play it was. I’m sure it was good. But I will never forget those peas. My mother.

We think it’s the big things we will miss. I suppose it never is. Today, share something small with someone you love. A bit of your heart. A giggle. It may just last a lifetime.

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Beyond all labels

It doesn’t surprise me when I start speaking that people recognize immediately that I’m not French. I mean, I hear it too. But what does surprise me, and it has happened many times, is when people ask if I’m American before I even open my mouth. What is it? It doesn’t make me feel bad, I’m proud to be an American…but what is it about me that people see as different?

I guess we all wear our history, without even knowing it. So I’m thinking, if I can’t even identify it in the face I see every day in the mirror, what makes me so certain I can identify it in others. It’s time to look beyond the label.

I painted the American-made wine years ago. What I remember is not the label, but the evening. I was with my publishers/friends in my living room. The warmth of the candles. The greater warmth of the conversation. I was home. Years later I painted the French-made wine. We bought the bottle of wine from a small vineyard, and a vintage frame from the same village. It was an intimate adventure. New, and familiar. I wanted to capture it on canvas. In my studio, I painted the bottle. I was home.

Is it too spot on to say it’s what’s inside? I don’t think so.

No matter where we are, I suppose, we are all on a journey — a constant journey home. That feels comforting to see it — beyond all labels – in the hearts of others – and the one that beats inside.

Cheers!

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“Quand le vin est tiré il faut le boire!”

Yesterday a friend told me I was like fine wine, only getting better. What a compliment! Isn’t that what we all want? To get better? Every day? I do – want it! And at everything. I feel like I should start a list here, but there’s so much, ok, well, at writing and painting, and cooking and loving, and friending, and wifing, and listening and noticing, and learning, and living! There’s more, (but you have other things to do than just read my list.)

And I want to be careful here – it’s not about more, more, more, it’s about better, better, better. There’s a difference. More is about need, not being satiated, but better is about becoming. Being. Being better.

There is a practice to it – this becoming, this striving to be better. It’s not a singular focus, but, I’ll say it, a vineyard. One good grape on its own can’t make a good bottle of wine. It takes a whole vineyard. And so each day, I work on my vines. My patience. My skills. My gifts. My relationships. And from the work, there is the wine. There is always the wine. “Quand le vin est tiré il faut le boire!” (When the wine is drawn, it must be drunk!) In other words, you don’t waste good wine – you don’t waste this day, this moment in time.

The sky is opening. Today is going to be delicious.

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