Chenin Blanc left on its skins until it forgets it was ever supposed to behave. Texture over polish, orange-gold and unapologetically weird. It tastes like a decision made at 2am that turns out to be the right one. For the reader mid-conversation with themselves, unwilling to tidy the ending into something neater than it actually is.
Matched to the wine's region, weight, and weather — not the other way around.
Textured, unfiltered intimacy that refuses to smooth itself out for anyone's comfort.
Unconventional structure, raw edges left unsanded. The wine and the novel both resist a tidy finish.
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