Sip & Spill

Granny Sue’s Wine Tasting Party

Aging Wine, Spilling Secrets, and One Extremely Judgemental Chicken

Edge Copilot

Granny Sue’s wine-tasting Soiree had all the makings of a fine event: good company, questionable judgment, and an emotional support chicken perched on the back of her recliner like a disapproving sommelier.

Each guest had been instructed to bring their favorite bottle of wine, and the assortment was as eclectic as the residents of Whispering Pines themselves.

Mildred arrived first, toting a box of wine so large it required its luggage cart. “It’s economical,” she said, plopping it onto the table. “And it's got a built-in spout. No need to struggle with a corkscrew.”

Harold brought a bottle of something he insisted was a ‘vintage delight’ but had a label so faded that no one could verify its origin. “ Bought it on my honeymoon,” he said proudly. “Back in 1973.”

Ethel, ever the experimental one, arrived with a bottle of homemade dandelion wine. “Made it myself,” she declared. “Might be a little strong.”

“Define ‘a little,’ ” Granny Sue asked, eyeing the suspicious cloudy liquid.

“Let’s just say it’s been known to make a man confess things he wasn’t even accused of,” Ethel replied with a wink.

As soon as everyone else arrived with their bottles, the tasting began in earnest, with each person pouring modest samples into their glasses. Harold swirled his wine like in a Michelin-star restaurant, though he accidentally flung half of it onto his shoes.

Mildred took a sip of the boxed wine and smacked her lips. “Pairs beautifully with early-bird specials and regret.”

Ethel’s dandelion wine caused Marge to hiccup so forcefully that she startled Granny Sue’s chicken, who promptly flapped and clucked and caused Harold to spill his wine again.

“Well,” Harold muttered, staring at his pants, “guess that’s aged enough.”

Sue, unfazed, raised her glass. “To good wine, better friends, and absolutely no memory of whatever we say tonight.”

The guests cheered, clinked glasses, and took another sip — except for Mildred, who had opted to sip straight from the box. The chicken, now content, settled back onto her perch, glaring judgmentally at the revelry but, perhaps, just a little tipsy from the wine fumes in the air.

As the night wore on, the party escalated into a delightful chaos that only Whispering Pines could produce. Mildred challenged Harold to a wine-off, a dramatic showdown of who could describe their wine most ridiculously. Harold swirled his glass and sniffed deeply. “Hints of oak with a strong undercurrent of ‘why did I drink this?’ ”

Mildred countered by taking a swig from the spout. “Pairs well with denial and my last divorce.”

In a burst of inspiration, Ethel decided to teach everyone how to dance the Charleston. This ended with George’s knees crackling like fireworks and Marge somehow stuck in a half-squat, unable to get back up.

Ever the hostess, Granny Sue pulled out her stash of string cheese and placed them on the table. “Eat something before one of you ends up sleeping on my porch swing. Again.”

The night reached its peak when Marge, still feeling the effects of Ethel’s dandelion wine, declared she could recite all fifty states in alphabetical order. She made it to Kentucky before veering off into a long-winded story that no one could follow.

Harold, now using the recliner for balance, chuckled. “You know what I love about this party?”

“The wine?” Ethel guessed.

“The company? Mildred tried.

“The fact that the HOA president isn’t here to complain?” Granny Sue suggested, arching a knowing eyebrow.

Harold grinned. “All to the above.”

When the last drops of wine had been poured and the cheese reduced to crumbs, Granny Sue stood up and stretched. “Alright, everyone, you’ve got two choices — help me clean up or pretend you don’t see me locking the door behind you.”

The guests groaned but grabbed glasses and plates, bumping into one another as they laughed their way through the cleanup. As Mildred tried to refill her glass one last time, Sue snatched the box away. “Go home, Mildred. Even the chicken is judging you now.”

With perfect timing, ‘Her Ladyship’ let out a judgemental cluck.

The last guest finally shuffled out into the night with laughter still echoing.

Granny Sue locked the door, shook her head with a smirk, and patted her chicken. “Well, that was a hoot. Same time next month, Your Ladyship?”

The chicken fluffed her feathers, unimpressed, and strutted off to bed. Granny Sue poured herself one last sip. After all, a hostess deserved a nightcap.

THE END

© Trish Church, 2025

New Literary Society