It started with neglect. I had a batch of mulberry wine bubbling away on my kitchen counter three summers ago, and life got busy — a leaky roof, a sick dog, the usual chaos — and I forgot to rack it on time. By the time I remembered, it had gone sharp and sour and … Read more
It was a Tuesday evening in late June, and I was staring at a gallon jug of mulberry wine that had gone completely, stubbornly still. No bubbles. No fizz. Just a deep purple liquid sitting there judging me from the kitchen counter. I had followed every step, hydrated my yeast, checked my temperatures, and yet … Read more
It was the same Tuesday afternoon, the same colander of fat, dark mulberries from my backyard tree, and the same pair of stained hands. I pressed half the batch into fresh juice, let it chill in the fridge, and set the other half fermenting in a gallon jar with a little yeast and some patience. … Read more
I still remember standing in my kitchen surrounded by purple-stained everything — fingers, dish towels, the grout between my backsplash tiles — convinced I had completely ruined my first batch of mulberry wine. The airlock had gone silent on day three, I had no idea if that was good or bad, and the cheap plastic … Read more
My first batch of homemade mulberry wine smelled like ambition and tasted like vinegar that had given up on itself. I remember pouring a small glass, taking one hopeful sip, and quietly dumping the entire gallon down the kitchen sink while my husband pretended not to notice. That was two summers ago. Last June, I … Read more
