Choices.
January, Intention, and a Life Well Lived

Three days of house-bound confinement brought on by the 2026 winter ice storm—and the understandable absence of road-clearing service in the Hill Country—gave us time to consider the nature of resolutions. We found ourselves thinking of abstinence adherents weathering self-imposed penalties in cold solitude. Are they true to their pledges? It takes more than discipline to deny enjoyment simply because the calendar has changed. We aren’t talking about excess or casual participation; we’re talking about experiences and connections.

We’d just finished rethinking our own wine clubs—less about features or discounts, more about choice and intention—when it became clear that the same considerations apply far beyond the cellar.

Dry January is a well-intentioned pause for some, a reset for others. Choosing stillness is fine. But abstinence isn’t the only form of discipline, and culture isn’t a vice. Winter imposes its own terms. Wine culture understands restraint without announcement: one glass, well chosen; one bottle, well shared; one evening allowed to unfold at its natural pace. That isn’t excess—it’s literacy. And it doesn’t disappear when the calendar turns.

Enduring culture survives because it carries meaning, continuity, and gratitude. Wine belongs to that older, steadier tradition. It’s not an indulgence to defend nor a habit to excuse; it’s a conversation between land, season, culinary practice, regionality, and culture. Moderation doesn’t dilute that conversation; it sharpens it. Choosing when, why, and how to celebrate doesn’t cheapen experience—it gives it structure, intention, and memory.

Recent days hosting dear friends made this abundantly clear. So please understand: this isn’t justification, nor a pitch. It’s simply a reflection of how we live, anticipate, gather, and mark our shared journey—especially in winter, when warmth, connection, and a thoughtfully chosen glass matter most.

31 Experiences Simply Unavailable During A Dry January

1. The first glass poured while cooking—when the kitchen warms, the music comes on, and the meal officially begins.
2. A perfect roast chicken and potatoes shared with those engaged with the harvest, the wine evocative of the work and weather.
3. A winter stew that only makes sense once a structured, savory red joins the table.
4. Opening a bottle with a story attached—suddenly the room changes temperature.
5. A cigar at dusk, paired for balance rather than bravado, while the day exhales.
6. Ordering wine without a menu because you trust the place—and yourself.
7. That first glass after arrival: bags down, shoes off, travel finished.
8. A multi-course dinner where the third pairing quietly outshines the first.
9. The ceremony of decanting—an unspoken agreement that something is worth waiting for.
10. A shared bottle among old friends where no one remembers who ordered it, only how it felt.
11. A bartender who asks one perfect question and then builds the answer.
12. The pause before the first taste, when aroma alone confirms you’re exactly where you should be.
13. A celebration that feels complete because the wine finally shows up to do its job.
14. Drinking the wine of the place you’re standing in—soil, climate, and history in one glass.
15. A single glass at lunch, out or abroad, reminding you that pleasure and productivity can coexist.
16. Table for four, opening the second bottle slowly, with intention rather than expectation, reaching a different place.
17. A pairing that teaches the food something new about itself.
18. A winter fire, a heavy chair, and a spirit meant for contemplation, not consumption.
19. The nightcap that slows the room enough to truly listen.
20. A toast that lands because the glass gives the words weight.
21. Reaching for the proper glass—Japanese whisky, Port, or specialty stem — because pairing doesn’t stop at the bottle.
22. The vintage anniversary that simply wasn’t ready until this January.
23. A pairing that shouldn’t work but does, like musicians finding the same resonant key by accident.
24. Choosing from a handwritten wine list—evidence that someone cares more than necessary.
25. A meal that lasts three hours and feels like thirty minutes.
26. Anticipation—the quiet pleasure of holding a bottle for the right year, the right table, the right company, and welcoming the New Year as the beginning of an entirely new collection.
27. Seasonality—when winter wines taste like winter for a reason.
28. Reaching for the Magnum, because finally there is time to let it completely unfurl to full potential.
29. January’s slower pace, when time opens up and the service team becomes part of the conversation—knowledge shared, stories exchanged.
30. A memory anchored by aroma, recalled years later with startling clarity.
31. The quiet satisfaction of service, sequence, and pacing done beautifully—not abstinence, but intention.

Dry January is a choice.  So is choosing culture, connection, and celebration—wisely, thoughtfully, and with joy. Wine doesn’t ask to be overused. It asks to be understood.  And we’ll still be here—season in mind, glass in hand. Every month of the year.