Fruity Sangria — For the Wine at the End of a Long Week

Beach Saturdays. Sunscreen by the gallon. Ryan was on duty at Miramar. Standard week.

Caleb, 8, wants to be a firefighter still. Has not deviated. Hazel, 5, opinions about everything. Has Donna's directness without the diplomacy.

Corn on the cob in butter. The standard.

Mom called Sunday. We talked while she was putting up tomatoes from the garden. She is sixty-something and gardening like she is forty.

Kids in bed. Dishes done. I sat at the table with a glass of wine and called my mom.

Caleb's school had a fundraiser this week. I baked cookies because I always bake cookies. The cookies were the standard chocolate chip. They sold out in twenty minutes. I am the cookie mom of this PTO and I have stopped fighting it.

My therapy session was Tuesday. We talked about the deployment cycle and the way the body holds dread and the ways the body holds it. The hour passed. The work continues. I have been doing this work for years. The work pays.

Donna sent a recipe card in the mail this week. She has been doing this for years. The recipes go in the binder. The binder is full. The newest one is for a green bean casserole that uses fresh green beans and fried shallots and which I will absolutely make for the next holiday.

Wednesday morning meal prep — Sunday afternoon, hours of containers. The freezer is full. The future-me thanks present-me. Donna taught me this routine. Donna's freezer was always full. Donna saved her sanity with quart bags labeled in Sharpie.

Base housing is base housing. Beige walls, beige carpet, beige expectations. The dryer venting is in a stupid place. The kitchen has no dishwasher. We make it work.

I made a casserole for a neighbor whose husband is deployed. I dropped it off. She cried. I told her, eat the casserole, baby. The food is the saying. The casserole was a mostly-frozen tater-tot situation that took fifteen minutes of effort and six months of practice to perfect.

Dad called. He has been gardening. He is sending zucchini updates again. The PTSD is managed. He talks more than he used to. He is becoming his own version of healed, which I did not think was possible at fourteen.

Ryan's friends came over Friday for a beer. I made wings and chips. They demolished both. Standard Marine appetite — they eat like they are still on rations. The kitchen looked like a battlefield by the end. They cleaned up. Marines clean up. Donna would have been impressed.

I went to the commissary Saturday morning. Got the grocery haul under sixty bucks for the week, which is a small victory. The cashier knows me. We talked about her grandkids while she scanned the chicken thighs and the family-size box of pasta. Small-town energy on a Marine base in California.

Ryan went to his counselor Wednesday. He always comes home calmer. I am calm too, just from him being calm. The man Torres was killed with — Ryan calls his wife twice a year on Torres's birthday and the anniversary. The military widows are their own community.

Ryan came home tired Wednesday. He showered, ate, sat on the couch, was asleep by eight. Standard for a Marine who has been up since four-thirty for PT and stayed late for a brief. The schedule is the schedule. The body adapts because it has to.

The military spouses' Facebook group had a small drama this week. Two women fighting over the playgroup schedule. I muted notifications and cooked dinner. Some weeks the group is the lifeline. Some weeks it is the source of unnecessary stress. The skill is knowing which week you're in.

Beach Saturdays, a full commissary haul, wings for a crowd of Marines, and a casserole dropped on a neighbor’s doorstep — by the time the kids were in bed and the dishes were done, that glass of wine felt like the only reward that made sense. I’ve started making Donna’s fruity sangria on weeks like this one, batching a pitcher on Sunday the same way I batch the freezer meals, so future-me has something cold and a little festive waiting when present-me finally sits down. It takes almost no effort, which is exactly what I have left by Friday.

Fruity Sangria

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Chill Time: 2 hours | Total Time: 2 hours 10 minutes | Servings: 6–8

Ingredients

• 1 bottle (750ml) dry red wine (such as Cabernet Sauvignon or Merlot)
• 1/4 cup brandy
• 1/4 cup fresh orange juice
• 2 tablespoons sugar or simple syrup, adjust to taste
• 1 orange, thinly sliced into rounds
• 1 lemon, thinly sliced into rounds
• 1 cup fresh strawberries, hulled and halved
• 1 ripe peach, pitted and thinly sliced
• 1/2 cup fresh or frozen blueberries
• 1 1/2 cups cold club soda or sparkling water, added just before serving
• Ice, for serving

Instructions

1. Combine the base. In a large pitcher, stir together the wine, brandy, orange juice, and sugar until the sugar dissolves completely.
2. Add the fruit. Drop in the orange slices, lemon slices, strawberries, peach slices, and blueberries. Stir gently to combine.
3. Chill. Cover the pitcher and refrigerate for at least 2 hours, or overnight. The longer it sits, the more the fruit flavors develop — overnight is ideal if you can plan ahead.
4. Finish before serving. When ready to serve, pour in the cold club soda and stir lightly to preserve the bubbles.
5. Serve over ice. Fill glasses with ice, ladle in the sangria, and make sure each glass gets a scoop of the soaked fruit.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 165 | Protein: 0g | Fat: 0g | Carbs: 16g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 10mg