Sangria —rsquo; The Glass of Wine I Earned at the End of Every Hard Week

The Santa Ana winds came through Tuesday. Fire warnings. Caleb had baseball practice Tuesday and Thursday. I drove.

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

A casserole this week. Tater tot if you must know. Donna's recipe. The freezer-friendly kind.

Mom called Sunday. We talked while she was putting up tomatoes from the garden. She is sixty-something and gardening like she is forty. Megan called from D.C.. We talked twenty minutes. The relationship is better now than it was.

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

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.

The kids' soccer game was Saturday morning. The other parents brought oranges and Capri Suns. I brought a thermos of coffee for myself and a folding chair I bought at Target three years ago that has been to four duty stations now. The chair is a more loyal companion than some of my friends.

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.

The kitchen counter has a chip in it from someone before us. Some military housing thing. I have stopped asking what. The chip is fine. The whole kitchen is provisional. We are renting from Uncle Sam.

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.

I went for a walk Sunday morning before the kids got up. Half an hour. The fog was burning off. I needed it. Some weeks I get the walk in. Some weeks I don't. The week tells me which.

I unpacked another box from storage Tuesday afternoon. Three years on this base and I am still finding things I packed in Twentynine Palms. Military-wife archeology — every box is a layer of geological history. I found a ceramic dish from Lejeune still wrapped in newspaper from 2020.

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'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 sat at the kitchen table Tuesday night writing in the journal. Volume 11 now. The handwriting has not gotten neater. The journals are a record of the life I am living, in the moment, in tiny script that I will look back on someday and not be able to read. That is okay. The writing was the thing.

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.

That glass of wine Tuesday night — the one after the dishes were done and the kids were down and the journal was open — it deserved to be something a little more intentional than whatever bottle was closest. Donna’s recipe card for the green bean casserole is already in the binder, but she’s also the one who taught me that a pitcher of sangria in the fridge means there’s always something worth sitting down for. You make it the night before, let it do its thing, and by the time you need it, it’s ready — which, honestly, is the only kind of recipe that works around here.

Sangria

Prep Time: 10 min | Chill Time: 2 hrs | Total Time: 2 hrs 10 min | Servings: 6

Ingredients

• 1 bottle (750ml) dry red wine (Rioja, Garnacha, or Cabernet Sauvignon)
• 1/4 cup brandy
• 1/4 cup fresh orange juice (about 1 large orange)
• 2 tablespoons sugar or simple syrup, adjust to taste
• 1 orange, thinly sliced into rounds
• 1 lemon, thinly sliced into rounds
• 1 lime, thinly sliced into rounds
• 1 cup cold club soda or sparkling water, added just before serving
• Ice, for serving

Instructions

1. Mix the base. In a large pitcher, combine the red wine, brandy, orange juice, and sugar. Stir until the sugar is fully dissolved.
2. Add the fruit. Drop in the orange, lemon, and lime slices. 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 infuses into the wine.
4. Finish and serve. Just before serving, pour in the club soda and stir lightly. Fill glasses with ice and ladle the sangria over, making sure each glass gets some fruit.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 185 | Protein: 0g | Fat: 0g | Carbs: 16g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 10mg