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As I have become wiser, I have acquired a more sophisticated palate. As my faith has developed, I have become unafraid of not knowing the answer to everything.
Lusting after the Latours and Lafites we will never drink is deeply unsatisfactory; more to the point, it is sinful in that it wantonly overlooks the vast lakes of good wine that are all around us, in our range of possibility.
Malcolm Guite brings the poets of old to dinner with us in some stunning poetry.
Modern life has generated a debilitating asymmetry between our biological givenness and our cultural expectations of beauty.
Wine is such a potent metaphor of eschatological hope precisely because it tells us that the new, the immediate—that which is in front of us now—isn’t the totality of what’s promised.
In the times when we all need comfort the most, and home, and anchoring, I reach for the rusty griddle and I teach a new little link in the chain, how to make Welsh cakes.
The sober introvert’s joy at a party is rejoicing in the joy of one’s friends.
If we get swept along with the tide of fashion, we will turn our world into a bland homogeneity that is not particularly at home in its own skin. And that’s not what we’ve been put here to do.
Why is this glass of wine different to that one? What makes one glass so much finer than another? And what does any of that have to do with the incarnation?
One of the links in the chain of goodness and resistance is the symbiosis of food and faith.