I was carrying the girl, now near eighteen months, upstairs for stories and bedtime, juggling her, her milk, and the last glass of dinner wine, a very decent Penfolds Shiraz-Cab. She saw her chance when I had to free up one arm for a door; feinted left, squirmed right, plunged her hand all the way into the ruby red, and beamed triumphantly. I’d just finished wiping dinner off it so with no hesitation I stuffed the wiggly pink dripping fingers into my mouth. The wine tasted good off her warm skin, oddly different but good. I recommend this.