Less, But Better: Finding Meaning in Wine, Life, and Everything Else

“Seated Woman with a Parasol (study for La Grande Jatte)” - Georges Seurat

I had meant to get this out on my usual Tuesday release, but it’s a holiday, and a daughter with a newly broken wrist shook up our day, so here we are. In retrospect, it also feels more poignant on New Year’s Day rather than New Year’s eve.

So, here’s the thing: I’m drinking less these days. For a winemaker, that might sound like heresy, especially considering everything going on in this business and the fact that we just moved to France. But it’s not about giving up—it’s about making it count.

But before I get to that, the impetus for this post started after reading something Rojo Spinks wrote a year ago about the nature of friendship. In it she writes:

“Friendships are, by their very nature, made of friction. To know what is going on in someone’s day-to-day life, to make plans with them, and then reschedule those plans when someone inevitably gets sick, and then bring over Calpol or soup or an extra laptop charger. To water their plants while they’re away, to ask them to take your kids when you’re feeling sad, or for help getting rid of mice in your house. To show up for the walk you planned even when you’re a vulnerable anxious mess—this is all friction.”

Throughout her piece, her words made so much sense to me. They’re not just about friendship though, they’re about life, about the things that matter. Friction isn’t the problem. Friction is the point. It’s the effort we put into relationships that makes them meaningful. It’s the work and struggle behind a piece of art, music or otherwise, that makes it resonate. It’s the challenge of learning something new that makes it so satisfying on the other side. Without friction, life loses its texture. It becomes flat, forgettable, disposable.

Wine, too, used to thrive in the spaces where friction lived. It was once the glue that held so much of human connection together. It was at the center of meals, celebrations, debates, and rituals. It invited us to sit longer, talk more, and share stories. It made time slow down in a way that feels almost impossible today. Now, wine is in decline. We’ve been oversold on opportunities to drink, at every event, every meal, every happy hour, but much of what’s offered is forgettable, mass-produced, and designed for ease. It’s optimized for profits, not purpose. It’s easy to grab, easy to consume, and easy to forget. The story is missing. The connection is gone. And now, with so much anti-alcohol discourse swirling around, wine, something inherently tied to culture, history, and humanity, has been unfairly lumped into the same bucket as hard seltzers and pre-mixed mojitos.

As someone who makes wine, this shift has changed the way I think about my work. If people are drinking less, then every bottle I put out has to matter. It has to earn its place at the table. For me, that means embracing the friction in wine as well, letting the land, the vintage, and even the mistakes shape the wine. Taking risks, even if they don’t always pay off. Because that’s what makes it worth drinking. That’s what makes it real. This isn’t about chasing trends or perfection. It’s about crafting wines that reflect the messy, beautiful reality of where they come from. Wines that speak to something deeper.

And I get it… who has time for all of this? Knowing where to start or finding the time to dive into wine can feel like too much effort. Grocery store aisles are stacked with endless options, most of them offering little more than a race to the bottom in cost and quality. So let me offer this: start small. Trust a great wine shop clerk or a friend whose taste you admire. Ask for help. Allow that vulnerability to open up new doors. Then pick one wine and learn a little about it—the name of the person who actually made it (not who owns it), where it’s from, and why it was made. It doesn’t have to be fancy or intimidating. It just has to matter to you. Then invite over that friend who you’ve canceled plans with the last three attempts and enjoy it together over a spread of a few small bites. Drinking less doesn’t mean missing out; it means creating space for moments that feel personal and purposeful.

The anti-alcohol movement has its place, but we can’t let it erase the value of wine. Wine has always been more than alcohol. It’s history, culture, and art. It’s agriculture, the product of land, weather, and human hands. It’s a way of connecting: to a place, to a story, to each other. Lumping it into the same category as processed, mass-produced beverages misses the point entirely. Yes, we should drink less. But not to hack our lives in order to chase productivity on some endless hamster wheel. Drinking less creates space for meaning. It creates room to invest in relationships that matter, not just because they taste good, but because they have something to say.

So, here’s to friction. Here’s to the wines that reflect their origins and their makers. Here’s to less—not out of fear or guilt, but as a choice to engage more fully. To the beauty in the imperfections. To connection over convenience. And to the moments we savor because we’ve earned them.

Here’s to less, but better.