My wife, Marilyn, scrubs her legs and feet until they’re squeaky clean. Then from the shower, making sure all soapy water is rinsed off her feet, into clean socks. These she strips off one by one as she steps into the vat of grapes. Given the size of our vats, the juice and pulp reach above her knee, and she treads in place until the grapes have been crushed and are all off the stems. The sight of her thighs dripping with grape juice never fails to quicken my pulse. This is not a bad time to put your Bo Diddley record on the turntable and pass around some wine that’s good for gulping.