Here We Come A-Wassailing

Who knew? Still, I do recall one thing: another exchange about wassail, this time with a Horton cashier.

What?

"Wassail," Mom says. "You know, 'We are not daily beggars that beg from door to door,' " she sings (the third verse, inexplicably). From behind the counter the woman has a flash of recognition and whisks us over to a table hawking wine paraphernalia. There we see a sachet of allspice, cinnamon sticks, et al., made by a company called Spring Creek Industries in the Napa Valley. Drop this in a pot of boiling wine, the woman tells us, and you'll never go begging for wassail again.

Keswick Vineyards, the final stop on the trail, was just 12 miles east on U.S. 33. That it took us more than an hour to arrive is testament to the havoc wreaked by a long day of wine-tasting. In fact, we might still be wassailing were it not for a lonely convenience store in the middle of nowhere, empty except for a stray Jell-O box and a chain-smoking cashier who had never heard of Keswick but seemed to remember there was a vineyard (pronounced "VINE-yahrd") a few miles up the road.

Our sundown arrival at Keswick was announced by the clinking of souvenir glasses on the car floorboard, our booty so far. Picnic tables and wicker chairs led the way to a cozy tasting room and a bubbly young blonde who proffered a peppery Syrah, a red that reminded us of blackberry jam and, best of all, the wassailing wisdom I'd been waiting for all day.

"It's spiked apple cider, I think."

I could have kissed her. Sure, it was a long ride home in near-total silence with the worst headache I've ever had before cocktail hour. Still, I felt like singing.

Love and joy come to you

And to you your wassail too . . .

"Did you hear the one," interrupts Mom, "about the little moron who believed the girl who thought wassail was made from cider?"