I remember asking my mother once what that pink drink was that all the adults were sipping at some wine country event. It was almost neon and my twelve-year-old brain instantly associated it with soda. Naturally I wanted some. She replied with “Oh that’s rosé, the Koolaid of wine,” which did nothing to lessen my desire for it. But I was bustled away before I could be corrupted by syrupy-sweet white zinfandel.