#wine certifications

[sunshowersanddandelionwine]

If my coworker comes up to me one more time and tells me how to do my job, I will bite him

[chialattea]

making stew. it’s stew time. morbillion stew recipes to try out. hit me with some good soup.

[jamesthewineguy]

What is the Expectation of Calling a Wine Organic; Especially on Its Packaging?

When I mention the “O” word “Organic” there seems to be some contention around it. And even when I have talked about “sustainable” and “biodynamic” it seems that so many people have their own ideas on each of these subjects.But I cannot imagine a world where each of these items (organic, sustainable, and biodynamic) were not being implemented in wine production today by some producers today.So…

[mccoys-killer-queen]

guys have i ever told u i'm a certified wine snob

[thedigitalwine]

La certificazione WSET è composta da 4 livelli, e se i primi 2 vi potranno sembrare facili, il Level 3 e soprattutto il Level 4 sono davvero difficili. In questo episodio vi spiego tutto, ma proprio tutto, sulle certificazioni WSET, sui programmi e sugli esami. . Buon ascolto! ——— Unisciti al gruppo Telegram The Digital Wine Lovers e al canale The Digital Wine, chatta con me su Telegram e seguimi su Instagram, mi trovi come Wine Roland.  Puoi finanziare il podcast abbonandoti alla newsletter o con una donazione offrendomi un caffé: La Newsletter: https://thedigitalwine.com/newsletter Offrimi un caffè: https://ko-fi.com/thedigitalwine Fai una donazione: https://thedigitalwine.com/grazie Il sito web: Storie del Vino ——— Soundtrack: Funk 'n' Jazz by texasradiofish (c) copyright 2015 Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Noncommercial (3.0) license. https://dig.ccmixter.org/files/texasradiofish/51247 Ft: Bill Ray, Stefan Kartenberg, Reiswerk

[malakkc-poetry]

Two Certificates of Excellence, Feast's Unity & Jailed Wine

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

if the military wanted you to have a wife, they'd issue you one. Soap's heard that saying once or twice.

and here you are. claiming to be his... issuance.

you tilt your head. "you don't remember signing up for the program?"

no. no, he doesn't. his eyes dart down to your lips for a fraction of a second before returning to your eyes. he'd remember that. more to the point, he'd remember whatever he did to deserve this. he looks you up and down again, disbelief and desire flashing across his face, and not in equal measure.

you’re like if someone wrung the starry slurry of thoughts constituting what makes a perfect woman directly from his brain matter, let it ferment and clarify like honey wine, put marriage papers in her hand, and dressed her in a… in a fucking… are those stockings stretching up under your skirt?

hell’s bells. you’re one part girl next door, one part muse—the one his hand can never quite shape on the page to match what’s in his head—and several shades of his favorite porn star. an old-fashioned pin-up doll in the flesh.

"you're not John MacTavish, then," you say, peering down at the papers in your hand with a small frown. "so sorry to bother you—"

“no, hold on.” he takes a step closer. “i’m him, aye. but the program...” the application questionnaire. filling it out was nothing more than a drunken bet with Gaz, but yes, he dimly remembers it. doesn't recall turning it in, but maybe he was drunker than he thought. “it's real?"

“completely real. i was selected for you based on the preferences you specified,” you tell him. you shift the clipboard into your other arm, pleasant smile turning into a frown. "but i couldn't possibly ask you to sign a marriage certificate sponsored by a program you don't even remember applying for."

oh, that is rich. you don’t seem to see the humor here. it’s absurd. have you not seen yourself? he'd be daft to pass on someone as bonnie as you.

not to mention you seem more than a little disappointed at the idea of being turned down. that fuels his ego even more.

 "you're sayin' you're a part of that military partnership program, aye? and you were handpicked as my spouse based on a few questions?"

you helpfully produce a copy of his responses in pink triplicate. sure enough, he recognizes his own drunken scrawl.

none of the questions have anything to do his preferences looks-wise. career aspirations, communication preferences, hobbies, his ideal saturday night. his sleeping habits. this is a psychological profile. CIA shite, as Gaz would say.

he doubts his drunken self read more than a few lines of this paperwork while he was constructing his dream girl in the survey blanks.

as he studies the page a little too closely, your small frown turns into a frustrated scowl. "john? um, i mean."

it instantly pulls his eyes back to your lips.

you twirl a strand of hair around your finger. "it’s nice to meet you,” you say in a tone that makes it clear what you’re really saying is ‘hey, stud, i'm looking forward to the honeymoon.’

that’s your attempt, at least. but Soap sees more than you mean to show. the way you play that card--the way you twirl your damn hair--is the clumsiest, most blatant attempt to flirt. somehow, that's what catches him off-guard the most. It makes his heart squeeze. god, are you nervous? you?

he runs over the back of his teeth in the split second before his signature lazy smirk slides back across his face. "happy you got paired up with a bloke like me?"

he hands the paperwork back to you. you take it back with great relief and nestle it securely into the crook of your elbow. you’re certain he didn’t sign every single blank he was supposed to, but he won’t remember that. you’ll check the signature lines later and forge his handwriting to finish it.

you smile prettily at him. then you make it a little more coy. you should be bashful--he's handsome. "i'm lucky. you're special forces. i’m a nobody, really. if you want, you could try filing for a spouse upgrade. if you want a really good fiancée..."

“fiancée." Soap rolls the word around his tongue. "is that what i should call you?”

"well. you saw my name on the paperwork," you point out. you know very well he didn't.

before he can ask any more questions, you press a chaste kiss to his cheek and pull away, walking down the hall with documents in tow. his gaze is heavy on your back.

the documents in your arm are real enough. Soap really did complete that questionnaire, just like how he remembers. getting the application turned in is what required a little creative effort.

but as long as nobody looks too closely at the military ID photocopied in the application file, they won't notice that the mostly-obscured face of the soldier who turned the application in doesn't look much like Soap at all.

...

more Soap / masterlist

[rohitsh91]

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[ari-ana-bel-la]

Could I request where pierre and Kika forget their daughters school performance so while every other kid is going to their parents the daughter is just stood their waiting to the where the teacher had to call them and the daughter ignores them until they get home. I know it’s long sorry but if you could do it that would be great ❤️

Forgotten in the rain

The rain had started in a soft drizzle but quickly became a steady pour that drummed against the school’s windows. Inside the assembly hall, the walls echoed with the excited chatter of children and the proud applause of parents. Flashbulbs popped every few seconds as moms and dads documented every smile, every wave, every bow.

Except for one little girl who stood near the back of the room.

Yn clutched her damp paper certificate, its corners curling slightly. She had performed a poem about the seasons—her voice clear, her hands animated. Her teacher, Miss Carter, had told her she’d done wonderfully. The kind of performance that deserved a bouquet, a warm hug, a proud parent grinning from ear to ear. But instead, she stood alone, eyes scanning every adult that walked in, every couple that greeted their child with open arms.

Her dress was a soft pastel pink, chosen by her mother, Kika, two days ago. Her curly brown hair was pulled into two neat braids, and her small boots were now soaked at the soles from pacing near the entrance.

She looked at the clock again.

7:12 PM.

Miss Carter finally noticed the way Yn’s smile had faded. The teacher walked over with a kind smile, kneeling beside her.

"Sweetheart, are you still waiting for someone?"

Yn nodded silently. Her eyes were bright, but her jaw was set.

Miss Carter’s heart ached. "Do you want to come wait in my classroom while I call your parents?"

"Okay," Yn whispered.

---

Pierre glanced at his phone as he sank deeper into the couch, his legs stretched over the coffee table. "Did we ever finish that bottle of wine from last week?"

"The red one? Yeah, I think I did on Tuesday," Kika replied from the kitchen, reaching for a handful of olives.

Pierre sighed dramatically. "We’re such adults. Drinking wine on a Tuesday night."

Kika chuckled, walking into the living room. "What time is it?"

"Just past seven. Why?"

She froze.

Pierre noticed it immediately. "What?"

"Pierre."

"What?"

"Oh my god, Yn’s school performance."

He shot up. "Shit."

She grabbed her phone, nearly fumbling it in her panic. Two missed calls. One voicemail.

"It’s Miss Carter," she said, already pressing play.

Pierre ran a hand through his hair, groaning. "We’re the worst parents."

The message played:

"Hi, this is Miss Carter from Willowbrook Primary. I just wanted to check in—it’s a little past seven, and Yn is still here. She had such a wonderful performance tonight, but it seems no one came to pick her up. I’ll keep her in my classroom until you arrive. Please give me a call back."

Kika was already pulling on her coat. "Let’s go."

---

The ride to the school was painfully silent. Pierre kept glancing at the clock, tapping the steering wheel. Kika sat with her arms crossed, her foot bouncing with guilt.

They found Miss Carter standing by the school doors, holding an umbrella over Yn.

Yn wasn’t crying. She wasn’t pouting. She wasn’t doing anything. She simply stood there, looking small and still, like a little statue in a rainstorm.

When she saw them, her face didn’t light up.

Pierre jumped out first. "Baby, I’m so sorry—"

She didn’t move toward him.

Kika tried. "Yn, we—"

But the child just turned back to Miss Carter. "Thank you for waiting with me."

Miss Carter smiled gently. "You were very brave, sweetheart. I’m proud of you."

Pierre stepped forward, his voice barely above a whisper. "Can we take you home now, bébé?"

Yn gave a tiny nod and walked toward the car without saying another word.

---

The drive home was colder than the rain outside. Kika turned to speak a few times but couldn’t find the right words. Pierre tried to hold Yn’s hand, but she pulled it away slowly, not harshly, but pointedly.

Once they arrived home, Yn unbuckled her seatbelt herself, climbed out, and walked straight into the house.

Pierre and Kika followed.

"Yn, baby, please, talk to us," Kika pleaded, dropping her keys on the counter.

Yn headed straight for her room.

"Sweetheart," Pierre tried, his voice cracking.

No response. She closed her door behind her with a quiet finality.

Kika sat on the couch, hands covering her face. "I feel like I just broke her heart."

Pierre sat beside her, shoulders slumped. "We really messed up."

"It wasn’t just a show, Pierre. She told us every day this week. She made invitations. She left them on the fridge."

He closed his eyes. "And we just... forgot."

They didn’t sleep much that night.

---

The next morning, Pierre was already in the kitchen by 6:30, trying to make pancakes the way Yn liked them—thin, buttery, with a swirl of strawberry syrup in a heart shape. Kika was chopping fruit, glancing at the hallway every few minutes.

At 7:10, the door creaked open.

Yn walked in, dressed in her school uniform, backpack already on. She looked fresh and neat, as if nothing had happened.

"Good morning," Kika tried, voice careful.

"Hi," Yn replied without looking at them. She opened the fridge, grabbed her lunchbox, and set it in her bag.

"We made you pancakes," Pierre offered.

"I’m not hungry."

The rejection hit harder than expected.

"Yn," Kika tried again, kneeling down, "we are so, so sorry. There’s no excuse. We forgot something really important, and you didn’t deserve that."

Yn met her eyes. "You didn’t come. Everyone else had someone. Even Noah’s dad came, and he works at the hospital."

Pierre approached slowly. "We know. And we feel awful."

"You always say I’m the most important thing," she whispered. "But you forgot me."

Kika’s eyes filled with tears. "You are the most important thing, baby girl. We just—our brains were stupid. We got busy, and we didn’t write it down, and that’s not your fault. It’s ours."

Pierre knelt beside her. "We hurt your feelings. And we’re not asking you to forgive us today. But we want you to know we’re sorry. And we’re going to do better."

Yn looked at both of them, her lips trembling.

"I stood in the rain by myself," she murmured.

"I know, mon coeur. I know," Pierre said, hugging her gently. "And it breaks me."

Finally, Yn leaned into him.

Kika joined the embrace, holding them both tightly. "We love you more than anything."

"Even more than the red wine?" Yn asked, voice muffled in Pierre’s chest.

Pierre laughed through a sniffle. "A thousand times more."

"Even more than your phone, Mama?"

Kika smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "So much more. You’re my whole heart."

Yn finally smiled.

"Can I still have pancakes?"

Pierre stood. "Absolutely. Even if we’re late to school, pancakes are happening."

As they sat together at the table, the storm from the night before seemed to pass, replaced by the simple warmth of shared forgiveness, strawberry syrup, and a heart-shaped apology made of batter.

And from that day on, every calendar in their house—paper, digital, and even the whiteboard on the fridge—had one line written across the top:

"Yn comes first. Always."

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🤍🦢

[ashleyreyland]

"Fifteen years ago you gave a child up for adoption."

"Well hello to you too," Selina purred, looking over at Bruce who was in his Batman attire, "How do you know about that?"

"Because the child is here in Gotham asking me for help."

Selina frowned, "He was adopted out of state-"

"Yes," Bruce cut in, "And his adoptive sister happens to be Comissioner Gordon's niece. She brought him to Gordon who brought them to me."

"What are you asking, Bruce?"

"The child's father wasn't listed on the birth certificate. Fifteen years ago…"

Selina gave a sigh and turned away from Bruce, heading for the kitchen. Bruce didn't hesitate to follow. She poured herself a glass of wine, taking a healthy sip of it before finally turning back to Bruce.

"Yes, he's yours."

"Dammit Selina."

[chronicowboy]

now that we have season 9 will they won't they buddie confirmed i feel it's only right to share with you my vision of the buddie wedding. the original ceremony is derailed of course. probably by some sort of big emergency that neither of them can resist helping out with. and they go home at the end of the day sweaty and sooty and exhausted. and buck is rambling on and on about how they're cursed and doomed and they should stay engaged forever because the universe clearly doesn't want them to get married. and eddie is just really fucking fond of his silly little guy and he needs to be married to him yesterday so he's saying yes dear whatever you say dear as he creates a new groupchat with all of their family minus buck and he gets to organising. and crucially buck has no idea what's going on. the morning of their next shift eddie heads in early without him and buck is wondering if they really are doomed and he gets into work all bummed and sniffly because he was supposed to be a husband today. eddie's husband! and he's not :(. but the station is weirdly quiet and empty. and bobby's waiting for him in the locker room with a dry cleaning bag and he says. hey uniform change for today. and buck looks inside and it's the suit he was supposed to wear. and he looks up at bobby with big wet eyes slowly realising what's happening and bobby nods at him and tells him to go get ready in his office. and buck's struggling with his tie when maddie ducks in and takes over and they have a little cry together because they're both so happy and she links their arms and takes him up to the roof. and chimney's leading jee-yun down the aisle as she throws rose petals everywhere. but all buck can see is eddie and chris waiting for him at the end of the aisle. and eddie is crying and buck is crying again. and chris is so embarrassed but he's so happy too. and maddie walks buck down the aisle and gives him a kiss on the cheek as eddie takes his hands. and buck whispers. you did all this? for me? and eddie just nods a little too choked up to speak, speaks anyway. needed to prove curses weren't real. and buck scoffs and rolls his eyes but he's smiling too big for it to mean anything. and bobby asks them if they're ready and they're both more ready than they've ever been. the ceremony ends with bobby having them sign their marriage certificate then update their personnel forms. tim if you're reading this after a glass of wine please know i forfeit all rights to this idea. it's yours. i don't even need credit.

[thedarkdandelion]

Whst does one get a baby for their baptism? Like present wise? A Jesus plush? Can't get the baby a bible, they can't even read.

[d-targaryenshoe]

Drunk On Love - Benedict Bridgerton

Summary: Love is beautiful yet when one is drunk it can rather be a little confusing and breathtaking.

Word count: 1210

Benedict Bridgerton prided himself on many things, his artistic talent, wit, and ability to hold his drink.

Yet tonight, the second Bridgerton son was wobbling on his feet, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, a cravat dangling loosely from his neck like a sad ribbon on an overindulged present.

The Bridgerton house was alive with music and laughter.

Eloise had declared it a night for frivolity, dragging everyone into the drawing room after dinner to play a raucous game of charades.

Wine flowed like the Thames, and for once, Anthony and Kate didn’t step in to regulate the chaos.

“Benedict,” Colin chortled, pointing as his elder brother attempted to lean casually on a settee and nearly toppled over, “I think you’ve lost the ability to differentiate between horizontal and vertical.”

“I’m perfectly... perpendic... perpendicular!” Benedict slurred, wagging a finger in Colin’s direction.

“Indeed,” Eloise said dryly. She raised her voice, addressing the room. “I give it five minutes before he collapses entirely. Any takers?”

“Oh, stop betting on him,” sighed Daphne. “Where’s y/n? Benedict always behaves better when she's around.”

Benedict blinked hazily around the room.

His siblings’ teasing words blended into the merry chaos, but one name struck a chord, y/n.

Who was y/n?

And why did that name feel like a golden thread pulling at his soul?

He turned his head too quickly, the room spinning in response.

His gaze landed on a figure near the pianoforte—one so radiant it was as though the heavens had gifted them the very stars.

“Who... who is that?” Benedict whispered, stumbling toward Colin and yanking on his sleeve.

“Who?” Colin asked, bewildered.

“That divine creature,” Benedict gestured dramatically, “by the pianoforte. Look at her, Colin. Just look! She's perfect.”

Colin stared at him for a moment, then burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“Oh, this is too good. Benedict, that’s your wife”

“My what?” Benedict spluttered, recoiling as though he’d been doused in cold water.

“Your wife, you fool. Y/n. The person you married three years ago.” Colin’s grin was practically audible. “You have children with her, by the way.”

“Children?!” Benedict gasped, clutching his chest.

His mind raced. Surely, he would remember such monumental details.

A wife? Children? His heart thundered as he stared at you, as you were now laughing with Hyacinth and Gregory.

Every movement you made felt hypnotic, like watching sunlight dance on water.

“I don’t believe you,” Benedict declared, his voice rising above the chatter.

“Shall we fetch the marriage certificate?” Anthony drawled from his seat by the fire.

He smirked, swirling a glass of brandy. “Or the children?”

Before anyone could stop him, Benedict crossed the room with all the determination of a soldier marching to battle.

He nearly tripped over Daphne’s gown in his haste, earning a glare, but he pressed on.

As he approached, you turned to him, your face lighting up with warmth.

“Benedict,” you said, a fond smile gracing your lips. “You look like you’ve had quite a bit of—”

“Are you my spouse?” Benedict interrupted his voice a mix of awe and disbelief.

You blinked, glancing around the room as though to confirm this wasn’t a joke orchestrated by his siblings. “I am. Last time I checked, anyway.”

“And we have... children?” Benedict pressed, his hands flailing for emphasis.

“Two of them,” you replied slowly, your brow furrowing. “Are you feeling all right?”

Benedict staggered back a step, clutching at his heart as though Cupid himself had struck him anew.

“I don’t believe it. How could I have forgotten marrying someone so... so—” He gestured helplessly at you, his words failing him. “You’re perfect. Stunning. A masterpiece! Surely, I would remember creating something so beautiful with you.”

From the corner, Colin let out a loud snort of laughter, while Hyacinth whispered something to Gregory, both of them dissolving into giggles.

You, however, softened, recognizing the sincerity behind Benedict’s intoxicated declarations.

“Benedict,” you said gently, placing a hand on his arm. “You didn’t forget. You’ve just had a bit too much wine tonight.”

“I could never drink enough to forget you,” Benedict declared, his eyes wide with conviction.

“But I must have been a fool not to spend every waking moment worshiping you. Tell me, y/n—how did someone like me manage to convince someone like you to marry me?”

Your laughter was soft, your affection for him evident in every glance. "You painted me a portrait. You said it was the only way to capture what words could not. And then you kissed me.”

“I kissed you?” Benedict repeated, his voice trembling. “I kissed you and lived to tell the tale? Remarkable.”

The room erupted into chaos as the siblings could no longer contain their laughter.

Daphne leaned against a chair for support, Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose in mock exasperation, and Eloise whispered something scandalous to Francesca, who chuckled into her wine glass.

“You’re all horrible!” Benedict shouted, turning to glare at his family. “How dare you mock a man rediscovering the love of his life?”

“You’re rediscovering her because you’re drunk,” Eloise pointed out, her tone laced with amusement.

“Drunk or not, my love is real,” Benedict retorted dramatically, turning back to you. “Y/n, my muse, my heart—can you forgive me for not loving you loudly enough?”

“You love me plenty loudly, Benedict,” you replied with a smile, your eyes twinkling with mirth. “Especially when you’re drunk.”

At that moment, the door to the drawing room opened, and a pair of small children toddled in, guided by their nurse.

The eldest, a dark-haired boy of about three, immediately ran to you, clutching your leg.

The younger, a baby with Benedict’s dimpled cheeks, squealed happily from the nurse’s arms.

Benedict froze, staring at the children as though they were mythical creatures.

“Are these... mine?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Yes,” you said, picking up the boy and balancing him on your hip. “This is Thomas and that little one is Edith.”

Benedict dropped to his knees, staring at his children in awe. “Thomas. Edith. My heirs. My legacy.”

“They’re not royalty, Benedict,” Anthony deadpanned.

Benedict ignored him, his eyes welling with tears. “They’re perfect. Just like their parents.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “All right, darling. Let’s get you some water.”

The next morning, Benedict woke with a pounding headache and a vague sense of humiliation.

As he shuffled into the breakfast room, his siblings greeted him with a chorus of applause and cheers.

“Well done, Benedict,” Colin teased. “You fell in love with your wife all over again.”

“Most romantic thing I’ve ever seen,” Daphne added, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Benedict groaned, sinking into his chair. “Please, tell me I didn’t embarrass myself too badly.”

You entered the room, setting a cup of tea before him. “You were charming, as always.”

“Was I?” Benedict asked, peering up at you.

“You were,” you said, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “Though I think you owe me another portrait. You did promise one last night.”

Benedict smiled sheepishly, his love for you as steady and enduring as the sunlight streaming through the window.

“Anything for you,” he murmured, vowing to remind you every day just how deeply he adored you—drunk or not.

[tremordusk]

Agatha: Help, my wife got wine drunk and tried to set our marriage certificate on fire

Rio: Good luck trying to return me without the receipt—