Bubbles from the Mountains

Two coupe glasses catch the light on the countertop, pale gold and busy with a quiet rush of bubbles. Beside them, a bottle stands half-turned, label clean and spare, as if it doesn’t want to interrupt the moment. Even the cap set off to the side feels deliberate, a small punctuation mark.

Bubbles from the Mountains is the kind of phrase that makes you pause. It suggests elevation and cold air, the long patience of hills, and the way a place can shape what ends up in your glass. The Catskills have that steady presence—familiar but never fully known—where ordinary evenings can feel a little more spacious.

I like sparkling wine for how it changes the room. Not louder, not busier—just brighter. It turns a kitchen counter into a table worth lingering at. It makes you notice the shape of the glass, the faint swirl of foam at the edges, the tiny constellations rising up and vanishing.

There’s something comforting in that: a simple ritual that doesn’t ask for a special occasion. Just pour, listen, and let the day settle. Outside, the mountains keep their own time. Inside, the bubbles do the same—brief, shimmering, and perfectly enough.