Mosiman Merlot (Courtesy of Sydney's Big Toe)

 I wait MONTHS for the premiere of the latest season of Survivor. I awoke on Wednesday filled with enthusiasm and excitement as I looked forward to my favorite 8 o'clock show. So WHY, at 7:45 pm, would my family decide to dip their feet into the latest-greatest craze to sweep the nation: Kitchen grape-stomping? Aaarrggghhhh!

First of all...I'm a princess. These lips DO NOT even touch grapes that contain seeds. So WHY do we even grow them? Brad has been doggedly trying to establish a group of grapes for the last five years and had, up until this point, been unsuccessful. Until this year. 

"What are we going to do with all these grapes," I wondered, not really caring, as we (Brad) admired his over-flowing bucket. He turned to Sydney. "You could take some to work," he offered. "Can I try stomping some," she asked. Like my husband was going to let someone trample his precious grapes. I glanced at the clock. 7:45 pm.

Before I knew it, Brad was listing the number of necessary items for a successful grape stomping. "You'll want a pan with a flat bottom," he told Sydney. So enraptured was he with this activity that he didn't roll his eyes, sigh, or even mutter "What a doofus," when she returned with a frying pan. I knew then that I was in big trouble. Sydney scampered off to super-scrub her tootsies.

By 7:50, she was ankle-deep in squishy pulp. "We'll need a pitcher," Brad said. To me. What?!? Do they actually believe that we're going to drink...that? 

The Hulk-colored liquid was carefully poured into the pitcher as Sydney diligently kept stomping away, squeezing every precious drop from the disgusting pulpy mass beneath her feet. 8 o'clock. I could hear the Pavlovian sound of the theme music wafting in from the living room. Unfortunately, I was too involved in my own sick little social experiment to watch the opening. I watched in horror as Brad and Sydney experimentally tasted their toe juice. "It's not bad," they reported, holding out the pitcher. Apparently we're moonshiners now, drinking directly from the jar. If this was what it was going to take to get me in front of my television, then this was what I was going to do. Survivor contestants have eaten grubs and one-hundred-year-old pickled duck eggs. I could drink a beverage siphoned from between my daughter's toes. My mouth flooded with...flavor. "It's good," I gasped, trying not to retch. This was purely a mental game now.

After encouraging me to go in and watch my show, Brad and Sydney began cleaning up, carefully placing the pitcher in the refrigerator.  Yes. We wouldn't want it to go bad, would we? I could hear excited talk of expanding our "arbors." I stared, defeated, at the screen. But then suddenly, I remembered that, in season one of Survivor, the only access contestants had to water was a dirty elephant puddle. Shame on me. There are always others who have it much worse than me. Okay...maybe not MUCH worse but still...worse. I really need to work on being more grateful. "Bring me a glass of toe juice," I yelled, "I want to make a toast!" "Jelly!" Sydney exclaimed, "We can make grape jelly!" Oh no.