It just tasted like funky grape juice. It had a sharp little bite, for a bite-sized person.
This was way before I knew what fermentation was, and a lifetime before my body trembled for a tall Tito’s with a splash of soda.
There was no “nectar-from-the-gods,” physiological eureka moment — as I’ve heard others in recovery say.
But I knew just enough to be dangerous: I knew it could transform me into someone else.