When people start drinking wine, it’s as if ennui lifts, just slightly, like the cork on a bottle of prosecco. As glasses are poured, stories that get at the heart of humanity begin to bubble up: stories of love, loss, the things we regret, and the things we’re still chasing.
That’s what happened on Wednesday night at Mountain View Studio in Woodstock, when six strangers—a retired couple from Long Island, a former supervisor in the electronics industry and recent widow living in Shokan, a middle-aged couple from New Jersey, and a master brewer from Hurley—came together to forget about life for a while and tune into the tones, tannins, and tipples of wine tasting.
The evening began with a light frizzante, similar to a prosecco, and small talk. Bob DeStefano, 75, and his wife Sande, 72, recounted time spent in Italy and shared, quietly, that they’d become born-again Christians. “I’m almost embarrassed to say that,” Bob said, “but I believe in the teachings in a peaceful way.”
Then came the first pour: a dry Riesling from Germany. And then the question that would guide the rest of the night: How does this make you feel?
Not just taste, but feel. That’s the invitation of Sacred Pour, a newly launched wine workshop series created by married couple Jessica DeStefano, 50, and Nick Jurman, 53, both certified wine educators. Their goal is to democratize wine—not by dumbing it down, but by slowing it down. By inviting people to bring attention and intention to each sip.
Jessica and Nick live in Shokan. They aren’t obsessed with vintages or labels. None of the wines poured that night cost more than $32. They were chosen for their soul, not their status. In a time when Americans are drinking less, Sacred Pour offers an antidote: a reason not to abstain, but to awaken.
Their philosophy is rooted in their time at the Strother School of Radical Attention, a nonprofit devoted to attention activism—a movement to push back against the fracking of human focus by digital noise. “Wine is a sensory doorway,” Jessica said. “Not just to pleasure, but to memory, to meaning.” Nick, bearded and soft-spoken, added: “It’s not just about taste. It’s sound, sight, smell, feel. When wine changes in the glass, it’s like music, you have to listen.”
There were no sommeliers or critics that night. No one lecturing or reciting tasting notes as definitive scripture. Just real people, some married, some widowed, all holding glasses, a chart of wine descriptors, and an eagerness to slow down.
Lenny Parra, 49, a middle school science teacher from Oakland, New Jersey, came with his wife Hillary, a 50-year-old speech pathologist. “I’m going to see wine in a different way now,” Hillary said, swirling a glass of Chianti. “I’m going to appreciate it in a way I never did.” Lenny nodded: “I want to slow down. Really focus on it. Not just drink it.”
MaryAnn Shultis, 74, from Shokan, lost her husband a few years ago. When Jessica asked how to tell if a wine is high in alcohol, MaryAnn grinned: “Give me 20 minutes.”
Matt Levy, 35, head brewer at Threes Brewing in Brooklyn, had driven in from Hurley. “The wines were really well curated,” he said. “And the way the evening was paced, how it matched drinking with slowing down—it was thoughtful. If I’m not paying attention, it feels like a disservice to the glass.”
The class touched on the basics. Acidity is what makes you salivate; Riesling is a white wine that ages well, but soon gave way to more playful exercises: drawing what you felt, smelling blindfolded, pairing music with feel and taste. There was a toast near the end, of course—“Chin chin!”—but only after we learned that, in some traditions, toasting with the wrong arm is bad luck. Before the night ended, charcuterie from La Salumina in Hurleyville was shared, and contacts exchanged. The group felt as if they had traveled somewhere, to an anti-judgemental space to enjoy wine without feeling pressure.
Then the lights came up. MaryAnn lingered near the back. Matt shared a story about drinking wine alone after work, listening to jazz. Sande smiled quietly, as Bob got emotional about the passage of time. And then came the reveal: Jessica, the evening’s thoughtful guide, was their daughter. It was a final pour of intimacy, unexpected, tender, and perfectly decanted.
(Sacred Pour classes, with tastings and charcuterie, $75–$90.)
Noah Eckstein is the editor-in-chief of The Overlook. Send correspondence to noah@theoverlooknews.com.
