When it quits working, seal the jar tightly and store in a dark place.
The Foxfire Book of Appalachian Cookery
Swing low, sweet chariot the gushes of juice, slurping between our fists sunk in hundreds of purple-red grapes,
indiscriminately splatter our arms, faces, counter tops and bare feet— out of time with the choir. I looked over Jordan, and what did I see the overripe are easy yielding their water under a firm thumb and hooked forefinger, a band of angels coming after me but the others, we have to grind between our palms until the translucent glop is squeezed coming for to carry me from its filmy skin, the juice, peel and neglected bits of meat sifting sweetly between our tired fingers. Swing low, sweet chariot when all our grapes are crushed together, we gauge, pour the sugar, wonder how long we can wait coming for to carry me home.