I shouldn't have rushed it.

This wasn't how I pictured my first time.

I should have waited until polar vortices weren't still looming.

Or until I could spring for a younger model.

Or until I had time to prepare something more special than a roasted sweet potato with steamed broccoli.

I just couldn't help myself.

As soon as the buds break on the Bradford Pears, the world totally blushes and I become powerless to do anything but drink as many sunlit glasses of rosé as time and social norms allow.

The most quintessential comes from its birthplace, Provence, where the scorch of sunshine is softened by lavender-laced Mediterranean breezes and rosé makes up 80% of its production.

The best are a barely-there, onion skin color with the heady aroma of freshly dug soil and the buoying tartness of a white peach. They beg to be gulped, seaside, with ratatouille or a garlicky bowl of seafood stew.

Can I have a do-over?