48 Hours In Utah Where (Surprisingly) The Drinking Never Stops


“Is it weird that I only want to buy Jeff’s wine for the rest of my life,” I say to my friend, Julie.

She’s on the floor of an art studio, leaning back on an elbow. One hand holds a glass of wine, the other strokes the studio owner’s dog.

“No,” Julie says with complete seriousness. “He’s wonderful and we love him and his wine.”

I stick a metal rod — with a precariously attached ball of molten glass on its end — into a kiln so hot I’m concerned the fire will burn my eyeballs if I don’t squint.

“Do I look like Beyoncé?” I ask, my hair billowing around me, thanks to the industrial-sized fans that keep the room a reasonable temperature. Julie pulls up her phone, squinting at me through the screen.

“Yes,” she says.

“Of course I do,” I think, fairly buzzed, while handling extremely dangerous equipment, “Beyoncé and I could be sisters.”


I can say with a fair amount of confidence that I’ve never been particularly loyal to one brand of wine. I’m the kind of person who is loyal to whatever is on sale and not in a box (fine, I’ll do a box too, if that’s all you’re offering). But here I am, in Utah, very tipsy with my best friend, declaring my allegiance to a wine brand, Cooper and Thief, like some sort of Game of Thrones family pledging their lives to the Starks shortly before being beheaded at a wedding.