Countdown to Christmas Calendar Day 21

Theme: Making Friends and Maintaining Friendships

December 21, 2025 – 4 days to Christmas

Today’s Story: The Last, Late Harvest

André sat in the vineyard office, a generous term for a stone shed with a desk and a filing cabinet that smelled like mildew, staring at the contract from Bordeaux Wines International. Clean, simple, devastating: they’d buy the vineyard, absorb the debt, bulldoze half the vines for “modernisation,” and André would walk away with enough money to start over doing something sensible, like selling insurance or dying of boredom.

The door burst open without knocking. Cécile and Sylvie stood there like an intervention had achieved sentience, Cécile holding a laptop, Sylvie holding a thick wad of newspapers, both wearing expressions that suggested they’d driven two hours from Toulouse specifically to prevent him from doing something stupid.

“No,” Cécile said.

“Absolutely not,” Sylvie agreed.

“I haven’t said anything—”

“You’re NOT selling to BWI.” Sylvie whacked the newspapers on his desk with the force of someone making a life-or-death point. “We heard. Your cousin’s wife’s stepsister told someone at the market last week.”

“I have to sell. The debt—”

“Is fixable,” Cécile interrupted, whipping open her laptop with the determined efficiency of someone who’d been planning this ambush. “If you stop thinking like a depressed winemaker and start thinking like someone who has a product people actually want.”

André laughed—the bitter kind. “People don’t want Pacherenc du Vic-Bilh. They want Sauternes, Jurançon, famous appellations. We’re nobody.”

“You’re not nobody, you’re niche,” Cécile said. “Huge difference. Niche is marketable if you’re not an idiot about it.”

“I’m definitely being an idiot about it.”

“Correct. Which is why we’re here.” Sylvie poured three glasses of the wine she’d brought—André’s own 2022 Pacherenc, the well-balanced sweet white wine that his grandfather had made, that his father had made, that André had been making for twenty years while watching the debt accumulate like sediment.

“This,” Sylvie said, “is exceptional. Honeyed, balanced, complex. I gave it to my editor—the food editor, the one who makes sommeliers cry daily—and she asked where she could buy a case.”

“She can’t. Because we’re broke and I can’t afford marketing—”

“Marketing is free if you know how to go about it,” Cécile said. “Or if you have a friend who’s a marketing consultant and another friend who’s a journalist at Le Monde. Very convenient.”

André looked at them—Cécile, successful and terrifying, wearing a blazer that probably cost more than his tractor; Sylvie, perpetually rumpled, with ink stains on her fingers and connections at every major French publication. His best friends since they were eight years old, running through these same vineyards, before life got complicated.

“What are you proposing?”

Cécile’s smile was predatory. “The New Year’s Eve market at Viella. Les Vendanges de la Saint-Sylvestre. You’re doing a stall.”

“Cécile, that market is massive. I can’t afford—”

“You can’t afford NOT to. It’s your last chance before you sign that contract and turn this place into a corporate vineyard making bulk wine for supermarkets.” She pulled up a document. “Here’s what we’re doing: rebrand, redesign labels, create a story, social media campaign, and use Viella as the launch. One week. We have one week.”

“That’s insane—”

“Yes,” Sylvie agreed cheerfully. “But you’re out of sensible, sane options. Time to try something different.”

Day One: The Rebrand

Cécile attacked his labels like they’d personally offended her. “These look like they were designed in 1987 by someone who hated joy. Who made these?”

“My father. In 1987.”

“Well, he had terrible taste. New design: modern, clean, but with vintage elements. Hand-drawn vines, family crest—you have a crest?”

“We have a coat of arms that’s technically medieval but probably fake—”

“Perfect. Fake medieval is very marketable. Also, new name.”

“The wine is called Pacherenc du Vic-Bilh. That’s the appellation—”

“That’s the grape. The brand is ‘Domaine Saint-André’—your name, your patron saint, very traditional, very French, very ‘this wine has a soul.'” She was already sketching. “Tagline: ‘Depuis 1843. Fait à la main. Fait avec amour.‘ Since 1843. Handmade. Made with love.”

Day Three: The Story

Sylvie interviewed André like he was a diplomat in a crisis, recording everything: the vineyard’s history, the soil composition, the fact that Pacherenc was made from Petit Manseng and Gros Manseng grapes that most people had never heard of, the traditional methods André still used because he couldn’t afford modern equipment.

“This is gold,” Sylvie said, typing furiously. “You’re not just making wine, you’re preserving a dying tradition. Small-production, artisanal, sustainable—every marketing buzzword actually applies.”

“I’m poor and old-fashioned, not sustainable—”

“Same thing, different spin. By the time I’m done, people will think buying your wine is saving French agricultural heritage.”

“Vraiment?“

“Bien sur. But that’s beside the point.”

Day Five: The Social Media Campaign

Cécile had created an Instagram account (@domaine.saintandre), a Facebook page, and, somehow a TikTok account that André didn’t understand but apparently featured him looking “authentically rustic” while explaining harvest techniques.

“You have two thousand followers,” Cécile announced.

“I don’t even have Instagram—”

“You do now. I’m running it. Don’t look at the comments, they’re mostly people asking if you’re single.”

“I’m fifty-four—”

“And apparently very marketable to women who like beards and bonjour, tristesse. Focus on the wine.”

She’d posted photos: the vineyard at sunset, bottles with the new labels, a video of André explaining why Pacherenc was different from Sauternes (“smaller production, different terroir, more complex, less famous, basically the wine equivalent of an indie film”).

It was working. Orders were coming in. Not many—maybe fifty bottles—but more than he’d sold all year.

December 31st. Les Vendanges de la Saint-Sylvestre.

Viella’s New Year’s Eve market was chaos—hundreds of people, dozens of stalls, the smell of roasting chestnuts and mulled wine, everyone celebrating the last night of the year with the manic energy of people determined to enjoy themselves.

André’s stall was modest: a table, his new labels, sixty bottles of Pacherenc, a sign that said “Domaine Saint-André—Since 1843” and made it sound like a deliberate choice rather than generational pigheadedness.

Cécile had dressed the stall with vintage crates and grapevine cuttings. Sylvie had gotten Le Monde to mention it in their “Hidden Gems of Gascony” holiday piece. Between them, they’d created something that looked intentional, professional, like a vineyard that knew what it was doing.

“I still think this won’t work,” André said.

“Then you’ll have tried,” Sylvie replied. “Better than signing that contract and spending the rest of your life wondering.”

People came. Slowly at first, then steadily. They tasted the Pacherenc—honeyed, floral, tasting like late summer and something ineffably local. Some bought one bottle. Some bought six. A couple from Paris bought a case and asked about wine club subscriptions.

“Do you have a wine club?” they asked.

“He does now,” Cécile said before André could speak. “Details on the website.”

“I don’t have a website—”

“You do. I made it last night. It’s live.”

By 7 PM, they’d sold forty bottles. By 9 PM, fifty-five. André was starting to think they might actually sell out when a man in an expensive coat appeared, tasted the wine, and stood very still.

“This is exceptional,” he said finally.

“Thank you—”

“I’m Laurent Mercier. I own three restaurants in Toulouse, one in Bordeaux. I’ve been looking for a Pacherenc supplier—something authentic, limited production, with a story.” He looked at André directly. “I’ll take your entire 2023 production. Also, I’d like to discuss a partnership. Not buying you out—partnership. I provide capital, you provide wine and expertise. We expand production moderately, maintain quality, build distribution.”

André stared. Cécile kicked him under the table.

“That’s… I’d need to think about it—”

“Think fast. I have other options.” Mercier handed him a card. “Call me tomorrow. After midnight. After you’ve celebrated not selling your soul to a corporation.”

He left.

André looked at Cécile and Sylvie. They were grinning like idiots.

“Did that just happen?” he asked.

“That just happened,” Sylvie confirmed.

“Because of you. Both of you. The marketing, the article, the—” His voice cracked. “I was going to give up. Sell everything. Admit defeat.”

“We know,” Cécile said gently. “That’s why we came. Friends don’t let friends destroy family legacies because of temporary debt and depression.”

By 11:30 PM, they’d sold all sixty bottles. André stood at his empty stall watching fireworks starting to go off over Viella, and thought about his grandfather, his father, the generations of Saint-Andrés who’d made wine on this land.

“Thank you,” he said. “For believing when I couldn’t.”

“De rien,” Sylvie said. “That’s what friends do. Also, you’re buying dinner tomorrow. Expensive dinner. With your new partnership money.”

“I haven’t agreed yet—”

“You’re going to. Because you’re not an idiot, despite recent evidence to the contrary.”

The fireworks exploded overhead—gold and silver against a black sky. The year ending, a new one beginning. André’s phone buzzed. Orders. Six new orders through the website Cécile had made, people who’d heard about the wine through Sylvie’s article, through Instagram, through word-of-mouth that spread when something was actually good.

“Bonne année,” Cécile said, raising her glass.

“Happy New Year,” André repeated. “To friendship. To insane last-minute marketing. To not selling to corporations.”

“To legacy,” Sylvie added. “And to the fact that sometimes the best business plan is just having friends who refuse to let you quit.”

They clinked glasses—Pacherenc, honeyed and perfect—while Viella celebrated and André realised that his friends had given him back his future, one bottle at a time, with nothing but belief and extremely aggressive marketing.

Sometimes salvation looks like two women showing up unannounced and telling you your labels are ugly, and your resignation is premature, and your wine is too good to let a corporation destroy it.

Sometimes that’s exactly what you need to hear.

The Making Friends and Maintaining Friendships Masterplan

Traditions carry a very specific kind of magic—the sort that can anchor you when life feels like it’s spinning faster than a Christmas carousel after too much vin chaud. They tug us back into moments of joy and connection, and when shared with friends, they somehow amplify into something bigger, warmer, and occasionally slightly chaotic. Whether you’re decorating a tree, baking cookies that may or may not look like abstract art, or watching that holiday movie you’ve seen so many times you can recite it backwards… traditions are the glue that keeps relationships from unravelling during life’s plot twists.

And when you’re going through a life transition—the kind that makes you want to hibernate until spring—traditions can quietly slip in and remind you you’re not alone. Revisiting old ones (even the weird ones your family insists are “normal”) or inventing new ones can bring comfort, joy, and a much-needed sense of stability. It’s also the perfect excuse to pull friends into your world. Shared traditions become shared memories, and shared memories? Those are the threads that stitch friendships together long after the tinsel is packed away.

And if you don’t have the energy for anything grand, don’t worry. Sometimes the simplest gestures—a handwritten note, a shared favourite recipe, or even a virtual toast with mismatched mugs—become the most cherished traditions of all. It’s never about perfection; it’s about presence, connection, and showing up for each other in small, meaningful ways.

When a financial crisis makes you want to give up and sell out, call the friends who understand both your industry and your value—and actually listen when they tell you there’s another way. Accept help that looks like aggressive rebranding, uncomfortable social media, and friends who refuse to let you make decisions from despair. Worst case scenario: You spend a week trying their plan, sell some wine, and still have to consider other options. But at least you tried. Best case scenario: Your marketing consultant friend and journalist friend show up like a two-person intervention, rebrand your entire operation in a week, create a social media presence you don’t understand but that works, get you featured in national publications, force you to do a market stall on New Year’s Eve, and accidentally attract a restaurant owner who offers partnership instead of buyout. You discover that your product was never the problem—your presentation was, and that sometimes the difference between failure and success is just having friends with skills you don’t have who care enough to use them. You learn that legacy isn’t something you preserve through martyrdom and slow decline—it’s something you save through adaptation, modern thinking, and the willingness to let people who love you tell you your labels are ugly and your resignation is premature, because sometimes the best business advice comes from friends who knew you when you were eight and refuse to watch you quit now.

If you could start a brand-new tradition this year, what would it be—and who would you invite into it?

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