Like many people who have been raised by pop culture, I’ve always had ideas about romance that revolve around the “grand gesture.” Whether it’s surprising your partner (or the person you want to be your partner) with a big-money purchase—a diamond or car or house—or risking life and limb to run through airport security to inform them you’ve quit your job so you can be together a thousand miles from home, the grand gesture supposedly shows great sacrifice, and we’re led to believe that love is only as meaningful as the sacrifices we are willing to make for it.

Like anyone who has grown critical of the messages they have received from pop culture, I know that’s all bullshit. Not because I’m a millennial who can’t (and probably will never be able to) afford a diamond or car or house, but because I have lived and grown, loved and lost. I know love can’t be held or nurtured by moving from grand gesture to grand gesture, constantly sacrificing without taking the time to ask what you’re sacrificing toward. Love is a practice.

But what does that practice look like? That’s something I’m still learning. I was in a relationship a few years ago that showed me I didn’t know, and, as a result, I fucked it up in a major way (a topic for another time). I’m in a different relationship now, and I feel loved like I never have before—in ways I didn’t think possible or thought myself unworthy of. Naturally, I want to reciprocate that love, and figuring out how is something that confounds me every day.

Our relationship has largely flourished during the pandemic lockdown, which has meant practically all of our time together has been spent at home, where we talk intimately, watch movies, read alongside each other, share meals and drink lots of wine.

I had a passable knowledge of wine before we started dating—enough to know I liked having a bottle of Montepulciano around and that the most perfect pairing in the world is fried chicken and sauvignon blanc. (The bright crispness of a sauvignon blanc cuts through the fatty richness of the fried chicken, and, since it’s a drier white wine, you aren’t completely coating your mouth from bite to sip in a way that will feel soggy and overwhelming. They are in harmonious balance.) But the world of wine is so vast and varied that it can be intimidating for the uninitiated to jump in. Most of us are going to stick with the most popular styles and probably be content with never knowing if we’ve picked the right vintage.

My partner will say she’s not an expert, but she has definitely explored more than I have. In the days before we felt safe venturing outside of our respective apartments to see each other, she had a box of different wines delivered to me. It was sweet, and not only because I needed all the wine I could get to soothe the paranoia of living through a pandemic that was claiming more and more lives every day (and still, infuriatingly, is). It was a way to share her interest and learn her quirks by tasting and talking about the flavors she was drawn to.

Wine is already a staple of romance. It’s built for it. I don’t mean to suggest other alcoholic drinks aren’t; you should go with whatever moves you. But wine lingers in a way beer doesn’t and moves a bit slower than liquor. It stops time. You sip, you laugh, you pour a bit too much, but a good wine doesn’t rush its seduction. It’s meant for those moments before you gaze into each other’s eyes—before the first passionate kiss and after the third, before you feel the courage to say it but know it’s coming and suddenly blurt out, “I love you.”

I’m still searching for the ways to practice love, fearful that I will come up short. But one thing I’ve learned is that I can pick out a nice wine for us to share. To pair with our roast duck dinner at Christmas, I chose a Barolo from Massolino—their 2014 vintage. (This can be confusing, but know that “vintage” isn’t about the age of the wine; it means all the grapes came from that year, likely because the producer felt it was a particularly good harvest.) I almost chose a Châteauneuf-du-Pape, which has become a favorite of both of ours since it’s a bold but still versatile red with the right amount of tannins without being too dry. But I prepared the duck with rum glaze, which meant it was going to be on the sweet side, and the Barolo has earthier, more mineral notes that I thought would give us a complementary and balanced flavor profile. For New Year’s, we had a big bowl of popcorn and a bottle of Ruinart blanc de blancs (meaning it’s a champagne made from all white grapes). We sat on the couch being thankful that 2020 had at least given us each other, but giving space to our cautious hope that 2021 would give us all back what Covid (and governmental cruelty and indifference) had stolen away.

In those moments, she was happy. I’d like to think she knew she was loved. Not because of the wine itself, but because what I hoped to express with it. Love is practice, and that practice is in listening, learning and sharing. I wanted to show I was thinking about her—what she likes and what brings her pleasure. It’s too reductive to say it’s in the “little things.” These things are not little by any stretch. They’re the foundation. They’re the things we do every day, whether there’s a glass of wine in front of us or not.