Y’all know that Loba likes a little bit of wine, right? Je voudrais un verre du vin rouge. Know what I’m saying? So I was definitely intrigued when I found Kathryn Borel’s memoir Corked and saw that it was about a special trip that she planned with her French father to visit wineries throughout the south of France and try to absorb from him some of the wine wisdom he possessed thanks to his career as a hotel manager. They were going to visit all the premiere wine-making regions, such as Alsace, Burgundy, Languedoc…places that, even without her father there to guide her, would have been extraordinary to visit, to describe, to share with readers.

That would have been a great book to read.

This book was, hands down, one of the biggest wastes of time I’ve encountered in a very long time. I honestly wish that I hadn’t finished it, but I’m still deep down disgustingly optimistic, especially when it comes to books. I kept hoping that the book would stop being all about Borel airing dirty laundry, whether it be hers or her father’s. I wanted to read about his knowledge of wine. I wanted to read about wineries and beautiful settings and tastings and learning. I did not want to know about Borel’s life or her problems or her obsessions or anything about her at all, really. I wanted to learn about wine. All I learned was that some people should never be allowed to write. Borel is one of those people.

Final Verdict: The term “corked” actually means that the wine has gone bad because of a cork failure, thus making the wine undrinkable. Once a wine is corked, all you can do is dump it. This memoir is most definitely corked.