My Round: For the sinful, there's only one thing to do with non-alcoholic grape juice. Mix it with hard liquor, of course

Kids. I just don't know what's wrong with them. When I was a wee lad, growing up in the sweltering summers of suburban New York, few drinks pleased me more easily than an ice-cold glass of Welch's grape juice. This stuff, to me, embodies summer. But when it was launched in the UK not long ago and I fed some to my children, they turned their noses up. Where did I go wrong?

Welch's has an interesting story. The juice is the brainchild of one Thomas Bramwell Welch, who was born in Glastonbury in 1825 and emigrated to the US with his family when he was six years old. The family settled in New Jersey, which was then (as it still is in parts) a bucolic and very beautiful state. Welch became a doctor and dentist, and was deeply religious. When a member of his church, in the town of Vineland, got drunk on the communion wine, Welch took action to prevent a repeat performance. He and his wife and son harvested some grapes from the trellis in front of their house, cooked them briefly, then filtered the juice through cloth bags. From there it went to bottles, which Welch closed and boiled to kill any wild yeasts. No yeast, no fermentation.

That was in 1869. Welch sold his de-Satanised juice to local churches. By 1893 it had acquired a national following, when tasters were offered it at the Chicago World Fair. Today the company, with its HQ in Concord, Massachusetts (home of the eponymous table grape), is the processing and marketing arm of the National Grape Cooperative Association.

What I love about this story, apart from the image of the nameless parishioner getting hammered on the communion wine, is that Welch's juice-making so closely resembles modern red-wine-making techniques. The heating reproduces the maceration period used to extract colour and tannins from the skins, and his control of fermentation shows a clear grasp of the way that grape juice turns into wine. If only he hadn't been a teetotaller, poor misguided fellow, he might have made good wine. Nowadays the process is industrialised, but the essence remains: well-extracted grape juice with controlled (ie stopped) fermentation. The main difference is two extra bouts of pasteurisation, before and after bottling. Yet the flavour of the grape persists, as does the gentle grip of the tannins. Perhaps the tannins explain why my children don't like it.

Welch's does more than make purple nectar. It also uses its fruit to make jams and preserves, and anyone who assembles a peanut butter and jam sandwich using anything other than Welch's Grape Jelly risks imprisonment under the new Patriotism and Wholesome Living Act. It has also brought out juicy variants including Purple Grape and Blackcurrant, and White Grape and Pear. These too can be bought in the UK, priced at around £1.19 a litre.

I'm happy to stick to the original. And I'm determined to feed it to the undiscerning teenaged louts who hang around the family manse. Last time I tried, I decided to soften the tannic blow by mixing it with an equal part of orange juice. Reaction: mixed.

I thought it was delicious. I even did a little experimentation, which would have had Welch turning in his grave, combining the purple fluid with various distilled spirits. They went down a treat. Figure on four parts juice-mix to one of vodka or tequila or white rum, with plenty of ice and an orange or lemon slice to garnish. Sip slowly under the sunshine while raising your glass to Dr Welch, protector of the nation's virtue. Winemaker manqué. And childhood's devoted friend, whatever my misguided offspring may think. *