The Punchdown Herald

This Week's Headlines:

Vintage Hurricane: Working in the Eye

All was calm on the Ranch this past weekend as heavy rainfall (1-2") on Thursday and Friday pushed back further harvest until Monday morning. The rain came in buckets just as harvest was beginning to pick up. Due to a cool growing season and long blossoming period much of the estate fruit has ripened at a staggeringly slow pace. The result of the sub-normal temps in the valley is that many of the vineyard sites have matured at the same rate no matter their given elevation. Both the Pinot clones on the valley floor and the stunning flat patches mid-ridge are ready to be plucked from the vines and thrown into open tops for gentle vinification. The Gewurztraminer, Chardonnay, Riesling and Muscat the same. Unfortunately while we were busy fanning the fire of vintage, crushing bin after bin of pinot, filling tanks for cold soaks and filling the lower warehouse with macro bins the heavy clouds bellowed and rained on our parade.

Winemakers and owners alike tend to cower and become abashedly upset at the thought of cloudbursts during the harvest as sugar and pH levels in grapes fall creating "diluted flavors" and excessive precipitation can lead to unwanted botrytis and mildew on the fruit and vines. On top of that, most pickers prefer not to harvest in the rain and wet conditions can become particularly tricky when attempting to haul half ton bins up steep slopes on a John Deere. Rain is of course nothing new to Northern California, but rather the contrary: an expected obstacle. With weather patterns looking refreshingly sunny and clear in the upcoming week the vineyard workers were given a much needed weekend to rest; relax their abused bones, soft drink strained muscles and weary psyches.

The showers arrived just as we were turning the first quarter leg of harvest. Roughly 200 tons of fruit have been processed on the crush pad and we have an estimated 600 to go. In all honestly the cellar was quiet this weekend; no forklifts were zooming to the crusher with a plume of spent propane in their wake, no country cowboys with shitkickers and flatbeds pulling up to unload bulbous Zinfandel from Ukiah, and little to no commotion on the center stage crush pad. No crush, no press and no lees filter. We were sitting in the eye of the storm but steadily getting things in order for the real test: the deluge of fruit that is about to bombard the cellar and fill all usable space to the brim with must, juice, ferments and finishing wine.


Anderson Valley: 1 Million Punchdowns Served and Counting

The great grape pick might have come to a halting standstill but you better bet your ass that this busy beaver was not slowing down, nope not even a little bit. Saturday morning Jessie and myself had our work cut out for us given the duty of punching down twelve 5 ton open tops and nearly 25 macro bins (half ton) of a mixture of cold soaked and fermenting reds. For those unaware of what a punchdown, or "punching the cap," means it is a technique used to keep all the grape skins in contact with the juice during fermentation. So while millions of yeast cells are busy eating sugars and turning them into alcohol (ethanol), they also create Carbon Dioxide (CO2) which forces grape skins to the surface where they begin to dry out and form a solid cap on top of the fermenting juice. By punching the cap twice a day and mixing the skins with the juice the winemaker can successfully extract color and attempt to flavor and maintain a uniform heat in the ferment.

At 8 a.m. we began mechanical removing open top lids and gracefully placing the ginormous stainless disks on the ground as we hoisted planks to the stand on to punch down. The Zin was fermenting vigorously as CO2 anxiously escaped, displaying heat lines and shooting to the ozone ceiling as each top was lifted. Punching the cap of an open top is in some respects an art form that is somehow strangely reminiscent of ice fishing. First, one must break through the cap with a circular hole and dredge up some warm juice to soak the outer layers of the cap. The spurting beet red juice often reminds me of the icy slurry that is dredged out of the water with the auger. However instead of throwing in a squirming skewered bait to the cold depths of a bay, the puncher continues to enlarge the hole by chipping away at the cap half-moon by half-moon. Ten minutes later your out of shape ass in gasping for breath and "WALLAH" you have a juice covered cap with bobbing berries. The excitement soon wears off and futility fills your thoughts as the ferment is once again back at it, doing its best handy work to push the skins back to the top.

By ten am we're down in the lower Oval Room, often utilized for barrel tasting but pragmatically used as a fermenting room for macro bins throughout harvest. By Sunday morning there were 55 bins in the Oval Room, their berries' egos inflated and ready to be you guessed it punched down. If an intern had to say he got his chops doing something in the winery it should probably be here. Shoulder deep in fermenting pinot, the wafting smells of cooked berry infiltrating the olfactory while CO2 burns your nose hairs and fermenting juice splashes your face. I really can't get enough of this shit. There is something incredibly beautiful, archaic and romantic about punching these caps with your own to hands. You, the non-violent puncher are helping to sculpt a fragile and delicate wine that will inevitably showcase ripe, rich fruit and velvety tannins. While Navarro uses this technique for a number of reasons (more quality control, less manipulation) other larger wineries wouldn't even consider using such a technique, blowing it off as a complete waste of time, capital and peoplepower. A Luddite by nature I scoff at the corporates whose main goal rarely surpasses cranking out large lots of bum jug wine (Yeah, sure I admit it was cool to hold the Carlo Rossi bottle upside down with the little thumb hole and chug it when you were barely legal). Instead of manually punching down the large producers have turned to automatic metal punchers, pump-overs and giant butterfly plates that sit at the top of the tank and flip the cap automatically twice daily. Where is the heart and soul in automation?

Of course no punchdown would be possible if it wasn't for the introduction of yeast which brings me to my next topic: Yeast Pride. No dummy, not the yeast found in your Lycra short's shammy after a six day bicycle tour but rather the eukaryotic microorganism of the Fungi family that given the right environment will happily metabolize carbs for our favorite adult beverages. Yeast, which is derived from the Greek word zestos which means boiled, is a reference to bubbling or foaming during fermentation. After re-hydrating dormant yeast cells in a food grade bucket at 104 degrees Fahrenheit these single cell suckers take off in about ten minutes. As millions of yeasties (officially saccharomyces cervesiae) come back to life they are nourished with a splash of fresh cold soaked juice. In the past few days as we have watched the yeast eat, grow and bubble asexually in buckets a trend of showing off your personally manipulated yeast porn has rocked the cellar. I blame Jonas for this phenomenon but since he is not here to defend himself there is no way to identify the true culprit.

As has been the case, a wildly bubbling pre-pitch bucket will be shown off with glee. "Oh my God, look at these beautiful babes," Jonas boyishly brags, "they are gonna ferment the fucking house down Nicky!" We pitch, either equally dividing the yeast between bins or carefully dumping the yeast into a center pocket of the open tops. Then it's a waiting game. The next day, by the second punchdown the lids are liberated for all the world to see: who fucked up and who is birthed a super duper yeast starter. Upon post pitch inspection the center of the open tops often look like a raised, desiccated blemish after being brushed with a hundred Noxzema pimple pads. Not too attractive, eh?, but yet a great sign that our yeast has taken a foothold and built up it's strength to spread like wildfire. Shit, why didn't I become a microbiologist?


A Mushroom Hunting We Will Go!

Now we change our programing to a different relative in the Fungi kingdom, the mushroom. I love mushrooms. Hands down they are delicious. Sauteed, raw with Mescaline mix, deep fired, in sauces and consumed primarily in the states as a pizza topping (Eighty percent). Delicious as they may be Americans (gringos in this case) share an unnatural aversion, or fungophopia, to these capped organisms. Personally speaking, one of the most rewarding parts of working within the wine industry has been meeting a cast of characters who have changed my dietary habits and vision of the culinary world. Jonas, my German flatmate, is the newest to be added to the list. Growing up in the Black Forest it was rather commonplace for Jonas and his mother to take a romp in the woods and forage fungi for part of their weekly feast. In season of course. While walking home from a local food joint in Boonville a week ago my new compadre told me that part of his preparation for coming to the Anderson Valley was a course that he took at U.C. Davis on mushrooms. Surprised as I was it made total sense, the man loves mushrooms and come the rainy season in Anderson Valley these hills teaming with spores will have exploded into, you guessed it faithful readers: a mushroom bonanza.

Walking the gritty streets of Boonville on Sunday, hellbent on a returning to grind up a dark Nicaraguan blend I spotted two patches of mushrooms in a neighbors yard. Thinking quickly and thoughtfully I filched one outside the fence, carefully plucking the stem and cradled it all the way home. Placing it next to the finished black death I told Jonas I had a little surprise for him. Ambling over to the modern appliance half asleep the Germ exploded with enthusiasm at my find completely disregarding what typically is an essential part of the morning, coffee. Running to seize his new bible Mushrooms Demystified (Ten Speed Press) by David Arora, Mr. M began studying the parts of the fungus as he thumbed through the hefty manual. "Oh, shit Tom this is great, but I think it's a Deathcap. We're probably not eating this one."

"A Deathcap," I silently thought. "I picked up a beautiful goddamn Deathcap along the sidewalk." It makes complete sense why Americans have an aversion to mushrooms, no one is connected to their food chain any more (topic of future discussion). The typical God fearing nuclear family, Joe Schmo dudebro or curtly Christy has no training in mushroom identification and frankly doesn't give a damn if they have edible fungus in their backyard. If it doesn't come packaged, processed and with a expiration date no one wants to eat it. And how are we supposed to tell the difference between a poisonous fungus and a Belotus anyway? Practice I tell ya.

family the fungus was pegged for After work we took to the hills searching for King Belotus under a grove of Oak Trees, but we were skunked. Better luck next time. It was the first rain and mushrooms are finicky organisms, exploding from the soil and breaking down within a matter of 24 hours sometimes. When we came back home Jonas was more successful at identifying our mysterious mushroom. Instead of belonging to the poisonous AnimitaLepitoa Naucina, or "Woman on a Motorcycle." Taking a spore sample Jonas placed the cap on a post it note before work and removed it to show that the gills left creamy white spores. Furthermore the trademark of the Lepitoa is its omnipresence in graveyards and front yards at the beginning of the growing season. Not deadly but not recommended to eat either. I am excited for some more mushroom hunting!


Four Year Infatuations

Things that happen every four years seem to get me really worked up. Mostly it's the world cup but the Presidential Election of the United States usually does the trick as well. This time around I think the election is more poignant than ever. Our economy is in the gutter, China owns our debt, we are in an unprovoked war after being lied to by a greedy administration of clowns and no one likes us. Well the last part is nothing new but you get the point. What happened to the good old years with Blowjob Billy. Fuck, the non-sheep know full well that politics in the United States is a fucking farce (big money and payoffs right?) but I don't know if I can handle a couple assbag republicans running Washington for four more years.

What will happen if the GOP takes the big show. McCain looks like he could spit dust and kick it at any moment and what would that mean for us? An incompetent buffoon named Sarah Palin as the prime executor of our infamous government.

Matt Damon poetically described it best by saying "It's really like a bad Disney movie. The hockey mom from Alaska...is the President. She's facing down Vladimir Putin using the folksy stuff she learned at the
hockey rink. It's absurd."

For a trailer of the upcoming brain-exploding-blockbuster check out: http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1831461

The scariest part of about Sarah Palin is the middle class, blue collar, APL drinking, rural demographic that she appeals to. That demographic includes my parents, the people whom I grew up around in bucolic upstate New York. She's not stately but she can speak to the common person. Trudge through the bullshit spewing from her mouth and you will hear "Me beauty queen, you ogling dad. Me strong women, you working mother." "You like ta kill shit. I lovta kill shit." "How big is yer pickup? Big 'enuf to fit a heffer. Mine too!" Lock, stock and two pork barrels. Identify with your constituency, spend some time mass commun-a-catin' and add a smear campaign and you are well on your way to a fighting chance.

Tina Fey does a far better job of painting a better picture of Palin. Check out:
http://www.nbc.com/Saturday_Night_Live/video/clips/vp-debate-open-palin-biden/727421/

I'm out. 'Til next time bizsachos!