The Wanderlust Wino Harvest Journal

Ferments Away!

2009-11-04T19:03:00.000-08:00

Maintaining a vigorous fermentation in your bedroom can be a bit challenging. Especially without such luxuries as central heating. Much similar to keeping my baby carboy beers cold in the dead of winter in Western New York I have employed several methods to keep the Cabernet Sauvignon kicking along at just a hair under eighty degrees Fahrenheit: electric blanket, aquarium heater and space heater at night. Who needs stainless steel tanks with temperature adjusting jackets right?

Monitoring a red ferment is much like having a pet. Let me rephrase that statement, a pet that never sleeps. Jonny Oakes called me at the ass crack of dawn a few days ago and I could only roll over to see his name and roll over once again for a bit of shut eye grumpily groaning 'It's fucking 5 am for Christ sakes!' Please remember folks that unless you are drunk-and-dialin' time zones are in full effect and this princess needs her beauty sleep.

Two hours later I got the message, "Your wine's awake, why the hell aren't you?" Luckily a healthy ferment can go with little to no supervision. Yeast food, two punch downs a day and a bit of heat and shelter goes a long way. Wake up and punch the cap and do it again when you arrive home from work and repeat. Now that I think of it its much more like a house cat.

The Cabernet is down to 15 degrees brix and the Syrah is floating around 11 setting us up for a weekend of pressing. We are crossing our fingers that we have enough for three barrels and toppings. If we are lucky we will escape with enough wine only by my peach hair covered chin.

***

Today wasn't all about exciting micro-vinification projects. No, no it was back to work as usual. This time setting up straw filled waddles for erosion control at a vineyard outside Geyserville. For each 10 foot drop in altitude we marked a level line outlying the route of the waddles. The process was tedious to say the least. Moving the tripod, recalibrating the laser's level, marking the lines with the help of beeping sensors and repeating the process on down the hillside.

I officially take back my comment today that I chose to pursue a career in the wine industry because every day is interesting. Not today however. Humpday was a tiny glimpse into hell: a laser burning my eye atop a breezy hill and static top forty softly playing while an alarm ring blasted away at my ear drums. I officially hate auto-tune.

Thoughts of my own piece of land bounced around in my head: 'when do I get to do this for myself?'

Taste of Buffalo

2009-10-28T19:23:00.000-07:00

Slow Party Movement

Guests, and traveling kids in particular, can often times be compared to a bothersome case of crabs (yes those crabs): you never know when they are going to show up and how long before you can get rid of them. Luckily, however, visitors from Buffalo are almost always the complete opposite, bringing tidings of cheer, fragrant body odor and a disposition that makes one long for home.

Thursday night Jimbob rang me and I awoke out of a dead sleep. "Yo dude, we finally made it to Santa Rosa. Were at the corner of Sebastopol Rd. and Dutton. Is there a good place to meet you?"

In my groggy state I could only think to ask "Do you like tacos?"

***

Choosing a better place to rendezvous, we met up at the Safeway parking lot not blocks from my house. "We're parked next to an ambulance" was my only indicator of Jim's location. Upon my arrival I saw two ambulances and imediately walked to the lime-green hatchback hiding behind a pair of EMTs, chilling as per usual. 'Where the hell are they?' I wondered swinging back around to see a sleeping bag being unfurled out the back door of the first rescue vehicle. Ahhhh...hippy van. Now things were starting to make more sense.

"Jim, what the fuck is up" I greeted, turning to see another Buffalonian. "Hey, Tim." Then Nugget jumped out the back door. "Nugget, what the hell is up?" Damn, the Buffalonians were multiplying by leaps and bounds. Kids that call the Queen City home almost always travel in groups or in numbers much like geese, antelope and if you it hadn't popped into your head before, lemmings. I don't think there is such a thing as a city with only one Buffalo ex-pat. We migrate in groups.

***

Quite naturally I offered my people a place to stay, a bed to crash on and happily bought a case of beer to warm our spirits and lubricate conversation. I've been gone for a good eight months and honestly, let's not kid ourselves, who couldn't use a dose of the latest gossip.

Jim, crooned me the latest dope, ala the lyrics of a late eighties Bon Jovi song: moved out-living alone, waiting for approval of mortgage loan, moving on for greener pastures above the tree line, holding down the fort at the retired punx home, playing in new blazing two minute song hardcore band, etc, etc.

I was satisfied and proud. Yes, my friends have all grown up. It had to happen some time. The real question is who is still keeping it real in the band? Or maybe we are all still keeping it real, we have all splintered and moved on to our own deals.

***

Josh and prized Fungus

Josh, a good friend of Janet, also arrived in town early this week from Seattle leaving no room at the inn on Augustan. My housemates have taken the increases foot traffic (up 500%) pretty well.

A week of visitors. A week of little to no sleep. A week of birthdays and crappy Himalayan food. A happy week nonetheless. I can't wait to visit Buffalo in December. Hope y'all have your drinking shoes ready!

And HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Scavenger Cellars

2009-10-27T19:03:00.000-07:00

When I see fruit dropped on the ground, ripe fruit, tears well up in my eyes, wavering on the brink of unleashing a tapped fire hydrant and then I realize, it's the business. Wineries chose to drop fruit for a variety of reasons. Most of the times fruit is dropped pre-harvest to lower yields and concentrate flavors but often times bunches are dropped if the fruit isn't up to par or heavily damaged, ie. rot. On Wednesday, however we were dropping bunches with shriveled and unripe berries alike. Reason being is that the winery is seeking quality over quantity and unripe cabernet sauvignon berries might give off unwanted "green" flavors and overripe berries will jack up the alcohol.

Wine grape berries in sunny California often shrivel if exposed to too much sunlight and are not fully shaded by the canopy.

If there is a maxim in the fine wine industry it is balance. Even a wine with high alcohol, say 15 or 16%, can be balanced if it has the fruit and acidity to match. This is California after all where bigger is better is the current trend.

In an attempt to maintain low alcohol levels our client ensured that no shriveled berries would sneak by the fondling fingers on the sorting line. Mouth agape I marched along the rows in the throes of agony thinking about the amount of fruit laying prostrate at its phenological height.

Coming up the vine row with long strides, my boss Dave approached expressing the same sentiments. "Man when I saw you looking at the fruit on the ground I could only think 'Tom must be pissed they are dropping all this fruit'" he ruminated. Right he was. "You should ask Ben if you can pick up some of the fruit," he casually mentioned. The idea of picking up the eighty-sixed cabernet began to twist and turn in my mind like a far fetched Almodovar plot. I couldn't think about abandoning such great fruit to decomposition, no matter how natural the process might be.

After clearing the clean up with the V.P. of operations, the machinery was put in order to pick up the pieces.

Three Nosepickers

Chowing down on four tacos and washing it down with a tall boy of energy beverage my picking crew(all gabachos...what was I thinking?) showed up to Lytton Springs Road and we were on our way north. It was already four o'clock and I knew we were racing against the clock, the sun already beginning its rapid descent below the coastal range.

"Let's go, let's go," I shouted and we paraded up to Cloverdale at warp brushburn speed. The worst part of picking up all the grapes was the fact that they were scattered across the block here and there.

Splitting up we scrambled to gather as many bunches as possible in our picking bins and from five rows over I heard Janet scream "This is just like dumpster diving...except these our grapes." And she is kinda right. Sometimes there is no better price tag than free, but if bumper stickers have taught me anything over the past years it is "Freedom isn't Free". Scratch that Glenn Beck bullshit. What I meant is that even if something is free there is not way to procure it without doing the dirty work.

Do you really think that pizza sitting on top of the dumpster by its lonesome is going to grow legs and walk its deliciousness to your drunk ass's house at 3 am in the morning? I don't think so. You gotta go out and get yours!

De-stemming by Lantern Light

De-stemming. This was a chore I greatly underestimated. I thought 'Hell, a quarter ton. It'll take us two maybe three hours. Max'. I sounded super Californian.

And I was planning on doing it solo before Janet, Lynette and Josh volunteered to give me a hand. Literally. In kind I re payed them with porter and stout. A fair trade I believe.

Four hours latter and I realized the beauty of the machinery. With the help of modern technology we could have finished in a little under ten minutes, but instead we sat on the flat bed shooting the shit for hours in the company of good friends. Maybe it was worth it after all although next time I might wait 24 hours and rent a destemmer from the local homebrew store. Sometimes a good night's sleep is worth more than gettin' er done and a pair of jittery hands in the morning.

A Sticky Situation

The following day I phoned my business partner and spoke of the good news. "I picked up a quarter ton of Cab last night. Thinkin' it might be a good idea to blend with the extra half barrel of Syrah..." I announced to a what seemed a dead line.

"You picked up Cab? What the fuck is going on with you? First Chardonnay and now Cabernet? Maybe you should go get a job in fucking Napa Valley!" Shaunt taunted, half kidding.

And it was true. First, I picked Chardonnay, a grape I swore off for lacking uniqueness and submitting peacefully to oak's evil tricks. Now I was gonna to ferment Cabernet Sauvignon, a grape I abandoned in my early twenties for the allure of the more seductive Pinot Noir and sturdy Rhone Syrahs.

But the fruit! The fruit of this cabernet was too good to give up. Bright blue fruit and dark blueberries, ripe and round, soft, velvety tannins. I am stoked about this wine! Currently it sits in a cold soak outside my room, with three submerged frozen gallons of water taking in the crisp Santa Rosa air and starry sky. At 27.5 degrees brix this baby is gonna be a big wine. Tomorrow or the next and my baby will be inoculated and on its infant march toward winedom.

Being back in ferment mode never felt so good!

Debutantes' March

2009-10-23T18:31:00.000-07:00

Old Gregg aesthetic/Old World spirit

Waking up in Boonville is never easy. Maybe it's the Mendo bush weed smoke wafting about the valley, hanging heavy like city smog, slowing the reflexes and desire to pull oneself up, out of bed. Or perhaps it's the drafty, makeship cabins that double as housing units that fail to disguise the cool morning temps. The most likely reason, however, is that I am a lazy pile of shit. That and knew damn well our fruit was not going to arrive at the winery until at least noon.

Ahhhh, Anderson Valley! Preparing a quick breakfast, I could taste the steely pioneer spirit in a couple slices home-baked caste iron bread and a cup of gritty burnt joe. Off to the winery to throw on a pair of gum boots and sort some fruit...

***

Los Pinche Debutantes

What fruit you might ask? A ton of Syrah coming from a reputable vineyard in Laytonville, CA. Northern Mendocino county for those unfamiliar with Californian geography. Our goal was to create a food friendly, acid driven wine with the ability to age for the next 5 to 10 years.

Let's backtrack shall we. Sometime during last year's vintage, perhaps over dinner, I overheard Shaunt (my collegue in this endeavor) casually mention that he was planning trying his hand at making a barrel or two of wine in the upcoming fall. Keeping quiet and not quite sure of where I might be in a year, I tucked the omission away in the back of my head.

After frolicking for months with Kiwis down under, Shaunt returned to los Unite and I contacted him through via a high traffic social nettworking site. My message was sweet and simple: you want to make wine, I want to make wine, let's make wine together. Thus, our plan for a fermented baby was born.

***

Picking a varietal was our first chore. Pinot Noir would have been my preffered choice, but astronomical prices and a desire to focus on less worshiped grape varieties led us to pursue other varietals. My collegue had other designs. Shaunt mentioned he was impressed by a number of Syrah based blends on Waiheke Island. "Not a bad idea," I offered. "Let's see what we can find." Hell, I loved Cotes du Rhone Village blends. Pepper, dark brooding fruit and well structured bodies at affordable prices made the Rhone one of my favorite wine regions.

A summer passed by and I didn't hear from Shaunt, who apparently spent a summer eating frozen lentils and taking pre-requisite classes at a community college in the Bay Area. Meanwhile, I was caught up moving tractors and turning irrigation valves that I didn't have a moment to check into the possiblity of purchasing grapes. If anything I became more apathetic than proactive, leaving our project up in the air.

Finally, in August Shaunt emailed me and expressed renewed interest. We began the search for our Syrah in various Sonoma and Mendocino County appelations: Dry Creek, Bennet Valley, Petaluma Gap, Spring Mountain and finally Northern Mendocino. Due to the shape of the economy and a decrease in luxory wine sales, many wineries have dropped existing fruit contracts, freeing up highly sought after grapes that would be unavailable in any normal vintage. Two months, multiple incidents of presidential flip-flopping, and a bottle of wine later we settled on our Syrah. We made an offer to a highly prized vineyard at half the going rate, they accepted and of course we couldn't refuse. It seemed to good to be true.

***

No berry left behind

Then the rains came, oh did the heavens piss down! Five inches of rain fell on October 13 and it continued to fall on and off for the next week. With the rains often come the increased chance that rot will form on the bunches. Syrah, however, being a thick skinned grape, is typically rot resistant.

***

D-day arrived and our grapes paraded into the cellar on Friday afternoon. A quick glance into the picking bins saw no signs of rot and what seemed an increased incidence of creepy crawlers. For the real test we popped a few berries into the mouth...then a few more. Just as I had suspected; the rains had done their dastardly deed of dilluting the grape flavors. Instead of bright blue fruit I had tasted in the 470 clone at Los Leones, our grapes boasted only subtle nuances of red fruit. Sabotage? Well maybe, but no vintage would be unique without the finicky hand of Mother Nature.

If anything, I think the fruit will be a great learning experience. Our original plan to make a formidible wine fit for long-term ageing quickly needed to be re-drawn. Low sugar levels, less flavor and watered down acid levels have assured that an imperfect vintage. Shaunt made a good point that instead of trying to craft the wine we want to make we have to work with the fruit we recieve. That means, including little to no whole clusters and a shortened maceration period; essentially less tannin extraction. In the end we will be shooting to create a wine that drinks earlier and has less structure rather than a big behemoth that will take years to open up.

To break it down in more simple terms, if you are reading this you can expect to be drinking our wine sooner rather than later.

We're excited. Maybe not piss your pants excited. But excited nonetheless. Stay tuned...

Moondance Stomp

Simple Things

2009-10-20T21:34:00.000-07:00

Fall has arrived and I'm elated. Not the busiest day overall, but a few things along the way made it worthwhile nonetheless.

Fall colors have begun to show their face in Russian River; pinot noir and chardonnay canopies are finally giving into senescence, providing a striking contrast to the greening grass and bright blue Californian sky. Simple things like leaves blowing across the road and crunching under the tires make me wish I could live the season forever.

The search for nematodes continued today. Apparently they love saturated soil and recent rains have made conditions perfect for colony counts. Just getting the chance to dig and wedge some soil under my nails brought a smile to my face.

Not just any apple, but a scavenged apple. Hanging lonely out on a limb I jumped up (three times) and pulled this painted lady down. Occidental seems to provide excellent growing conditions as the apple was not too sweet nor too acidic, right in the middle with a crisp crunch. And the color, the color! Incredible convertible red, brushed with magma orange. A fruit canvas Rothko might endorse and a perfect mid-morning snack.

Of course I could only think about upstate New York, Orleans County and my roots. Where I have come from and just where on earth I'm going.

That is yet to be decided.

Sopping Wet

2009-10-19T22:07:00.000-07:00

Absolute drudgery. Picking in the rain is never fun. The ground collects under your boots as you trudge your way along the vine row, craned over picking as the rain pecks away at the nape of your neck.

This was a small snapshot of the scene atop Chalk Hill today as we picked at one of our estate vineyards. The elements caused a number of problems prolonging a simple pick into a six hour affair. First, a trailer's rear wheel lost all air as it rolled stubbornly on its rim. Due to soft ground tractors couldn't pass down the vine rows which forced they guys to carry out the fruit from each row. Then the estate liaison arrived to yell at a crew leader for dropping too much fruit the day before further exacerbating an already ugly situation.

To put the icing on the cake, our last block was a serious of terraces in which we formed a human chain to slide the picking bins down the side of the hill. The situation reminded me of other locations such as the Mosel or Gigondas where a pulley system is set up to hall fruit up the hill. No mechanical advantage today however, so la cadena humana pushed on.

At the end, we were soaked, freezing and blood sugar levels were at daily lows. Even the 200 plus Cabernet Sauvignon berries I ate couldn't stop me from a case of the shakes.

I've been begging for rain and I finally got my wish. It is that time of year to see Northern California's other face: saturated, baggy clouds and no shortage of tears.

Projects! Projects! Projects!

2009-10-18T15:51:00.000-07:00

Overlooking Sonoma Valley

Roughly three weeks ago my boss Dave rang mid-afternoon. I picked up and Dave announced "Tom, I'd like to talk to you about something. Do you have a bit of time?"

'Shit', I thought, 'What did I fuck up now?'

Actually, Dave called to ask if I would be interested in making wine for a potential client that would like to see what they could do with a 70 year old vineyard they had inherited when they purchased their property on Sonoma Mountain. Would I like to make a few barrels of wine and keep a few cases for myself? Hell yeah! As if it was a question at all.

The real question was whether or not we had a place to process the fruit. After consulting my colleague Shaunt and making sure we had an acceptable place to make the wine, I called the owners of the vineyard back and told them we were interested.

Napa Gamay (Valdigue) or Gamay Noir?

This morning, I returned to the vineyard for the second time and meet with the owners, praying a little pray that rot had not hit the hanging clusters. On the up side the fruit appeared healthy and undaunted by the heavy rains. Flipping the coin over, two samples showed the fruit lagging behind at about 18 degrees brix, some 6 degrees lower than our ideal sugar levels.

My reservations lie in the fact that the vineyard has gone feral, or rather has not been given the necessary care during the growing season. After all we don't want to take in grapes from vines that have been overloaded with fruit and make a crappy wine.

Another variable factoring into our decision about when to pick and what kind of wine to make is determining what kind of wine we will make. Dave seems to think that the grape is Gamay Noir, long know as the main grape used in fruity Beaujolais Nouveau. Napa Gamay, or Valdigue, is a grape from the Languedoc-Roussillon region of France that was commonly planted in Northern Califronia in the post-prohibition era.

Needless to say, both grape varieties are create medium bodied, acid driven wines that have not received much respect in the wine world.

Maybe that is why I am so excited about this project. Not too many people are excited about these varieties as their physiological characteristics prevent them from creating deep, rich, heavy extracted reds that wine critics rave about. Perhaps the world needs a renaissance of low alcohol food driven reds perfect for pairing with fish, seafood, white meat and even vegetables! Vegetarians are people too after all.

I'm stoked! O.k. maybe just hope full that the sugars with shoot up a bit with the upcoming heat wave on the way or maybe we might have to get out the clippers and do a bit of thinning.

Updates on the way....

***

Pints of Doppel Bock make you strong

This afternoons activities, drinking to Octoberfest and carving pumpkins. Salud!

The Big Pick

2009-10-17T10:33:00.000-07:00

International

Four years ago we pulled into Cape Girardeau, Missouri along the banks of the muddy Miss-uh-ssip. While some might recognize the sleeping city as the home to neo-conservative (read 'facist') shock jock Rush Limbaugh, the cape town will forever be etched in my mind as my first, ugly foray into poster sales.

Stepping out of our rental truck outside a Travelodge there was a mighty racket in the trees. A wild buzzing that infiltrated our ears and reverberated throughout the body. Pulling up to the counter we nervously announced we had a reservation. Not quite veterans of the poster tour circuit, Gaccess and myself approached every endeavor with child like timidity.

Seeking to brake the ice as we handed over the cold hard cash for a week in a luxrious two bed, poolside non-smoking room I asked what was making all the fuss in the tall conifers surrounding the city.

"Are those locusts making all the racket in the trees," I asked thinking back to a tamer chorus that ruminated along the banks of Lake Ontario durring humid, camp-fire lit summer nights.

"Oh, those, the cicadas. Yeah, they're pretty loud I suppose," he responded. "You get used to it after awhile.

"Right, cicadas," I echoed, using proper nomenclature the second time around. Cicadas are oft-times incorrectly called locusts, which is actually the name for the swarming phase of the short horned grasshopper.

Standing corrected I nodded in approval. Then the attendant countered in a thick, southern accent that hung heavy "But most people jus' call 'em the BIG bug."

Welcome to the South, or better yet the territory where the Mason-Dixon line becomes more of a fuzzy blur than a defined line; where counting Confederate flags and Natural Ice empties would give you a better indication of which side you were actually on. Judging from the slow drawl and arresting humidity I wagered that we were no longer among the ranks of the Union. We were in Jonny Reb's territory. We.... were... officiallly... sigh... carpetbaggers.

***

Flash forward four years, two months and a day. Around seven a.m. I pulled into the lot that seperates our home office from that of Sonoma-Cutrer, searching for a spot to park my bulky green Pontiac. Wedging it between a beat up Saturn and a Blazer I stepped out to hear a different sound altogether: a hulking Kenworth with a roaring engine that was being revved up at two second intervals. A beast of a machine, more akin to a dragon than an eighteen wheeler. Giant plumes of smoke blew out the stacks and the ground near the picking bags shook as we began to stage the pick. Not just any pick. Glenn's pick. The BIG pick at Cicada Vineyard.

Cicada pre-bud break

Cicada Vineyard, located just west of Fulton on River Road is home to an old vine, California sprawl, dry farmed Zinfandel vineyard that my boss purchased some eight years ago. Meticulously farmed and maintained, the vineyard stands out in the area among Chardonnay vineyards on the valley floor. Floored, might be the proper word to express my reaction upon first seeing the gnarly old vines post pruning and then watching the heavy crop load the vines have carried throughout the growing season.

Farming is and will ever be filled with risks, good days and bad, heartaches and jubilant harvests. There is no doubt though that a farmer must calculate his/her risks and make educated decisions. Due to heavy rains this past week and the emergence of rot on the tight bunched Zinfandel clusters, Glenn made the decision to pick on Saturday, even though sugar levels were still below the average of previous years.

Walking alongside a muddy patch of grass between the vineyard and the road I asked Glenn if he was a bit dissapointed by the result of this year's harvest. "Yeah, it's a bummer," he replied "a BIG hickey."

'A hickey, eh?' I thought to myself. No one wants to show off a hickey, but everyone wants to give one at some point in their life. Maybe it's a way to mark their territory or give an ephemeral reminder to a parting lover. Needless to say Glenn's hickey marred fruit was being picked before the botrytis could completely consume the fruit. When farming you have to roll with the punches and make educated decisions. Picking early and saving the majority of a vintage is better than loosing it all.

***

The big pick might be better characterized as the "big sloppy pick" due to a soggy topsoil that caked everything and anything. The Antonio Carraro (as seen below) chugged and fumed, sinking its tires deep in worn territory and picking bins wheels refused to turn as they were pulled behind tractors, skidding along like stubborn mules.

Halfway through the pick I could see the exhaustion in the boys eyes, their hearts yearning to haul ass while their legs heavy with mud began to fill with lactic acid.

Four crews descended like a plague of locusts upon Cicada

***

Much of my afternoon was consumed running fruit to the winery in Kenwood in the hulking International, the flatbed that chugs along at it's own pace setting off a furror among fellow motorists. Lightening the load on Dave, I hauled two truck loads of six tons to Sonoma Valley, banging gears along the way. The drive wouldn't have been so bad except for the fact that you have to cut directly across Santa Rosa and a stretch of strip malls on Farmer's Lane to get from one valley to the other.

Two picks, nearly fifty tons, one routed taco truck and five hours later we wrapped up at the vineyards. The crews were dragging but I can't imagine too unhappy as they made bank and chowed down for free.

I know I was deystroyed, my knees a-painin' and my stomach upset from the grease bathed, assorted pig part Torta Cubana I picked at between trips. Apparently fried hot dogs are an integral part of the sandwich. For posterity sake I will be planning a trip to Cuba in order to verify hot dogs are indeed an ingredient in the real deal.

Time for a whiskey on the rocks.

Pounding Rains

2009-10-15T19:23:00.000-07:00

Good for the Garden, Not the Grapevine

The rains have returned to Sonoma County and they just won't stop. To the chagrin of farmers the meteorologists forecasted the rains dying off today to drying rays of sunlight. Unfortunately for vinters and vignerons alike the downpours continued this morning, increasing the chance of rot and plump, watered down fruit.

With only two vineyards left with Chardonnay, we braved the mists and sporadic cloudbursts this morning to salvage the what we could. The big question was whether or not we could use the Kubota Pak-fork in the vineyard with out sinking it along the way.

By 6:30 I was on the highway, a set of eight macro bins behind the cab and the Kubota on a tilt trailer, slightly swaying back and forth on a 2 and 5/8's ball-hitch. Roughly an hour later the crew showed up to lift up bird netting begin severing the umbilical chords.

The cyclical life cycle of vine to wine has begun again. Fruit to custom crush facility. Conveyor belt to shaking table and sorting line. Grapes crushed and destemed, destemed only or neither of the two before being sent to the press. Pressed juice flows to stainless fermenters or barrels for a cold soak and stabilisation period. After 24-48 hours must is innoculated with a cultured yeast strain and fermentation begins. For the next two to three weeks must ferments to wine with yeast nutrient, di-amonium phosphate and other additives entered into the mix. Following fermentation some whites continue in stainless while others, like Chardonnay (although not all, no generalizations please!), are sent to barrel which will be followed by malo-lactic fermenation. Four to five months later your wine could be bottled and be ready to shipped out to your local package store.

For a number of reasons, demand, back supply, ageing, etc, etc., you are more than likely not to see a new white vintage for upwards of a year after it is produced. After all, who wants to release a new vintage before they have completely sold out of last year's stock.

Arriving at the cellar, the receiving winemaker "apologized" for forcing us to pick his vintage in the rain. The idea that we actually worked in the rain was a joke. If this man wanted to see people harvesting in the rain he might want to take a trip to Burgundy, Marlborough or even Western New York. My first vintage it rained for two weeks straight and yes I was the guy in the vineyard harvesting the grapes by hand.

Oh, California! You've got it so rough!

Raging before the Rain

2009-10-13T17:18:00.000-07:00

With torrential downpours looming on the Western horizon, we put in a solid effort on Monday to pick as much fruit still hanging on the vines.

California growers appear tormented by the appearance of rain and don't leave to chance the possibility of rot, chosing instead to pick the grapes a bit earlier rather than leaving them to hang.

My day was once again a wacky joyride around Spring Mountain, Chalk Hill and Russian River Valley. After hauling two tons to a custom crush facility outside Santa Rosa I staved off urges to swing by my favorite package store the Bottle Barn and headed up Chalk Hill Road to assist David with a pick at a small 4 acre organic Cabernet Sauvignon block. Picking out heavy I had to scoot to a nearby winery to pick up a few extra macro bins to fill. Maybe the first of our blocks to pick out higher than the estimated yield.

In the afternoon, we prepared for the rains at a new development covering the recently ripped and disked blocks with a quickcover seed mix and straw. Fall and winter monsoon like rains create ideal conditions for serious erosion and are a major concern in Northern California.

Hoping it might be an early afternoon was wishful thinking at best. How could I have guessed right? Rain also makes it hard to carry out certain vineyard jobs and therefore it was necessary to return a rental mini-excavator and then go back to the same vineyard to take soil samples before the cloudbursts.

By 6:30 I finished the nematode samples and heading home earger to consume choco-chip cookies and pumpkin beer.

***

Today! Rain!!! At long last and all day long! A great reprieve from the sun. I never thought I would be so excited to see it rain all day.

Expecting to be moving equipment all day I recieved a call at around 7 am this morning asking if I would prefer to take a day off rather than working in the rain. Hell yaaaaaah! Sleeping in to the pitter-patter of the rain never felt so good.

Above the Fog Line

2009-10-10T13:41:00.000-07:00

Camped above the fog on Pine Mountain

With torrential downpours forecasted for early next week, Saturday we needed "all hands on deck" to pull some 25 tons off Chardonnay from the vines atop Pine Mountain. Arriving just after dawn, the Alexander Valley floor remained blanketed with a soft sea of linen as the boys toiled picking the remaing Chardonnay.

With four crews, three tractors hauling picking bins and four trucks to transport the grapes were pulled down and hauled away in a little over five hours. Not to say there weren't a few squabbles. Each crew thinking itself faster than the others was not too keen on the equally distributed pay they were to recieve at the end of the day. Also, nearing the end of the pick, there was a minor fear of bin shortage which fissled as the plague of locusts clipped away at the remaining rows. A surplus of four bins allowed us to breathe a sigh of relief.

However, the heavy pick left us short on truck room, which forced us to rouse the head hancho to give us a hand hauling.

Descending into Napa Valley

While the pick went according to plan I nervously awaited hauling six tons of fruit in the International an hour and a half to Napa Valley. And it really isn't the 101 or the descent from Pine Mountain that makes my palms sweaty, but rather the steep climb up Mark West Station Rd. and down Calistoga Rd. into Napa Valley. Lacking any sort of huevos while climbing the International whines and parrots the Little Engine that could, huffing up hills at a snails pace as locals and uppity tourists curse in my general direction. What can I do people? I got the pedal to the metal! In the words of Dave Mustaine "Metal up your Ass!"

Descending is just as near slow as climbing with the truck in second gear, the engine roaring as it holds back the machines best intentions to rocket down the hillside. Pulling over for a convoy of motorists allows for a stunning look at the Mayacamas, a stunning landscape of jutting rock and conifers.

After dropping the Chard, Glenn sprung for lunch at Buster's, a famous local smoked BBQ joint in the heart of Calistoga. Eating little more than half a dozen grape clusters all day I made quick work of an open tri-tip sammy washed down with the finest Barq's flavored corn syrup north of the Mason-Dixon. Bloated and bulging I finally, kinda-sorta, felt like a trucker.

Buscando Nemo!

2009-10-09T12:40:00.000-07:00

Sorpresa

At the butt crack of dawn on Friday morning, I pulled into Sorpresa Vineyard, which sits atop a small mount overlooking Dry Creek Valley. Alson, the proprietor and workhorse behind the vineyard, was out and about with a fresh cup of coffee and awaiting a translator.

I was the first 'manager' on the scene and the thick fruit set was beginning to make the boys anxious, a heavy drool beginning to drip from the side of their mouths. After confering with El Presidente I set the boys on their way hooting and hollering down the first few rows.

Although included in the Dry Creek Appellation the vineyard benefits from cooler nights and sunny days tempered with cooling late afternoon winds. This is not the plump fruit forward Shiraz of Dry Creek, but rather a rich, dark, brooding blue fruit Syrah much more akin to Kick ranch, with its own nuances of course.

Glenn pulled up shortly after me and then Paco, the man who could level with the guys in their own terms. No matter how much spanish you know, as a gabacho you will always be limited by a thick accent and an inability to speak in essence 'Mexican' spanish.

I pulled out first with the brushburn, hauling 3 tons of Glenn's Syrah to the local custom crush facility. The descent down from Sorpresa was long and winding and has been built up by Mondo as being a treacherous hellride. Aside from the descent came the fact that I was hauling the head hancho's fruit, which goes into his flagship vineyard designate Syrah. To put it succintly, these grapes needed safe passage to the cellar if I didn't want to be strung up by a barrel chested man from East Texas.

Coming down the mount was not much different from hauling out a 4 ton tractor on a tilt trailer. Quick like a rabbit I hurried the cool grapes to the facility. Pulling out back onto the freeway Paco rang asking me to give him my ETA. Responding cooly I replied that I dropped and was heading to my next appointment. "Damn man, that was fast" he replied.

Not known for my intrepid speed I had to crack a little smile.

***

Buscando Nematodes

When I lived in Chile it was a guilty pleasure for Dan Cross and I to grab a micro to the giant mall outside of Conce and grab a Sunday. Hell, the movies only cost a few bucks. In reality we tried to catch any of the handfull of Chilean feautures that came out during the year, but I would be lying to say that it wasn't just as entertaining to read the Spanish names of beloved features filmed in the United States and abroad. Although Buscando Nemo or Finding Nemo in the English speaking world was as direct of an translation as you can have, it still made my guata jiggle from laughter.

Friday afternoon, standing neck deep in a ditch, the image was rekindled as my mind swam in a sea of Spanglish. Collecting soil samples to gauge the nematode population at Susanna's Vineyard on Gravenstein highway I drifted back to the days of lazy afternoons, now well behind me. Diggin in the dirt is a way more fun anyway right?

And what the hell are nematodes you might ask? Nematodes, or "roundworms," have a can high concentration in areas of drought or with sandy, compacted shallow soil. Much like the conditions at Susanna's. In areas with high populations they can be responsible for poor vine growth and extensive root damage with will conversely have a negative impact on the vine's fruit quality. Samples are of course required at varying heights to determine if and how bad the infestation might be and chosing the best remedy for the situation.

Hence, my makeshift Indiana Jones glamshot. Trowell and plastic baggie in hand I am digging for the cause of liquid gold.

Melon is My Co-Pilot

2009-10-08T11:11:00.000-07:00

Out with the old...

Falling behind on blog posts is much like falling behind on an online collegiate course or even worse remembering to fill out your time card every day....

Needless to say this past week has been a bit taxing with several trips back up to Pine Mountain, lying due Northeast of Cloverdale, the former capitol of Northern California's timber industry.

Wednesday we picked Chardonnay for Caputure Wines, which was founded by the proprietor of the Pine Mountain vineyard. With a French winemaker, an emphasis of gentle processing and their motto "Bordeaux Tradition, Frontier Spirit" it is no wonder that the pick was to require specail instructions. In an attempt to avoid any juicing the boys picked the fruit into individual FYB bins which were then placed on a pallete, plastic wrapped and hauled off to a custom crush facility some 30 minutes away.

Wooden picking bins are now a thing of the past. Too much potential for bacterial infection as wood is not as easily sanitized as food grade macro bins or metal gondolas.

... in with the new.

Hauling four palletes of the FYB bins proved to be another challenge. As the brushburn sped in and out of the curves of the 128 leading to Chalk Hill, the bins flexed and gave in to gravitational pull, giving me added impetus to drive a tad slower than my usual country pace. Offending speeding motorists seems to have become my new MO on the Sonoma backroads.

While dropping at the custom crush facility, which happens to be another vineyard we farm, the on site vineyard liason El Leoncito passed me a perfectly ripe organic melon. Not wanting to offend, but yet knowing there was a small chance I would actually eat the fruit I warmly obliged. My little melon sat shotgun all day, infusing the cab with aromatic musk melon smells as the day heated up.

I wanted to eat him, I really did but I was without knife or spoon and my hands as per usual were covered with dirt, rust, grime and a mixture of humic acid. Better off to let the melon be, my own make believe friend akin to Tom Hanks' 'Wilson' in the flic Cast Away. As the day grew long and my eyes heavy I began to batter the melon with a list of unanswered querries that dance through my head everyday: "Why can't this fertigation be over?", "Will Glenn Danzig ever return to front for the Misfits?", "the Sex Pistols or the Ramones," "punch downs or pump overs," "porter or stout," etc. etc.

Not wishing to respond I sought to ease the tension with a joke:

Q: What did the mama melon say to the baby melon's boyfriend?

A: You Cant-Eloupe!

No response.

***

Merlot: out of vogue

Once the one of the two poster children for Napa Valley Merlot sales have plummeted since the late 90s. While I am not a fan of the grape I can see the beneficial uses for blending and enjoyjment as a stand alone varietal. However, the green olive notes the fruit often gives off in the wine just don't do it for me.

Merlot in my opinion best reflects the whimsical nature of the American consumer. Today's treasures are soon tomorrows trash. That is to say it blows my mind that although a variety that has been popular and remains so today in Bordeaux for over 200 years can so easily be deemed undrinkable and banished from wine lists overnight by a country with a short and stunted wine history.

Another one bites the dust....but will it be 'retro' to drink Merlot in 20 years? If I were a betting man I might put a few clams in the affirmative's corner.

Thursday we returned to Pine Mountain to pick, as you might have guessed, the Merlot. Today I coasted solo as Mr. Melon sat in the cooler climes of the refrigerator awaiting judgement day. A straighforward day nonetheless with a trip to La Nalgona for a few heaping tacos. Stretch pants and tacos, what a combo.

Fertigation Hell

2009-10-06T19:20:00.000-07:00

Saturday was a mess. One block left to fertigate (spreading fertilizer through drip irrigation) and I sprung a leak. Water spurting out a hose jutting out the side of a burm. My worst nightmare.

I called it a day and was about to head out to San Francisco when I crashed for two hours. When your body has had enough you really can't fight it.

The city was exactly what the doctor ordered or maybe a what your cool uncle would have ordered. Pizza, boatloads of Irish Whiskey on the rocks, white owl's, a sweaty dance floor and a seat next to John Waters. Yes, the man with the pencil moustache. One of the six cult filmakers that revolutionized cinema in the late 60s (Jodorosky, Lynch, Romero, Sharman and Henzell). Standing up uncomfortably I yelled at B$ to share the pleather couch "Let the man sit down for Christ's sake!"

Sunday, I recovered with a mimossa and a day in Golden Gate Park for the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festival. I watched in awe as Billy Bragg, Mavis Staples, Neko Case and Old Crow Medicine Show rocked a park filled with families and dirty hippies coexisting symbiotically side by side. Only in San Francisco.

Monday I returned to the grind and the one block yet to be fertigated. Instead of fertigating though I put on my plumbers cap and loosened my belt and fixed the actual leak. As it turns out the random pipe emitting water was a "dummy pipe" and once capped the real leak began to gush from underground. Shoes off, pvc cement on for the diy plumbing show.

Today, it was back to the drawing board. Building head pressure with the pump I finally had pressure and water throughout the block. Happy as a clam I began the fertigation. Two hours and an empty mixing tub later and the fertilizer seemed to be flowing backwards through the filter.

What the hell was going on? Was my pump pressure on the fertigation tank more powerful than the one drawing from the creek? Was I pushing the water back into the source I was drawing off of?

Scratching my head as I drove to procure dinner (Tina's burritos and veggie sushi) I could only wonder: 'Maybe block seven doesn't go through the filter I am injecting into, but rather draws from the pipe heading to the filter.' In essecnce, I am injecting towards nowhere, or more literally closed blocks, thus the back flow towards the creek.

Crap! Duped again and clueless as to the setup I am working with. Just when you think you have it figured out, you realize that some jackass fucked up your day five years ago when he set up the irrigation system backasswards.

The only way to solve this problem is going Back to the Future. I hated the movies but in theory the concept can't be beat. Now if only I can track down some plutonium and a DeLorean. Iran might be a good place to start.

Twelve Hour Day, Hold the Lettuce, Supersize the Compost

2009-10-02T20:27:00.000-07:00

Another typical day at the office.

Harvest starts at sun up so it is important to be out and on the road early. Cente's (pronounced chen-tay) crew was on board for a Chardonnay pick back on top of Pine Mountain outside Cloverdale. Our caravan sped North up the 101 until we were nothing more than a disjointed dragon, the brushburn breathing diesel fire up front as the four cylinders behind it snaked and chugged along.

Well before arriving at the gate to the ranch I am sure the crew was envisioning something of a mountain top Deliverance, the vineyard sitting some 20 minutes off the beaten path. A bit bewildered and shaken from the last dirt uphill portion of our journery (mazda's prefer asphalt) we were set to harvest at 6:30 am on the dot.

The pick was nothing short of a party. If I were blind and ignorant I would have imagined the hooting and hollering could only come from grown men taking body shots off of greasy dancers at a stuffy Tijuana strip joint. "Look at that set. The clusters are HUGE!" The vines in fact did yield a heavy set and the boys sang the praises of their good luck. Unfortuntely we were only picking two of the 20 odd tons available on the ranch.

As the picking knives swung loose I stood stoic aside the picking bins deleafing and removing any visible signs of mildew/rot. As the bins came in I made it clear that I wanted the fruit clean much like....er...my laundry. Yep my laundry. The shouts came back at me "Ya voy. Nada de ensalada Tommy!" Ensalada of course is a blanket term for foreign debris in the bins. Leaves can create off flavors during maceration of reds and have potential to contribute the same vegetal flavors to a white during a short press cycle. We aim to keep our winemakers and clients happy so the shouting went on:

"!Nada de ensalada porque no soy vegetariano ni quiero comer como un conejo!" Oh, how the vegetarian rubber band has snapped! Whaaapiiicchh.

***

Mid-afternoon I saw a pair of young, dirty touring cyclists riding south on River Road and my heart sank. To be young and free or at least unattached to responsibility. How sweet it is. I wanted to pull over, ask them where they were going, maybe they needed a place to crash, hell I have been in those shoes. Part of me wanted to see if maybe, just maybe I might have known them or hand friends of friends. They certainly looked awful familiar to a couple of ladies I know.

Wanderlust, I am, and the sight of the cyclists reminded me that this will be the first year in many that I have not set off on any lofty or long winded adventure. I am a little upset but also a bit proud that I have been able to sit tight and focus on one thing for what is now going on my ninth month.

Who knows Central America might be a possibility this spring! I'm keeping my fingers crossed, an eye on my checkbook and averting my eyes from the wine shelves...

***

No Friday is complete without a change of plans and heavy commutter traffic. Why always on Friday? Where are people going on Friday that they weren't going Monday night?

So, Murphy's Law, two trailers of compost were running late to a new vineyard we are currently developing. Playing my rookie card to a 'T', I offered up my services to stay late and guide the truck to the development.

The compost was soft, fluffy, moist and virtually odorless. I wanted to jump on top and take a nap. My new organic comforter.

All said and done not really a big deal, but as I cruised home lifting to Hank and the Drifting Cowboys I began to wonder what I was going to do. It's Friday after all and the only thing I could come up with was hitting up a taco truck. After a minute or two of contemplation I realized that my social life is non-existant.

This hermit needs to hit the town.

Post Harvest Headaches

2009-09-30T22:37:00.000-07:00

After a 14 hour nap I awoke with noticeable stubble (a surprise if you know me) and a splitting headache that felt as if someone had busted a two-by-four over the left side of my face. No girly smack either, but a smack worthy of Hacksaw Jim Dugan's approval. The verdict didn't come until after visiting the loo for an early morning tinkle, at which time my bright orange urine quickly tipped me off that it was indeed dehydration.

Today was supposed to be straightforward, painless and relatively easy. An all day post harvest fertigation of a few Pinot Noir blocks as well as a few timed irrigation at other ranches. Nothing I couldn't handle.

First I get a phone call asking when the Chardonnay blocks were last irrigated. "Over a week ago," I replied to disbelief. Apparently there was a misunderstanding between myself and my superiors and the water was to continue to flow on the aforementioned blocks. Headache one.

Then halfway into the fertigation and the pump quit. The same pump that has been giving me migraines and keeping me awake at night, scratching my head. Now, I am no pump specialist and after hours of troubleshouting and a dip in the "drink," or what's left of a dried up creek left me with no solutions. Tomorrow it will be time to get the boxers wet and the boys will retreat to their inner sanctum as we will attempt to get to the bottom of the problem.

Time for bed. I'm rightly fed up with irrigation and these damn blogs are more pain in the ass than they are worth. Yeesh!

Burning the Candle at Both Ends

2009-09-29T19:29:00.000-07:00

Bed by 10 pm, awake by 1 am. Breaking your sleep schedule for a night pick is no easy chore. Normally I wake up in the middle of the night for a piss break because maybe just maybe I tied on one too many before bed, not to strap up my boots and head out to a vineyard.

Tuesday morning we picked for two parties at Los Leones, one of which being the owner of the ranch who was onsite to observe gentle handling of his grapes. This was only my second night pick and I played a bit of a different role pulling the light tower aside the picking tractor. Even though there were a couple tractor driver's on Eugene's crew, Dave preffered to have them focused on picking rather than jumping in the cockpit. I obligingly signed on for the job.

Needless to say I wasn't born in a tractor seat. First, I almost toppled a couple pickers as the tractor didn't shift properly into snail speed, then I tripped over a pair of post wires on a tight turn and finally the lights bumped into a pair of tree limbs as I pulled another turn too wide. Three mistakes into the pick and a finicky lightower out of adjustment and I was ready for the pick to be over. My legs were jello and Eugene's crew had nearly pushed me over the edge with smart ass comments.

As the sun came up it was off to a second pick on Chalk Hill with you guessed it Eugene's crew once again. Eugene is a hardworking boss and a solid dude but I was already fed up with his crew. Work is work so I pulled fruit up and down a Chard block and deleafed, hoping to get out as soon as possible.

Pulling into Windsor I began to feel the affects of my sleep or lack thereof the night before. Fading in and out, head bobbing I bolted to Healdsburg to refuel at the Flying Goat. Quite possibly the only thing that saved me.

Finishing out the day I bumped into a roadie with a flat in front of one of our ranches. His bicycle cost close to three times that of my grandmamobile and his front wheel was lighter than my coffee mug. Attempting to offer help if that was what was needed I asked if I could be of assistance, my last semi-serious job being that of bike shop apprentice. Now normally I don't get too worked up if a customer doesn't know how to take care of a minor repair (hell, that's what keeps shops in business), but this guy couldn't open up his Mini Morph pump. When I mean open up, I mean the open the top arm that compresses the air, the arm you pump up and down.

So here I am in California, busting hump to get by in a state with an overpriced standard of living and there are hordes of filthy rich cyclists lining the backroads without a clue of how to swap out a tube and I am thinking to myself 'Where and at what juncture did I take a wrong turn?'

Then I ate an ice cream sundae for dinner and passed out. Why is it that you don't discover ice cream dinners until your late 20s?

Updates and a Full Plate

2009-09-28T19:39:00.000-07:00

I awoke early this morning with a case of the Mondays. This weekend might not have been incredibly strenous but there was a lot of running around and although we arrived home late last night, I was hellbent on grilling a rack of spareribs and two should chops of sonoma county lamb. Deelish!

Arriving at the pick this morning I dragged at a sluggish pace, the boys yelling and prodding me all to no avail. I was beat. Glenn asked if I had been drinking last night to which I cooly responded in my noreasterly mumble "Jan and I split a bottla Pinot." Which we did, but that was business as usual.

Jan was suffering a bit more than myself this morning cursing her early morning shift and declaring that all human beings should sleep in until at least sun up. For some reason I have a sneaking suspicion a few AARPers might diagree with her.

Overall a typical harvest day. Glenn picked the Sanglier Syrah from Kick ranch along with Grenache and Counoise for his Rose. There is something a bit unsettling about carting your bosses fruit off to the winery; you tend to look both ways two or three times and take your curves at a cautious pace. Not to say I don't do that anyway. My grannymobile is a good indication of my driving style: a sunday stroll to the chapel.

Check out: http://blog.sangliercellars.com/ for more.

In the afternoon we prepared for two night picks: ten tons of Pinot out in Graton and more Syrah that will be coming down at Kick.

That reminds me it is about time to take a shower and hit the hay. Tomorrow is a 2 am start as I will be driving a tractor with a light tower for one of the night picks. The random hours make harvest all the more of an adventure.

***

In other news, the Chardonnay pressed out by this morning as the Coquard rep and his handyman fixed a number of broken buttons and blown fusses. I can now rest easy that our fruit is currently cold soaking and awaiting a healthy innoculation. We should get results back from the lab tomorrow and make decisions on how much acid we would like to add back. Up with ACID, down with OAK!

Now the hunt is on to track down a ton of Syrah! Can't wait...

Pressing On

2009-09-27T20:23:00.000-07:00

Two trips later and we were back in Anderson Valley late last night, however not too late to grab a bloody burger and pint of Bont Amber at Loren's in downtown Boonville. The best part about the valley aside from phenomenel Pinot Noir favorite are the mom and pop eateries and water holes that reflect all things native: a slipping timber industry holding on for dear life, entrepreneural hippie culture and a general feel of isolation.

And then there is the Anderson Valley Advertiser, quite possibly the best small time local weekly periodical in the country. A few beers, a couple shots of Old Grandad and a glass or two of dry riesling and it was off to lala land. I was quite content to get a solid nights sleep too as a week full of five and six hour nights has left my engine running off of caffeine fumes.

***

Sunday, a day of reckoning, although in our case for non-religious reasons. Our moment to bask in the sun with our prize catch, a half ton of Chardonnay that I hauled into the valley the previous day. Not only we were basking in the sun, but baking as well as Anderson Valley thermometers East of Philo topped the charts at a cool 100 degrees Farenheit. Things were cooking...

Getting a late jump on the day we began to feed the crusher by hand, sorting the clusters one by one for shriveled berries and rot when we decided we needed to pick up the pace. After crushing and destemming we hoisted the Coquard basket into the press and set a two hour cycle while we headed for lunch. To imagine the newfangled basket press imagine a giant espresso tamp descending upon a stainless metal barrel filled with grapes, slowing crushing the trapped berries.

Returning from a French lunch break we soon realized we hadn't pressed out much juice at all and the juice we did have was heating up in a jackless stainless box. Then to make matters worse a second press cycle stopped in mid-descent leaving us with a half ton of trapped fruit. You might have heard of a stuck fermentation, but have you every heard of a stuck press!?!?

Our presonal investment in purgatory we started to make some calls. The owner of the winery first suggested to check the hydraulic oil. We did and decided it was a little low. After snooping around the garage we found a container of John Deere Transmission and Hydraulic oil and asked the winemaker if "hydraulic oil is hydraulic oil." An affirmative led us to fill the oil pan. No luck.

Continuing to attempt to remove ourselves from the sticky situation we called the Coquard press rep. Explaining our situation and attempts to fix it the rep could only respond "I weally vish you would not have done dat!" Apparently machine specific hydraulic oil does exist.

I left the cellar with a bit of a smile. If something does go horribly awry when attempting a new endeavor it is normally the first time around. You have to laugh it off and roll with the punches.

Taking a raw reading with the Anton Par before we left, the little juice we had pressed was already tipping the scales at nearly 25 degrees brix giving us a potential alcohol of 14.5 %. Nearly two degrees higher than what we had originally intended! Throw in some brand new medium toast oak and we will be well on our way to superstardom.

Ah yay yay. If you can't beat 'em, join em I suppose.

***

We left the valley with things up in the air. The press incapacitated, an electrician and french man en route to the winery and our grapes in purgatory. Hopefully with a little know how and luck we will be pressing on as planned...

Intern

Motivational Beverage

Anton never tells a lie

Rotting Skins and Wafting Ferments Abound

2009-09-26T18:11:00.000-07:00

Atop the Mountain

While backroads filled with walking tractors, big rigs packed to the brim with fruit and motorcades of pickers moving from one vineyard to the next are all visible signs that harvest is upon us, it is our sense of smell that reminds us the rats are busy in the cellar.

Driving past any large winery in Russian River, Alexander or Napa Valley or even passing by Geyserville on highway 101 and you will notice the pungent aroma of fermentations blasting away; yeast happily consuming glucose and fructose and in the process producing alcohol and carbon dioxide to give off the various odors that waft about the valleys. Melon, rose petal, tangerine, banana, tomotoes and peach to name a few.

It is not uncommon to smell the ferments on one side of the winery or production facility and then notice the rotting funk on the other said, spent grapes skins most likely carted out into a back field to decompose undisturbed. With a giant heat spike upon us in late September the rotting skins produce a vinegar aroma that is not quite as pleasing to the senses as that of the healthy ferments.

The temperatures have been so hot that everything under the sun appears to be fermenting. Today I steeped inside a Port-a-John and although freshly cleaned the neutral blue solution below the toilet bubbled and fizzed to my surpise. There is just something unsettling about a solution fermenting below your botttom when you are taking care of business.

***

Although temperatures have spiked many of our clients are still content to leave fruit on the vine, which in turn provided us with a Saturday off in the middle of harvest.

Taking advantage of the free day I awoke early, with a queasy stomach, and powered up to Cloverdale to pick a half a ton of Chardonnay which will become my first wine baby to date.

Last night I was gitty and anxious, but today I was all business. We attempted to pick the fruit early to keep it cold but were once again foiled by the hot temperatures. By the time I had arrived in Cloverdale the temperature had risen some 20 degrees from the time I left Santa Rosa. By 8 am the sun was pulverizing, forcing black coffee and last night's booze to seap through and clog my pores.

My co-worker/boss Paco and his father assisted me with the pick which allowed us to pick a heaping Macro bin in just a hair over an hour.

I guess I should speak a little about the fruit. The chardonnay we picked comes from a mountain top vineyard that was planted a year before I was born, a humbling feeling no less. We decided to pick from the easterly facing slope hoping our fruit might retain a bit more acidity and contain less sugar than the westely facing rows.

Our ultimate goal was to create a naturaly acid driven wine but giving the heat wave and inability to pick at the desired moment fell by the wayside this past week as Shaunt plugged away in the cellar and I in the field.

We will decide what path we want to take after we crush tomorrow. Our fruit tranquily awaits us in an air controlled cellar at 58 degrees.

It is off to the presses! Stay tuned...

Sampling Fever

2009-09-24T22:13:00.000-07:00

Wednesday afternoon we got the results back from the lab. Sounds pretty official right. Not a medical lab but rather a wine lab that analizes grape samples around Sonoma county. The results were actually regarding the pH, tartritable acidity and sugar levels from a block of Chardonnay Shaunt and myself will be picking from this weekend.

The results, needless to say were a little disappointing. The brix levels are up two degrees higher than what we would have liked to have picked at. Twenty-four brix and rising putting our potential wine at a potential alcohol level of 13% plus alcohol by volume. That's it you might say? Low by California standards as most Chardonnays clock in somewhere between 14 and 15 % abv.

So what were we thinking? A white characterized by its acidity rather alcholic, new oak laden body. A sleek, bracing wine in lieu of a flabby oak bomb.

Not to say there aren't other variables involved. The fruit is not coming out of Sonoma Coast or Burgundy for that matter. The Cloverdale vineyard has a relatively warm microclimate with other blocks consisting of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and Zinfandel. This past week has also seen a heat spike with temps hitting the mid to upper nineties and due to the fact that Shaunt runs a cellar and I am on the go six days out of the week we have but a few Sundays to pick from to get the fruit off the vines.

The joys and decisions in winemaking are only now making themselves apparent. Before it was so easy, fruit comes in and you deal with it. Now it is when, where, how and with what free time.

Not to say things are starting to get interesting...

Dillinger Four Stole my Virginity

2009-09-23T21:01:00.000-07:00

Getting Things Sorted...

Before one can go out and play, they must first toil. Today's activities started with none other than, you guessed it another pick! Talk about excitement!

Our biggest challenge of the 5 ton chardonnay pick was to separate burned bunches and pieces of rot from the healthy clusters. No easy task as nearly every cluster had a portion of one or the other. Translating the fact that we had to toss clusters with heavy sunburn on the ground to the Mexican crew was no easy chore. The picking crews see each cluster as a lump of money as they are picking piecemeal. Thus, you can only imagine the grief I took as I ransacked the picking lugs throwing out clusters that didn't make the cut.

Up ahead of me I could hear loud and clear "What the hell is this gabacho doing? Trying to take are salary or what?" Needless to say I don't think I made too many friends on the vineyard floor today.

To complicate matters further the fruit was sold through a broker to a winemaker out of Napa from a vineyard managed by a fellow who used our company for labor intensive jobs, e.g. harvest. While the broker was friendly enough, the guy transporting the grapes exhibited the social graces of an angry showbiz chimp. Do people not understand that if they are affable they will recieve good service in return?

Cutting Out to Rock Out

By four pm we were on the road to the bay, double fisting cups of iced and hot Goat coffee and singing the praises of clean mid-western living. That is the fact that the mid-West could create a powerhouse of sweat and chub that composes the band Dillinger Four.

Entering Fog City

Before heading to Bottom of the Hill we swung by Grimm's flat in the Castro to polish off a few bottles of Zinfandel, the 2006 Limerick Lane Molly's Block Zin and a stuning 2007 Gravity Hills Zinfandel the Sherpa that knocked my blood pressure up a peg or two.

At the venue Chris, Tim, Steph and myself (Janet being our DD) got down to business sticking to champagne with a number of rounds of Miller Low Life. I quaked and slugged it back wondering what kind of mess my bowels would be in by the morning.

Dillinger Four as always did not disappoint. A majority of the set was comprised with songs from Situationist Comedy. However a few classics including "#51 Dick Butkus", "Doublewhiskeycokenoice" "Superpowers Enable Me To Blend in With Machinery" and my personal favorite "Maximum Piss and Vinegar." For a split second I was 18 years old again and standing crosslegged and nervous with hands in pockets at the Atomic in Buffalo, NY.

This time around I was dancing my ass off (quite possibly pogoing) and jumpkicking around a sweaty out of shape mosh pit. Homoerotic, just maybe. St. Patrick did shave his balls in front of a packed house. Nothing we haven't seen before.

Up and Over a Hill

2009-09-22T21:21:00.000-07:00

Bouncing back into the swing of things is fantastic, especially if you can do it with a slight hangover after killing a beautiful bottle of wine.

A slow day nonetheless. Taking advantage of the day's grinding pace, Mondo gave me a quickie lesson on our new flatbed, the International. Exagerated gears, a single strap seat belt, a stearing wheel the size of a mid-sized car tire and 20 feet behind the cab to haul ripe grapes. By far the biggest beast I have driven to date as I seemingly inch further and further towards getting behind a three axled big rig. World, are you ready for me?

Punctuating the afternoon's activities was a trip (for the second day in a row) to Renard, a mid-sized winery outside St. Helena. Apparently there was a bit of mis-communication and when I dropped 2 tons of Viognier yesterday I was also meant to pick up some empties. So back up and over the hill I went on Petrified Forest Road, ascending once again into the picturesque Napa Valley appelation and welcomed but again by the boisterous sign just south of Calistoga that reads "Welcome to the World Famous Winegrowing Region Napa Valley."

By the time you reach the sing, you begin to realize that Napa is at least ten degrees warmer than Russian River and the sooner you get back over the hill the more comfortable you will be. And I am once again happy I live and work in Sonoma.

***

From dropping Macro bins I moved onto domestic goods as I swung by Jan's flat to drop a love seat. On my way over I happened upon a couple crust punks, quite possibly travelers but most likely locals; each holding a leash with their own toy mutt dog parading up front. Since when did the punks take an interest in toy dogs. Apparently thrashing to Oi Pollio alongside your shitzu is the latest trend. I'm baffled.

And that reminds me: Tomorrow...Bottom of the Hill...Dillinger Four!!! Hook or Crook be there or besquare. Fly in if you have to for Christ's sake!

Recovery

2009-09-21T21:23:00.000-07:00

After an abbreviated weekend a respite was needed and found in a 750 ml bottle and hunk of tri-tip steak.

The tri-tip, a traditional lower sirloin cut rarely found outside California, was procured on Saturday night, but as I mentioned before was unable to cook due to an urge to "chill the fuck out" (ahem, pardon my Frawnch). While many are unaware of the cut, Californians treat it much like a t-bone or market steak and local grocers typically grill the tri-tip to order on the weekends. Historically the tri-tip was given to Spanish farmhands as it was deemed too tough to eat.

"Oh contraire mon frair!" (my nod to actual French). This cut is beautiful and perfect for a party of four although my housemate and myself did a number on the cut by ourselves. I gave the cut a bit of a dry rub with kosher sal, fresh ground pepper and a pinch of cayenne but others suggest mixing in some garlic and celery salt along with paprika and any other dry spices that might tickle your fancy.

Thirty minutes or so on the grill on medium heat, flipping every five minutes or so and the cut was ready to be devoured, juicy, pink and dripping. An important part to cooking the tri-tip was carmelizing the fat that coats the outside of the cut with a strong flame. A burnt, sugary exterior juxtaposed with a tender inside is what creates a text book tri-tip.

Scouring the isles of my local package store I stumbled across a pair of Syrah's from Charles Smith, on a vineyard designate from his first tier label K Vinters and a second on his larger scale production label Charles Smith Wines. After reading a brief article in Vineyard and Winery Managment about the x-rocker gone rogue winemaker I thought I might walk the plank and give it a go. Quite possibly my favorite part of a wine purchase, a semi-educated guess and gamble about a new wine. In other words an attempt to navigate unchartered waters based on someone else's footnotes. I bundled the 2007 Boom Boom Syrah Washington State along with my other bottle babies and headed for the register.

The result: I was floored! FLOOOOOORED! At $13.50 this is hands down the best value wine I have drank all summer. Dark cherry topped with dark, vibrant fruit in the nose later giving off mocha, smoke and cedar followed with more concentrated, yet balanced dark fruit in the pallette and a long smooth lingering finish. At least a minute on the finish! Did I mention this thing rolls in under $20!?! And alcohol...this sucker clocks in at 13.5 % giving me a great indication of how this wine can be so balanced.

Still ridding the high. This wine is almost unreal; I'm left searching for the card up the sleave. Where is the catch? It could possibly that wine is made with a great attitude focused on quality fruit, solid winemaking and little to no promotional overhead. The labels catchy, but yet straighforward and black and white. You get what you pay for a cellar wine and not a sales gimmick.

Killler!!! Go pick up a bottle right now!

Or check out:

http://www.kvintners.com/winery.php

The Immaculate Irrigation

2009-09-20T21:11:00.000-07:00

Grey Hairs and Split Ends

Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it. Worth it meaning coming to California, embarking on a crazy adventure to learn the finer aspects of enology and viticulture. Taking on a position as a vineyard technician (with no formal education) that has in all honesty begun to consume my life. There are nights when I wake up in a dead sleep thinking about automatic valves malfunctioning or the chaotic schedule of events to come.

Even more I think about my lifestyle. Am I living healthy? Being on the run ten hours a day, mostly behind the wheel and coming home exhausted everyday. Skipping breakfast, eating lunch on the fly (mostly, again, behind the wheel) and whipping up a quick fix dinner consumed around 9 pm. Is this life? Maybe I can't cope with the American lifestyle hellbent on consumption and working your ass of to get by. Not to say I don't have all the amenities of life. Overall I never have to think about going hungry or not having enough cash to get by.

But sometimes I do want to escape, maybe to Europe, however impossible. I want a thirty-five hour workweek and a couple glasses of wine for lunch. Or maybe Chile, the slow relaxing pace might lower my skyrocketing bloodpressure. Better yet I could abandon it all, bury my car and live the life of a traveling hobo, thirties style, quenching my thirst for knowledge and travel with countless hours in public libraries and waiting to catch out of yards for days on end.

These are a few of the thoughts that race through my head every day whether I am stuck in sweltering traffic or coping with another meltdown.

This year might be best be characterized by grey hairs and split ends. Grey hairs from stress and split ends from innability to visity my local barber.

***

The Immaculate Irrigation

Sunday, my only day off, was no different. Burrying my work phone in my car the night before I uncovered it this morning to see a missed call and voicemail. Not good. Dave, the mastermind behind day to day operations had called. Another bad sign. I called and left a message wondering what could have possibly gone wrong.

Halfway through cooking my over-eazies the phone rings again and I pick up. My day off mind you. Apparently the winemaker had visited the vineayard and saw moist dirt below his hanging ducks. Standard protocol is to refrain from irrigating at least a week prior to irrigating as not to plumpen grapes and lower sugar levels. After all who wants to pay added money for watered down grapes that weight more.

We already recieved one ass chewing on Saturday morning when an irrigation cycle was forgot about on block one. I couldn't believe that after I double and triple checked a valve could have miraculously turned on once again. The immaculate irrigation? I was destined to find out.

Flustered and shaking I put down my phone and threw on my cap, jammed the key in the ignition and sped off in la tortuga and a break neak pace. Upset by my careless beheavior she whinied and groaned as we cut up the 101.

A half hour later I was walking vine rows in my chacos and faded, ragged Lemuria cut off, crossing my fingers that no valves clicked open. Blocks six and seven were saturated but that was from a cycle earlier in the week, but no water was emitted the night before.

Calmer (how calm?) I called the winemaker direct and explained the situation. We amicably agreed to disagree but things were worked out. The pick will go on and I lost a hunk of my day off. I'm not gonna cry over spilled milk. Not yet at least.

***

Sweet and Slender Relaxation

If the afternoon was to balance the morning I need to do a whole lot of nothing which was successfuly carried to fruition on the banks of the Russian River. As the kiddies played on thier new floaties I curled up with a series of excerpts from an interview with longtime Ridge winemaker Paul Draper. Before today I was ignorant as to the practice and benefits of submerged fermentation. Keeping the cap submerged with a grate? Genius! Especially for a weekend warrior winemaker.

You learn a new thing or two everyday.

Fun Wow!

Guerneville: Russian River's Little Cancun

TV Party Tonight!

2009-09-19T20:43:00.000-07:00

Five-thirty pm on Saturday night and I clopping up a dusty hillside in order to shut off the last irrigation valve. The sun is beggining to set and I take off my ballcap in old farmer fashion to scratch the back of my head with the same palm thinking to myself, 'I thought today was supposed to be a half day.'

Rewind.

Friday afternoon and I am finishing up delivering a tractor and lightower. Mondo rings me for a status update. The part of me that deep down has begun to hate the ring of my phone wants to respond that, yes I am still working. After touching base he casually mentions we might not even have a pick the following day. My mood improves exponentially and I begin to dream of smiling bottles of beer floating and singing down the Russian River.

An hour or two passes and the Nextel rings again. Mondo again. We just have some irrigation cycles to run but if I can get things squared with my watering lackey I will be scott free or at least only have to put in a few hours.

Pulling back into the office again my work phone rings. The ringtone now sort of beginning to sound like the alarm clock buzzer you had in highschool. You roll over hoping it's Saturday, but it's really Monday. Mondo's on the line once again. Aside from the irrigation cycles he would like my help with a few tractors moves. No problem I respond still envisioning getting out by noon, one pm at the latest.

Exhausted after a few barely pops at the shop I cruise home to the Cro Mag's "Age of Quarrel" and pass out with a layer of sweat shallacking my body.

***

Saturday and all bets are off. Instead of two tractors to move there are now three along with a load of 18 picking bins to be moved in for Monday's early morning pick. Not to mention assisting with the multiple irrigation cycles across the county. Multitasking has begun to make my head spin.

At home Saturday night I'm a bit too beat to cook a beautiful cut of tri-tip weighing in at 2.5 pounds. Simply for fear of overcooking the perfect cut of meat. Instead I opt out for a vegetarian platter of olives, aged gouda, camembert, fresh heirloom tomatoes and avocado alongside a bottle of 2007 Villa Maria Private Bin Marlborough Riesling. And much to my suprise the wine was a ripper, unlike their entry level Vile Maria Sauv Blanc. Notes of white flowers, citrus and mellon nuanced with the signature riesling petrol and incredibly smooth mouthfeel make this wine a crowd pleaser, or populist quaf, any night of the week.

***

Listening to the soothing rants of Mr. Bourdain I passed out by 10 pm, my neck cramed between to plush leather cushions, mouth agape to provide a safe haven for flies. This ageing bag of bones just can't live hard like the old days.

Working Man's Special

2009-09-18T22:00:00.000-07:00

"I been a working man dang near all my life

I'll be working as long as my two hands are fit to use

I'll drink my beer in a tavern

Sing a little bit of the working man blues" -Merle Haggard

Mixing business with pleasure can be painful. Especially the morning after. Luckily time and a few bumps along the way have taught me to excercise moderation. No easy feat when visiting Fog City. Nor is it very easy to spend a boat load of cash. Upon entry into the city at the Golden Gate Bridge your pockets begin to empty as you start spending like a granny hellbent on doubling her pension on the slots at the Mirage.

San Francisco, doubtless, is impressive and worth the monetary abuse once or twice a month. Quite possibly the best part of a night trip to the city is pulling across the bay just as the sun sets, a golden hue emblazzoned on the terraced buildings that line the hillsides. Almost Meditteranean.

The pleasure end of the included getting to the bottom of a bottle of Saumur and checking out Joey Bulldozer's new band Agatha! at a small venue in the mission. On the other side of the coin was knowing that I was sacrificing priceless hours of sleep. Harvest hours are erratic at best, working anywhere in the neighborhood of 8-14 hour shifts

Agatha!

***

Dark thirty. Roughly four hours after hitting the hay I begrudgingly drag my limp body out of the sack. Janet groans and rolls over and I throw on a headlamp to prowl my room for all the electronic devices and keys I will need throughout the day. Fresh socks, a clean tee and a scramble to track down my sunglasses. The California sun is unforgiving on a daily basis.

A small pinot noir pick this morning on a warm Old Sonoma Mountain Rd vineyard. One acre coming in at a big under a ton. Vicente's crew was a bit amazed they woke up at dark thirty too and drove over an hour for such a small fruitload.

"I guess we'll just go home and slip back under the covers" remarked Vicente the crew leader with a toothy smile.

I smiled back shrugging my shoulders "I'd put more fruit on those vines if I could."

Cente's crew is one of our best. As they pick their scissors reverberate like a pair of barber's clippers, their vines licked clean like a dog's bowl.

After dropping the fruit at Vinify it was bussiness as per usual. Moving, irrigating and grabbing a bite to eat when I could. Today a bit of smoked eel sushi for lunch.

What I really need right now is a working man's special, a 12 oz draught of Genessee and a shot of Grand Canadian sitting on a barstool at my favorite watering hole Annacones, right alongside my beloved Buffalo crew. Now that would be sweet music for these working man bones.

El Mago de la Pisca

2009-09-17T16:35:00.000-07:00

Coaches Corner

As far back as I can remember I have always been good or at least decent at sports, or any physical activity for that matter. Every once in a while I will try to jump in the mix and pick alongside the boys. Normally I get a few laughs and heckles or someone will tell me bluntly "It would be better for us if you can deleaf." Deleafing of course clears a path for the boys to pick effortlessly at a humming clip.

Today, however, I was deteremined to pick with the best of 'em. Well maybe not the best of them. And anyway, deleafing is sort of a bummer. All work and no glory.

More importantly the pick today went slow and in order for the fruit to make it up and over the mountain into Napa and then up Howell Mountain I decided the boys could use an extra hand. Even if it belonged to a gabacho. Picked, picked and picked heaps of Pinot we did as the afternoon sun began to heat up the Petaluma Gap. Uncannily warm for the region and time of year. Sweet poured down my shirt as we picked away at littled bunches increasing covered with wasps and bees where wounded grapes ouzed out pulp.

I might not have much picking style but the guy below certainly does. Rotate your head 90 degrees and check it out!

Macha Scissorhands

Scouting

2009-09-16T16:16:00.000-07:00

Ye Old Road

Whew...Today was a great day to catch my breath and what do you know get out of work early.

Irrigation early in the day and then a brief trip across county to walk a tractor half a mile or so bumpty-bump down Old Sonoma Mnt. Rd. Someone really needs to pave that mother.

The Samplemeister

Taking a break from blue collar labor in the afternoon I visited a ranch in Bennet Valley to check out a 2 acre block of Syrah that still has fruit available. In vineyard mangament you learn something new every day, and today was no exceptions as I learned how to take a proper fruit estimate by counting 50 bunches and weighing and then dividing to find average bunch weight.

The sweetest part of this year might be bringing to fruition a whimsical plan stormed up by the samplemeister Shaunt and myself to make wine from a ton or so of Syrah, maybe even throwing in a bit of Grenache and Mouvedre to give the wine fruit, a backbone and some killer color. Six months on and we think we might have a cool climate Syrah vineyard we we can source our fruit and a cellar for long term storage. And yes, we are giddy like schoolboys.

When it dawned on us that the Syrah might not be bottled for a good 16 to 20 months and then it might not open up for another year, or even multiple years I began to think about whites. As fate would have it there is a bit of Chardonnay up for grabs at a ranch we farm in Cloverdale. Not a big fan of Chard. and some might say a naysayer I figure what the hell...let's give 'er a go. If we pick early and try to show off the fruit instead of the oak monster we might just have a descent summer time tipple for the upcoming year.

Brix levels fluctuated between 18 and close to 20 with seeds on the verge of being fully brown. We are considering next Sunday for picking. Piss our pants excited.

Stay tuned...

Truck Stop Delight

2009-09-15T20:43:00.000-07:00

Deep down I think I always wanted to be a trucker. Or at least try it out for a week or two. More of a romantic notion than anything. The open road, your trusty CB radio, talking shit behind smokies backs, 10 lb bags of teriyaki jerky and most importantly bottomless cups of joe and delicious slices of truck stop pie. Traveling coast to coast you could truly taste the rainbow: from lemon merengue to triple chocolate cheesecake.

But really who wanted to pay five g's for truckdriving school and come to find out most truck runs are local, carrying you four hours one way and four hours back.

Not to mention that now, thanks to the wise Dr. Maingou, my interest in cross border transport seems to be centered arround the hard drugs, gambling and prostitution that have become synonymous with the trucker lifestyle. Maybe it's my calling, a tell all on the dark lives of America's trusted highwaymen, tracking down stick shift Charley and lot lizzard Linda for touching and tragic personal sagas.

I always (well sorta) wanted to be a trucker until this past year when I started hauling vineyard equipment. Somehow in the past year I had rubberbanded from living carfree for six years to driving durring the better part of my workday. Me, the guy who despised cars and cursed at them on a daily basis to and from work atop my cycle, barring my fangs via mini u-lock.

Now the tables have turned...oh how they have turned. When I see a cyclist riding down the middle of a shoulderless road amidst rushhour traffic I cringe and curse the day my road obstacle clipped in. Country roads used for agriculture might look like a cycling paradise but mid-day they are congested and dangerous. Not to mention during harvest! And don't get me started on bicycle rental companies that bring out wine tourists for amateur hour. Give me a break!

***

So, today, if there was any gave me the best dose of what it might be like to be a trucker. Exhausting. Ten plus hours, on and off, in front of the wheel. Load tractor, move to new vineyard, unload, wait, repeat.

For the better part of the morning I moved a couple tractors up and down Old Sonoma Mountan Road, filled with potholes, bumps, uneven pavement and tight ascending and descending turns. The brushburn whined and I pounded the gas pedal to the floor as we slowly crawled up the side of the mountain and descended six times. Repetition makes perfect right.

It sure took the piss out of me. I'm beat and my eyes are heavy. Tomorrow I seek diversity and something more substantial than a loaf of sourdough for breakfast and lunch.

Hasta luego...

Full Count Curve Ball

2009-09-14T20:33:00.000-07:00

"Jesus, I like him very much, but he no help with curveball" -Pedro Cerrano

Proverbially speaking the bases are loaded. To put it more succintly roughly 90% of the fruit we farm is still sitting on the vine and the heavens, or maybe Pariacaca if you live in Sebastapol, decided to cast down a few hours of on again, off again rain showers on Sunday. Coupled with high humidity, 87% and high nineties today, conditions were ideal across many Russian River Vineyards for the spread of botrytis, which in this scenerio wouldn't be quite so knoble.

As many winegeeks are aware Botrytis cinerea is a necrotropic fungus that can cause bunch rot under the right conditons (rain and high humidity). Likewise in some growing winegrowing regions such as Alsace, Mosel and Tokay botrytis works its magic to magically dehydrate grapes by penetrating grape skins releasing water and consentrating sugars and acids. Many of these grapes go on to produce world class desert wines that fetch high pricetags.

However, in our case, we were sitting in boat number one: bunch rot. The threat of bunch rot is particularly acute in certain grape varieties, specifically Chardonnay and Pinot Noir because of their compact cluster structure and delicate skins.

So when you have half of your vineyards with full crop loads and a descent threat of rot what do you do when your read the curve ball with its trajectory spinning toward the far corner, just under the letters. Now while I'm not a gambling man I don't think today would be the day I would start if I was calling the shots. No doubt about it I would have they guys up on their horses spraying their pants off as we did today.

The tough decision is whether or not to spray an organic vineyard when the only effective sprays available are conventional. What do you do? What would you do with thousands of dollars worth of fruit on the line? Sometimes pragmatism must weigh heavier than idealism. After all a farmer has to protect his livelihood.

***

Thus, today shifted from picking to spraying, as one we picked one ranch and another opted for a pick latter in the week. Just outside Healdsburg on top of a hill I could hear windmills churning, a loud attempt to take adavantage of dormant equipment and try to knock some standing water off of the fruit. The uproar reminded me of Marlborough, New Zealand where helicopters seem to outnumber people in some tourist regions. Mid-harvest when the rains had just begun to arrive the company called in a local chopper to make a few passes and knock the water off the vines before the fruit was machine harvested.

"This'll push the sugar up at least a half a brix" Nick the vitculturalist shouted over the roar of the chopper.

I stood spellbound on the rattling harvester thinking 'We have hit a golden age in agriculture when a luxory commodity is treated like royalty.' Well not really. It was more like, "Shit, this is the wine industry. I want in!"

Whiskey Matinee

2009-09-13T20:34:00.000-07:00

"I told those fucks down at the league office a thousand times that I don't roll on Shabbos!" -Walter Sobchak

Ah, Sundays, or maybe Saturdays if you are Jewish, the holy day of rest and revival. No matter if you are religous or not Sundays are for nasty hangovers, sleeping in, greasy brunches, bloody mary's and just plain lounging.

Today I slept in until 9 a.m., shaking off a bottle of wine and food coma. Late these days as the harvest alarm regularly rings at 4 or 5 am. Taking advantage of my one day off and the overcast mild weather I transformed back into busy beaver mode and finally finished planting the rest of my garden. Roquette Arugula, Bibb and Freckle Lettuce, Spinach, Daikon, Purple Bulbed Radish, Valentine Mesculun Mix, Beets and Dill all went into the ground as fall crops. Knowing full well that I will have no time to sew anything for the next two months I sewed rows close and thick dreaming of nourishing green salads and garnet, bulbous beets.

Then the rains came. Good for my garden (and maybe my emotional well being-the sun was begining to fry my brain), yet bad news for the grapes. Apparently a few vineyards were being sprayed this morning for precautionary measures. With luck the storm systems will pass until late october. Every great vintage needs a few variables right?

In the afternoon we took a workbreak to see Julie and Julia, a hearwarming take on the coming of age of Julia Child in 1940s France and Julie Powell in the infancy of Blogage.

Julie's story told of an aspiring gen-x writer suffering in a beuaracratic cubicle dealing with post-9/11 affairs. In an attempt to turn her life around she dedicates a blog to literally Mastering the Art of French Cooking through Child's seminal publication.

The other story that is intertwined in the movie is the coming of age of Julia Child as an authority on French Cuisine and cooking for the American public. Merly Streep nails the role as Child with a whimsical, funloving attitude that can't help but bring a shiteating grin to your face.

Overall a tearjerking, heartwarming tale that made us want to run to the used book store to pick up a copy of Child's masterpiece. Sadly in the city of Saint Rose everything seems to run on European time. Go figure.

And for our nightcap....

Affigem Dubbel: Rich, creamy raisony goodness with a bready caramel finish. I'm in love.

Saturday's the New Friday

2009-09-12T16:02:00.000-07:00

Swine Attack

So there I was, sitting in the tortuga verde, complete with a new ticker thanks to they lovely folks at Interstate and from across the vineyard I saw something big, black, moving through the rows. Was it a four-wheeler? Were the boys from the ranch over patrolling the grounds? Then it began to come into focus, stomping across the ditch, searching for refuge.

Furry, frenzied and on a mission a wild boar confused and heading straight for my grandmothermobile. Frozen in my tracks I waited for the the feral forager to chose his path before I reacted. Closer still and his trajectory remained the same. Deep down part of me wanted to see him ram my car, partially in disgust that I was invading his feeding grounds and the other half out of wanton destruction of the enemy: man.

Flash back three months prior, I had been waiting just inside the gate to the ranch when I was pried from a nodding sleep by two goatees in camo caps.

"Hey, you wouldn't happen to know who owns this property would ya?" they querried in a low woods-folk drawl. "Cause we wouldn't mind huntin' the grounds for some wild boar."

"Wild boar?" I sputtered in disbelief.

Days later I casually mentioned to Mondo that a few good old valley boys were looking to "kill some shit" down by the riverbed.

"Well who were these guys. Locals?" Mondo asked.

"Who knows. Rednecks tho." I responded thinking nothing of it. Afterall in Western New York things are cut and dry. A redneck is simply a redneck. To date no one has penned A Rough Guide to the Rural Redneck.

"Rednecks? What kind of rednecks," he pried as I sat by confused. "Hippie rednecks, timber rednecks, pot-growing rednecks, tweeker rednecks, Nascar rednecks, militia rednecks?

Who knew that the redneck genre had splinterd and fractured into so many divisions?

But then at that minute I became a believer. Not in redneck culture, but rather in the existence of wild boar. Fifty feet away there was with a grown, feral pig charging at my car. Crossing my fingers for a collision my furried friend darted at the last minute, shooting up a row of ripening Wente Chardonnay. If only I had a twelve gauge and spit on hand.

Turn of the Century Zin

Our big pick on Saturday was ten tons of an old vine zin vineyard sittin on the outskirts of Dry Creek Vally. The gnarly, squat vines on the verge of hitting the century mark struggle to push out three foot canes that miraculously produce 1/2 pound clusters. Not to mention half the vineyard is dry farmed. A signal to some that sloped dry farming is still a possibility.

Sweet, concentrated, voluptuous berries. A saturday morning treat.

Fresh Eats

"They say you are what you eat, so I strive to eat healthy. My goal in life is not to be rich or wealthy. 'Cause true wealth comes good health and wise ways..." -Dead Prez

The head hancho, Glenn, has often times commented to me at a big feed "You know Tea, when you're my age you get to eat like this four...five nights out of the week. Saturday night, tired and beaten down I sought to emulate one of Glenn and Melissa's great dinners with a bloody steak, fresh Carolina bottom feeding shrimp and a garden fresh salad.

Paired properly ofcourse with a 2007 Hugel "Gentil" Edelzwicker and a 2006 Chinon Les Penses de Pallus Cabernet Franc.

Not my best effort but we savored the food and libations as we bounced about Puerto Rico, the US/Mexico border and Quebec with a bobble-headed Anthony Bourdain. When short on cash the only way to travel is by the seat of your recliner and extension of the remote.

A few shots of our modest feast...

Garden Fresh

A white under 13 % abv.

Bridging the Divide

2009-09-11T21:10:00.000-07:00

The not-so mighty Russian River

Haulin'

For the first time in my life yesterday I hauled fruit from vineyard to winery. Not a stunning nor titlating task as the fruit only weighed in at a touch under 2 tons and I had to go only as far as a skip, jump and hop through the woods. A windy skip, jump and a hop I must add from Eastside to Westside Rd via the Woosley Bridge, a historic landmark and relic for the are at the ripe old age of 90. Like many bridges and thoroughfares in California no one likes to yield the right of way so I was exceptionally gleeful when an impatient service truck was forced to back up as I came rumbling across the one way bridge, macro bins and juicy pinot noir in tow, a smile across my face.

Why do Californians drive like self-absorbed assholes anyway? Is it the climate or is it Californian culture and ettiquete? In the Golden State turn signals are rare, merge at your own risk takes on new meaning and jacked up diesel rigs abound, all eager to shove their elongated member up your car's tailpipe.

Pulling into the hiddeen winery where "tresspassers will be prosecuting to the full extent of the law", an Aussie fellow by the name of full zipped up in an automatic forklift and simply asked "Hirsch," implying what I assume to be a load of fruit from the renowned Sonoma Coast vineyard. 'No, no, no' I chuckled in my head. But I wish it was! Now that pinot is true liquid gold! What I wouldn't give to fill a carboy with five gallons of free-run...

Another One Bites the Dust

The divide I attempted to bridge, or rather was inadvertantly challenged to bridge, was that of Cuban-American affairs. Five o'clock and I was beginning to feel my blood sugar drop. Outside of the Getty station at the corner of Occidental Rd and the 116, a hair outside of Sebastopol where cracks in the earth have unleashed dreaded hippie spawn, sits the taco truck El Coronel. I tried the place once before, ordering a Super Burrito of unknown protein filler. It sucked. Round 2. Hell, I'm a believer in giving everybody a second chance.

Steeping up to the window a ask for the sandwich in my best spanish accent "Torta Cubana" maybe even tossing in a "por 'fa" for good measure. Deep down I always feel like the peddlers won't 'gabochosize' my meal if they think there might be the slightest chance I am into Mexican culture and eats. The customer service was tepid if not downright piss poor. Why weren't bells going off right away? I want a smile with my salsa verde cabron!

I started my car back up, it started today after I broke down and bought a new battery. Lately I have been eating nearly all my meals in my car so I pledged to save the torta until I arrived in Petaluma and only eat the tortilla chips along they way.

Arriving at Rancho Strozzi I ripped open the tin foil and exposed my sandwich, digging in with big manly bites. Two bites in and I tasted foreign matter. Not just any foreign matter. Assorted pig part foreign matter. WTF? What the hell were several grilled hotdogs doing in my Torta Cubana? Why was there cheese whiz on my island sammy? Do you really think they can import cheeze whiz to Cuba? Was this a joke? Is the taco truck attempting to thaw relations between the U.S. and Cuba by creating a hybrid sandwich of our two cultures. Fast food joins up with a classic sandwich to commodify and corrupt. What was this shit, the Torta Panamericana? I just might take this issue up with the OAU.

El Coronel on the 116. Cross it off your list.

Self Medication

Pollished off this week...

Bear Republic Big Bear Black Stout

-Dark, mean, brooding. Just what the doctor ordered.

Grand Teton Brewing Co. Sweetgrass IPA

-Malty, crisp, hoppy edge. Enjoyable after a 12 hour day? Very much so.

2007 Domain Syvain Bailly Sancere Terroirs

-Floral at first giving into to vegetable notes, bit green in month followed by punishing acidity. Where are my seared scallops and shucked oysters?

Unutterable Exhaustion

2009-09-10T20:34:00.000-07:00

Good God, a week in the vineyards feels like two weeks in the cellar. At least when you get home after a day of sanitizing open tops, lines and presses you have a chance to catch your breath and slug down a beer or two. Growing grapes on the other hand seems more akin to attending a university or maybe running your own bussiness: no matterhow hard you bust ass there is always something to do.

These days it would seem I only have time to wake up well before the ass-crack of dawn, utter various obsenities about how early it is and then shuttle off to work for a 10,11,12 or 13 hour day. Depending on the day. Seems almost like a crap shoot.

No big difference here except a cellar crew might take a mandatory catered break or two and I often times find myself running off to Mulsberry's Market, stricken with a ravenous appetite to bring away a poor boy or a roast beef rap. If I'm lucky Honest Teas might be on sale and I'll grab a Sublime Mate to wash it down with; however adulterated it beats a second jolt of coffee at midday in 90 degree weather.

Who came up with sixty hour workweeks before overtime for Ag anyway? Sounds more to me like highway robbery. The Mexicans have a saying that they often repeat after asking me how hard I have been working (a white boy doesn't work hard he just drives a truck right?) "Mucho trabajo poco dinero amigo!" Of course I know full well they say it matter of factly with traces of indignancy in the background. After all we both know who is making more cash.

Knowing full well I had to prove myself I try each in every day to get my hands dirty while I can, whether it's helping remove leaves from picking bins, picking along side the boys to finish a row or lifting up bird netting and deleafing in front of the pickers.

My reward: food. Today a group of pickers sat post harvest devouring their prepared meals, pulling steaming soup and foil wrapped burritos from thermoses. "Tommy ven pa' aca. Comete jue eres muy flaco. Estas cuidandote tu cuerpo como una chava o que?" An invitation to eat with the boys is a compliment. If they like you they will ask you to their table, if not, then forget about the homemade tortillas and fresh camarones a la diabla.

But seriously 60 hour work week? Did Cesar Chavez cave to big Ag business and the politicos? Where are the contemporary Chicago martyrs when you need them? Where are the neo-Emma Goldmanns and Woodie Guthries. Can somebody say "living wage?"

Countdown to (Mental) Breakdowns

2009-09-09T21:03:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, let me refine that, most times things don't go as planned. Planning after all is relative to your perception of reality and mere chance. If life has taught us anything it should be to remain pragmatic and plan on shifting course at any given time.

Sifting through the days events I'm reminded of a generic contemporary country song about the woes of everyday life. You know the dity where some cowboy's wife, kids and dogs run out on 'im and his tractor is burried in a sinkhole. My woes, more modest it would seem, can be summed up by (what appears to be) a blown alternator and a pair of low-blood sugar induced crankypants. Acutally that sounds more like a track from Posion Idea's masterpiece "Feel the Darkness" than Kenny Chesney assualting a security crew in Buffalo after a few too many Bud Lights.

Nevertheless, today was a day of fires and misfires. After setting off at a sprinters pace on irrigation patrol I turned the keys in my ignition to hear "click, click, click." Surely it was a battery issue or was it? A jump and two hours later and the Bonnie refused to give a faint chug let alone turn over at all.

Crap! It was inevetible. Since April I have been working the car over day after day, speeding and bouncing across the bumpy backgrounds from the foot of the Mayacams to the twisty-turvy roads of the Sonoma Coast. She is a trooper, but it was bound to happen. A countdown to breakdowns.

Out of commission La Tortuga Verde (yes, that is the car's name. Strong and steady like a tortoise) lied dormant while I shuttled about Sonoma moving macro-bins down from Cloverdale and delivering equipment for tommorrow's picks.

The second week of harvest and I can feel my body aging, the hairs losing their pigment, graying overnight. My body is weakening and my tongue still feels weird from all those grapes I ate. Acid or chemicals? The jury is still out. But hey, when you are hungry, you eat what's around you. Technically that's eating local right.

Ah, hell I think the only solution is to carry a stockpile of non-perishable snacks. Punx is snax right? Since when did I forget my roots?

Grape Overload

2009-09-08T21:33:00.000-07:00

"Once you pop...you just can't stop."

Grapes not potato chips that is. Wine grapes to be exact. They're a big sticky mess. You better believe that when they are harvested at 26 or even 28 degrees brix they are an even stickier mess. Sorting through a macro bin picking out leaves and lugging around a bandeja collected "drops" can quickly gum up the hands. This extreme stickyness makes me squirm and quiver, discomforting me to the bone.

On the other side off the coin grapes are pretty tasty when consumed. Rich, ripe, plump dark berries enter the olfactory bulb when you squish berries in your mouth, moving the skins back and forth between your upper and lower miniscus.

Against my better judgement, today I decided to eat a late breakfast and skip lunch altogether filling the void with dozens of pinot noir clusters and a mid-day coffee. Modern chemistry would suggest that Sugar + Coffee is all one needs to sustain themselves durring a 12 hour work day. I would profer the same hypothesis if it wasn't for a splitting headache that throbbed on and off throughout the day. Or maybe it was a selective headache coming and going according to today's playlist: Murder City Devils: off; Agnostic Front: on; Adolescents: off; Abba: on; Cro-Mags: off; NPR pledgedrive: migraine city.

At any rate I believe that a risk-analysis study might show my grape intake to be a tad too high. After all how much sulfur, fungicide and spreader sticker can one safely consume on any given day? More test studies to come.

On to business. Another crazy, no holds bars non-stop day. We got off to a slow pace as the boys finished one pick and moved sluggishly to the next. All picks finished close to noon freeing the day up for post-harvest irrigation fun. If only irrigation didn't take up so much time I might have made it home before 8 pm to enjoy my frozen Safeway pizza. Excuse me, Ahem, Safeway Supreme pizza with cute little sausage balls atop. Did someone say gourmet frozen food section?

The Calm Before the Storm

2009-09-07T20:01:00.000-07:00

An undisturbed sea of Pinot Noir

Any great vintage needs a lull before the harvest turns full tilt and your head begins to spin. Today, quite possibly was that day. Althought many trips were taken back and forth throghout the Russian River Valley, hauling tractors and tractors with light-towers and others with forklifts to and fro, overall the day chugged along at a steady union pace.

Tomorrow, however, will be a day of judgement. Six picks in the course of 8 hours. Two picks by night and four by the din of the rising sun. Four crews will work there magic, pulling Russian River Pinot Noir off the vines for a couple stand out producers. Think big, bold, 5 year wait mailing list Pinot!

My job: supervise a four acre pick off of Olivet Road. Picker's cant pick too quick, clones must be properly labeled and transport must arrive as soon as the vines have been striped to the bare canes. Responsibility had to knock sometime and I guess 28 years after keeping it at bay now is my time to shine.

Hasta manana! Te contare la buena!

Syrah sitting tight

R&R

2009-09-06T20:28:00.000-07:00

Hat Trick

A good birthday weekend would not be complete without friends, food and tasty tipples. Saturday we hit the jackpot with these three ringers: 2008 Pey-Marin "the Shell Mound" Riesling which shined through dry, steely and citrusy, the 2005 Ridge York Creek Zinfandel bursting with vibrant dark fruit and tannins that say "I'm drinkable now, but I'll be smokin' in 10 years and a bottle of 1989 Anderson's Conn Creek Vineyard Napa Valley Pinot Noir which stole the show. The nose might have smelled a bit overripe what the body spoke of a busty 50 year old diva. Mouths dropped. And to think this wine was made when I was 8 years old! But honestly Pinot Noir didn't have shit on Thundercats back then.

Tramping at Armstrong Redwoods State Reserve

Sunday was slow and groggy, but an open faced over easy egg sandwhich on a bed of fresh arugula quickly changed our tune. Oh the sweet sizzle of greasy eggs and Sir Mixalot's seminal "Baby Got Back" music video was music to my ears. In the words of the Seattle rapper gone MIA "Side bends and crunches are o.k. but please girl don't lose that butt."

In the afternoon we explored the coastal redwood in Armstrong Reserve. Here 'lil Jan Jan looks out over the winding Russian River Valley as it snakes to the coast.

Barndiva Burgundy Bistro Birthday

2009-09-05T13:02:00.000-07:00

Le Bistro

Hidden between the boutique shops on the northside of the plaza in Healdsburg sits Bistro Ralph. The food was delicious and the service top notch. Both Janet and myself selecting the Prix Fixe menus, my partenr picking the Salmon and myself the braised Pork Shoulder. Both entrees were cooked to a T, Janet's boasting fennel and figs with a white wine reduction and my braised pork bathed in a carmelized sauce swam in a sea of fava beans, thin garlic slices and minced chives. While my dish did not send me soaring into foodie euphoria, it transported me back to my grandmother's kitchen on a Sunday afternoon in the summer when we would all gather around to enjoy a roast that spent hours baking and filling the house. When it was time to eat the meat seemingly melted in your mouth. Rattatouille deja vu with yours truly Anton Ego leaving my criticism at home and simply basking in the moment.

Le Vin Rouge

Holy Crap! This Burgundy from Santenay smoked! For the last six months it has been seducing me at Bottle Barn in Santa Rosa, sitting on the shelf with SPCA puppy dog eyes, begging me to find it a good home. Finally(without doing my homework I must admit!) I took the plunge, hell it was my birthday after all so why not spend $35 (USD) and roll the die, take the plunge if you will. Produced by two brothers with a portion of the wine coming from 200 year old vines (what is the truth to this I could not tell you) the 2005 Lucien Muzard et Fils Primer Cru Santenay Maladiere was a bargain! The wine opened slowly showing herbaceous, maybe even tomato notes followed by perfumed red fruit. Subtle and alluring. The mouthfeel was balanced with great tart cherry acidity and a back end bolstered by an oak finish, which I imagine with fade and balance as the wine continues to show with age. Over the course of two hours the wine opened into a classic Burgundy style that vibrated in my mouth. Quite refreshing and a drastic departure from the voluptous, high alcohol, fruit forward Russian River Pinots the lined Bistro Ralph's wine list.

La Barndiva

"PRETTY LITTLE CASUALTIES. IN TEMPORARY TRAGEDIES. BORN FROM THE SAME PLACE

SELF DOUBT GROWS. COLD AND HOLLOW RED CARPET READY POSE

BUT AROUND HERE 'DIVA' AIN'T MUCH OF A COMPLIMENT" -D4

I am still amazed I ended up at Barndiva on my birthday. A cross-section of the clientle floated somewhere between slick affluent metrosexual and indy fashion victim. Possibly Healdsburg's unofficial hipster haven. Confused by the neon lights and eurotrash I began to peg everyone as foreigners in town for this years crush. French, Spanish, German, Somoan. As I crept closer, hoping to recognize the dialect or an accent I am sad to report they were all locals. Everyone except the three Argentinians who were in town on "vaccations." And that is how I lost a $20 bet.

Just like every year, you win some-you lose some.

The Aftermath

2009-09-04T19:25:00.001-07:00

The Brushburn

Act I

Sleeping in, however uncommon in agriculture, was the plan for Friday morning. That is if you consider rolling out of bed at 7 am sleeping in. But somehow things never work out as planned. Dealing with the aftermath of Thursday's early morning pick left us scrambling to get back on our feet. While Paco headed home in the 450 flatbed thoughtfully dubbed La Raspadura, or brushburn, by the boys and I finished the last move of the day with his pickup, which handles like a luxory sports car compared to the flatbeds jerky stick shifting.

The old switcheroo left Paco with an empty tank of diesel and no company cards to refill, so I ablidgingly met him at the Royal Petroleum station at seven, hauling ass out the door as dreams of preparing a fresh egg sandwich evaporated into thin air.

All good though mate as the empty tank provided the impetus for a crucially productive day of prep and irrigation. Healdsburg was my first stop fueling with a cup of Don Mayo Costa Rica at the Flying Goat and jetting out to Westside Road to handwater a Viognier block, then shoot back into the heart of Russian River to damn up a creek and purge an air bubble and then swing by El Walmart to lay down a few hours of water for a pinot block to be picked on Monday. Needless to say this busy beaver was making it happen.

Act II

As noon approached I switched gears, literally switching vehicles. I parked my Pontiac la tortuga verde and fired up the Brushburn. Similar to chess we began to strategically move our equipment for Monday. As a vineyard management company that farms vineyards across Sonoma County a crucial part of each pick is transporting equipment to and from each ranch beofre the crew has arrived and after the fruit has been harvested and hauled away.

This is the aftermath.

"Alright, we need two tractors, two trailers and a flatbed deliverd to Vicini. Am I saying that right Vee-chee-neee?," sounded Pacostani voice as the Nextell cut in and out,

"Yep, you got it" I assured

"And six macro bins and the tractor with the forks to Catalinni."

"Copy that chief," I sighed beggining to plot the moves out in my mind, feeling out the routes and contours of the roads. 'A real walk in the park' I thought to myself.

Before I started with Bacchus I had no clue how to back up a trailer let alone haul a six ton tractor across the county and up the backside of a mountain. For six years I lived carless, almost unheard of for an American and my stick shift my shoddy at best. Six months on and I feel comfortbable in the brushburn, a dualie with a mindnumbing engine roar. The hardest part of hauling in Sonoma is keeping all eight wheels on the road in county where roads are nailbittingly narrow and shoulders are at a premium.

Bing, bam, boom with a bit of teamwork and cooperation (and a Chimichanga from Mi Burritto) we successfully aligned our mechanincal pawns, knights and queens. Monday is a go!

Another 11 hour day, I'm off to wine and dine!

En La Noche!

2009-09-03T18:36:00.001-07:00

The harvest moon shone brightly above Russian River Valley thursday night, although, not quite bright enough for our first night pick. As I drove in a dazed sleep deprived stupor along River Road I saw a glaring light from the hillside. Not just any light but an obnoxiously bright light. From below it appeared as if I was approaching a stadium lit up for the Rose Bowl or an AC/DC stadium show. Was that our site, Saint Raymond?

San Remo, a hilltop Pinot Noir vineyard, was in fact turned from a conspicous 5 acre ranch into Grape Stadium. Pulling through the gates I passed by Elias, widely known as the Mule, who angrily professed "Esta chingadera no sirve amigo!" "The tractor or the light tower?" I asked sipping my coffee. "The both of 'em" came his response.

He wasn't too far off the mark either. Technical difficulties once again threw a few curve balls at the pick as steep hillsides prevented some of the towers from initially entering the rows to illuminate pickers and then, blammo! one of our towers went down.

While a level headed radio call might have sounded "We have zero visibility in block three...over" the boys started to hoot and holler, anxious that the other team would soon overtake them in the amount of grapes picked. On the opposite side of the vineyard Beto's crew was in an uproar over the lighttower. "What good are those lights if I can't see a damn thing" and "We want the Mule to drive for us. We don't want Monton" in reference to one tractor drivers inability to proper light up the pickers.

Now why night picks you might ask? The answer is multi-faceted. When you pick at night the grapes are cooler and the skins a bit tougher making it less likely that the berries will break open and juice. As pinot noir requires delicate vinification mehtods to ensure the true expression of the grape it is of utmost imporance that fruit arrive to the winery as intact as possible. Upon delivery, most reds are immediately destemmed and then put through a multi-day cold soak to extract pigment from the skins and stabalize the grapes prior to fermentation. Also, higher temperatures are more likely to spark a wild fermentation before or shortly after the grapes arrive at the producers doorstep, which could ruin the possibility for a controlled ferment.

Roughly three hours after we began and we had 14 tons loaded and ready to haul out the door. As the night progressed, the pace steadied and the boys calmed and picked at a sustainable pace. Everyone picked their fair share even if they didn't think so. A simple harvest to some but these guys treat it like life an death.

After the pick I asked Beto how things went.

"Crappy" came his response.

"Yeah, why?" I asked

"I got here at 12:45 am and then that young kid comes along and stills the damn tractor out from under me." he replied. I think he was implying could have out picked the other team with the right tractor. Understandable, of course, everyone needs a decompression session.

I could only offer one piece of advice, the harvest is but a puppy and tomorrow is new day.

Patchwork

2009-09-02T20:37:00.000-07:00

Humpday. Always a big hot mess. Woke up and whacked the alarm a few dozen times only to roll out of bed disheveled and still exhausted. No coffee either. Drats! The ptetradactyl was picking up a morning shift and the french press was already luke warm by the time I began to poke about the kitchen, harvesting the crush out from the corners of my eyes.

Instead of lending a hand with harvest I headed out to Bennet Valley for a beautiful sunrise to put some water down on a few Pinot Noir blocks that looked like they were on the verge of throwing in the white flag and shriveling into high end raisons. Well maybe not. I'm not so sure that anyone is ready to drop $4000 a ton for raisons. Now that might be a new luxory good. Any one want to test the waters on that market?

Drip irrigation for those out East, where there is normally plenty of summer rain, is commonly used to efficiently and strategically water grapevines in much of the New World (Australia, NZ, Argentina, South Africa). Tiny emitters are placed along a drip line and let out a specifc amount of water per hour, normally 2 to 4 litres. Ingenous and energy conserving no doubt, but never quite leak proof as I found out earlier this summer as I have routinely sprayed myself in the face and soaked my work clothes patching up drip line.

Much of the afternoon was spent battling traffic delays on River Road this afternoon and prepping for our night pick at San Remo. Pull a tractor here, schlep a light tower up a hill and pull a picking trailer out of storage.

Time to get some sleep. Five hours 'til the pick!

We Have Lift-Off

2009-09-01T18:46:00.000-07:00

Day two was 'kicked' off at Los Leones the foot of the Mayacamas at a ranch known for its single vineyard Syrahs and hard to find Rhone varieties. But we didn't come for the Syrah! That pick is at least a good month away. Today was another pick devoted entirely to the illustrous Sauvignon Blanc grape, more specifically clones Savignon Musque and 317.

Technical difficulties highlighted the mornining as the tractors brakes gave out coming down a hill sending macro bin, cooler and paper cups flying as the machine catipulted down a series of water bars. A skiing yardsale for farmers. I held my tongue while stunned while Glenn anounced "The tractor must have lost it brakes."

Waiting for the a second trator the crew took advantage of the down time to deleaf the rows on deck for the day. Running to the designated rows the boys windmilled leaves and leap frogged one another to the front of the line. Each time a man finished and took to a sprint his name was called could "Vamos Seis! Si puedes! Eres el unico!" Deleafing had evolved into a what sounded like a football rally, or maybe even a practice run to get everyone pumped for the pick to come.

A standard pick on the whole that gave Eugene's crew a taste of the good times to come. Don Charlie and myself deleafed making social commentary on American consumerism in the downtime. "Who eats fresh fruit anymore? Who picks fruit from trees around here?" inquired el Don. "Well, I do. I grabbed three from Love yesterday," I replied. Ah, sometimes it's great to be the exception to the rule. Down with processed foodgoods or VAP's right!

The Musque clone tasted phenomenal with bright citrus and the 317 appeared a bit more green and acidic. If we open our minds we can not only learn to embrace but also enjoy the capsicum and mowed grass!

Day One

2009-08-31T20:56:00.000-07:00

Sauvignon Blanc flew off the vines this morning alongside roadwork on the bottlenecked highway 101, a vineyard the boys often refer to as El Walmart, due to its close proximity to falling prices. This was our first pick off the season and a classic case of now you see me, now you don't. After more than eight month's of meticulous care and nurturing it's hard to imagine that a plant can be denuded in a little under thirty seconds.

The pros like Macha and El Burro are a buzzcutting blur, adeptly cutting off tight lime green clusters, heaving them into yellow lugs and pushing their boxes along to the next vine with their feet. Older workers such as Don Ramiro slowly pick away at a constant pace insisting "I pick clean clusters for quality and not speed."

For the most part I steered clear of the pickers, collecting samples for historic yield counts, collecting stragler bunches like a mother hen and deleafing ahead of the crew. "Somos hojeros ahoro Tommy!" boomed Mario as we deleafed at warp speed while the tractor looped around the the drop spot. I have a long list of job titles but it had never occured to me that one day "dealeafer" would be one of them.

Deleafing, especially with Sauv Blanc, is of utmost importance. Leaves mixed in with the fermentation can easily give off green and vegetal characters a vinter would be opposed to seeing in their finished wine. And while Sauv. Blanc seems to incorporate these flavors on it's own it sure doesn't need anything that might compound them.

Overall, the grapes were in good shape and tasting quite 'savvy'. Dave commented that Sauv Blanc might be one of the few varieties where you can taste the same flavors in the berry as you can in the wine. Of course this could probably be said about a few other whites, Gewurztramier and Muscat Blanc quickly coming to mind. Nibbling on berries as I went there was plenty of melon, peach, citrus and yeah maybe a bit of capsicum. It might not measure up to Marlborough(hey I'm biased!) but how can you really go wrong with this varietal.

Beto the team leader cheered the boys on as he rumbled up and down the long, and I mean seemingly endless, rows in the Kubota with a macro bin in tow. "Let's move it muchachos because we got six long rows to go and I'm not gonna be here all day."

However this was to be a slow day, maybe 10 tons picked max. Even though the bossman had
mentioned early in the morning that there was no reason to pick "stupid fast," the boys didn't seem to hear him; they are ready to make some dought. The smell of harvest was in the air, and much like the sauv blanc, everyone could already start to taste the green.

A Cruise to the Coast

2009-05-03T00:55:00.001-07:00

Last Saturday was my first day off in ages, although in reality it was probably only a few weeks. My bones were weary, my brain broken and I looked forward to sleeping in on Saturday morning. Alright, these days 9 am sleeping in, but it sure beats smacking my alarm at 5:30 am and rolling over with hopes that I am still dreaming.

Ademas, my friend Cornbread had arrived in town on Friday night fresh off the dirty dog and I was determined to drag her off to the coast.

Actually, the Bread had designs of her own. "I'll pay you gas money to drive me out to the Pacific," she offered over the telephone. "Nonsense poopypants," I retorted, "it would be my pleasure." A foreboding and powerful beast, the ocean plies a hypnotic spell over beachcombers and commands universal respect of leathery faced fisherman. Coming from the frozen tundra of Chicago or the murky depths of Buffalo your appreciation of spending a day by the ocean is
unquantifiable. Where else can you suck in the pungent salt water air and poke at reproductive shaped algae?

Shipping off mid-afternoon from Santa Rosa we hopped on the 12 towards Sebastopol, but a rowdy float of Schreiners spoke of trouble abrew. In the breezy hippy commune of Sebastopol, where you can cross the street barefoot wherever you like and cars must come to a screeching halt, there was a parade in progress. Whether they were celebrating the asparagus harvest of the opening of a new independently owned hatha yoga studio we will have no clue. Our two person death-dealing gas guzzler followed the finger painted detour signs around the towns outer edges to Bohemian Highway.

"Bohemian highway, what?" CB asked aloud in a half rhetorical tone.

"Hippies dude," I responded disdainfully.

On our way to Bodega Bay we made another side trip to Occidental, a once Italian alcove enshrouded in phallic sequoias that flank both sides of the valley. According to local records, it was once common practice for beach going Italian families to stopover in Occidental on their way back down to the big city. What pairs better than a sandy crotch and eggplant parm anyway? Nowadays the old Italian joints still stand tall, but outside investors have forced them to become bedfellows with a French styled bistros(yuppies), antique shops and the colorful Bohemian Market(hippies). Only in Northern California can you find Synergy Kombucha in the smallest one horse town.

Turning back on to Bohemian Hwy. Cornbread informed me that Alfred Hitchcock's cult classic "The Birds" had been shot in and around Bodega Bay.

"The Burbs," I asked thinking of a paranoid Tom Hanks while trying to visualize cookie-cutter sub-divisions at the foot of the ocean.

"No. The Buurrddzz," she responding patiently, "1962. Hitchcock. A flock of deranged crows begin to violently assault villagers in a small seaside town."

Well, I have never seen the movie and I don't claim to be a Hitchcock fan either, the Potter School used in the film clearly stood out on our drive to the coast. The school, that now doubles as private residence, is a major tourist destination for number one psycho Hitchcock fans. Stepping inside the gift shop we were greatly warmly by the receptionist click-clacking away with a pricing gun and miniature crow magnets.

After perusing the tiny gift store I approached the counter, "Do you get lots of business here," I asked in a genuine tone.

"Oh, quite a bit, tourists come from all over the world to see the house. Of course some are more interesting than others. Often times they rent the birds," she signaled pointing to two stuffed interpretations of the crows in the movie. These, however, were no ordinary birds, they were rentals.

"You can rent the birds?" I asked almost incredulously.

"Yep. $1 for every three minutes. People chase each other up and down the street with them all the time. Like I said, this job is pretty entertaining," she gushed, the gun still working at its steady beat 'click-clack, click-clack, click-clack.'

I'm not sure I agree with her, but I would pay good money to see a German in socks and open toed sandals chase his middle-aged, screaming wife down the street with a taxidermied crow.

By the time we reached Bodega Bay, we were famished. We popped into a popular tourist haunt, the Spud Point Crab Co. for a bowl of chowder and a crab sammy. The food was delicious, the crab tender and fresh, and the chowder extra creamy. Not to say we didn't pay a premium price: $11 bucks for a meager pinch of crab meat on a sub roll.

Bodega Bay head made my day, maybe even my week. Strong gusts and blowing sand failed to keep families and picnickers away from marching along the bluffs. The windchill, which turned the tops of my ears numb, forced me to strip to my skibbies in the parking lot and put on a pair of jeans for more adequate skin protection.

In the forty-five minutes it took to get to the coast I had sadly gone from shorts and chacos to a zipped up winter parka. I was beginning to question whether I could ever live this close to the ocean.

In Jenner, population 110, we stopped to satisfy my latest vice, caffeine. At Aquatine I opted for an Americano en lieu of an espresso. Experience has taught me that when the freshness of drip coffee is a concern, always go with the espresso. Inside the small cafe, the locals sat in a circle sounding off about their latest eco-feats. A middle aged woman with sun bleached hair bristled in a low voice, "Today I did 75 miles on the bike in just under three hours. It's a personal best." The crowd murmured in applause.

I smirked, running out of the cafe with my black death. 'Dude, you like, totally owned mother nature on your machine!'

Hitting a historical fee site at Fort Ross we decided to hang a u-turn and head back through Russian River through the hills. Zigzagging down the winding switchbacks that did their best at shaving down my brake pads, we rounded out our tour in Cazadero, a small vacation spot for weekend nature lovers. Throughout the descent I squinted my eyes looking for Hirsch vineyard and Flowers, but all to no avail. In the quaint tourist gettaway with little more than a general store we stumbled upon an artisan bread shop. A perfect opportunity to idle down before heading back to the city.

Raymond greeted us offering a random assortment of baked goods and brick oven pizzas. "Say, where are you two from?" he asked as if it were his signature opening line. Apparently we were that easy to peg. Hell, I'm always that easy to peg. Sweaty palms and squeamish body language give me away every time.

One day, I will grow a big gnarly beard and join the ranks of the hill-folk. Oh how sweet it would be to trap, gather and grow your own necessities circled by the redwoods and overlooking the tempestuous sea to the West and cluttered sprawl to the East.

Great Buys III

2009-04-25T22:23:00.000-07:00

Ayinger Celebrator Doppelbock

This week, while at the corporate bottle store, I gambled and lost. I decided to go with a Chilean Syrah produced by a prominent wine-making family that will remain anonymous. The wine was familiar; I lustfully polished off the 2003 vintage in a tidy Days Inn suite during a poster tour weekend layover in St. Augustine, Florida. Although I admit that my wine palate was in its infancy, if not still wallowing in an under educated wine womb, I fondly remembering enjoying the bottle. To the very last purple drop in fact.

Unfortunately, the second time around I was left utterly disappointed and beside myself for selecting a wine catered toward the American market. As per the short tasting notes given by Wine Spectator lying below on the price tag, I should have known better. A rational response would have been to swivel on my right heel and walk away, but I couldn't resist. I needed to revisit the wine that once soothed my oral fixation in a lonely, sterile hotel room amidst a surfer's paradise.

Wine Spectator touted the wine as "richly layered...backed by a lush beam of boysenberry fruit...toasty finish." As an enthusiastic consumer why should I dismiss or doubt the praises of one of the country's most respected wine magazines?

Sitting down to pair the wine with a freshly pan-seared rib eye I was soon dismayed by my purchase. My hard earned money spent on a wine bastardized by the lure of new french oak. I wasn't tasting the wine, I was tasting the artificial flavoring. A more accurate description might state "Explosions of overripe fruit...intense black spice and vanilla...a stave walloping finish..." While the Syrah certainly boasted intense flavors, it was by no means balanced or attempting to adhere to a particular style. Could a discerning drinker discern the grape variety and country of origin? I highly doubt it; the oak masking any clues of the wine's identity, terrior and appellation. And food friendly? Forget about it. To what dish do you pair with a spiced fruit bomb?

As a result, this week I am slinking back to my humble past as a novice beer geek and homebrewer. Disheartened by my poor wine selection on Friday I reverted back to the world of zymurgy, where even after a long hiatus, I still feel comfortable and confident. Without hesitation I selected a few bottles I consider to be world class, available widely across our fine flag waving country and all modestly priced. Ayinger's Celebrator Doppelbock easily makes the list. At $2.99 a bottle, a price you might commonly pay for a formula rice wine at your local watering hole, this gem makes for a cheap date.

Originally brewed in a monastery in Northern Italy, doppelbock gained popularity in Germany after it was introduced to compete with the common, less alcoholic Bock. Doppelbock, like many high alcohol trappist ales was used throughout lent by fasting monks. Traditionally, doppelbock is a robust, dark lager praised for its fruity nose and dark chocolaty notes. In many circles Celebrator (doppelbock names end with -ator ie. Paulaner Salvator) has been hailed as the mother of all double bocks. Clocking in at 6.7 % abv, Celebrator gives a slight hiss when opened and immediately fills the air with a scent of roasted almonds. The beer pours dark rubby-brown and when filled in the proper glassware, ie. a tulip, will froth a thick, creamy beige head. The nose is filled with fruity berry esters as well as figs, plums, caramel and chocolate notes. A rich, thick mouthfeel continues to expouse the doppelbocks self-righteousness with creamy toffee and chocolate and a complimentary balance between malty sugar and a slight warming alcohol.

Now I know you might ask 'How can this rando celebrate the rich flavors of one alcoholic beverage and not another?' To answer honestly, Doppelbocks have a long history and are an established, balanced style of beer; a style that at one time was produced for religous purposes. Manipulated wines, such as the Chilean Syrah however, share a brief history of pleasing contemporary new world critics and flooding the American market raised on fast food and cloyingly sweet soda pops.

The Celebrator is even gaining new popularity with younger drinkers in Germany. It could just be the higher alcohol, but maybe they're on to something. Affordable and world class. Now those are two words I rarely hear at the same time in the wine world. Sometimes I need to be reminded of why it feels so great to love beer.

Heatwave!

2009-04-21T19:24:00.000-07:00

Northern California has been clobbered with a mid-spring heatwave, temps soaring into the low 90s in the valley and to the West at the foot of the Mayacamas. Needless to say, the unseasonable weather has thrown me for a loop, confounding my senses and triggering my body to go into summer mode; my cerebral cortex cooly asks 'Sleep, what's that?' To which my impulse response so often seems: 'Sleep when you die!' That's the advice I'd like to pass around to my kids at least.

Early this morning, I sipped a black mug of Sumatran Dolok Sangul, flavors of blueberry, citrus and mikly cocao blasting away at my tastbuds. NPR's morning edition droned on about the near-zero possibility of Kurdish statehood, so I decided to tune out. Freeway 101, just past Healdsburg, opens up into a patchwork quilt of Cabernet in Zin along the Alexander Valley floor and only a good soundtrack will save you from la-la-ing off into utter a vine row trance. Popping on Jawbreaker's first classic Lp "Dear You" I propelled myself into the future, fueled on uplifting heartache. Can your day really be that bad when it starts out with Jawbreaker?

Fifteen-hundred feet above the valley floor in what I presume to be the Cloverdale highlands, the temperature was rising, but the sheep were still out and about on the morning graze. Warm, but not too warm for a bit of breaky. I pulled up to the ranch overlooking the Ukiah and Alexander Valleys and sighed, catching my breath. "Never fails. Stunning every time." But enough gazing, I had a field report to do. Mounting the Mule, an oversized diesel golf cart, I zoomed in and out of blocks, the fresh mountain air simultaneously cooling and wicking away body odor marching out rank and file from my slimmy pores. Like most days I was greeted by a gallant Swan, wings raised as it charged across an upper irrigation pond to defend its territory and the honor of his fair maiden, who sat cool, calm and collected on the far bank. Near the pump house two mud turtles sunned themselves on a floating two-by-four, but as the roar of the Mule become apparent each belly flopped into the murky depths with a small "plop." Turkeys scurried as I whizzed by giving me yet another grin.

The ranch is alive! So are the vines. Two weeks ago, minuscule buds fought to expand and break and now many cordon arms are bristing with three inch shoots. The miracles of nature. I love it! Every minute of it.

On the way out the door the turtles reassumed their positions and the sheep took shelter in the shade under the gnarly oaks, bracing themselves for the sweltering afternoon to come.

Changing gears, from cruising to cursing, the afternoon was spent constructing a deer fence in Bennet Valley. At the base of the Mayacamas, thermometers rocketed to the clouds and sweat poured freely like a bum jug at the Palace Flophouse. I took on the duty of pounding in intermediate stakes with a heavy metal tool called El Nino. Why the Mexican guys call it "the little boy," I still have no clue. To the sensitive ear the name eriely rings of child abuse.

For every downward stroke, an ear piercing "CLING!" and another tablespoon of sweat emerged from my epidermal layer. After six stakes my shoulders whinnied and my bottled piss and vinegar sprung a slow leak. After another ten I was beginning to feel like a faltering Jon Henry. But hell Jon Henry would take one look at me and ask "What you doing nancy boy? Shake a leg, before I break it off!

My only question remains, when will the heat snap? Will it snap? Is this global warming gonna scorch us this summer? Maybe I will run back to WNY with my tale between my legs. One can only support so much.

Not to mention the vines, with most off to the races with a few vineyards with shoots already peeking at a foot and a half. It's gonna be a busy season.

Great Buys Deux: Chateau Haut-Monplaisir

2009-04-19T11:46:00.000-07:00

2005 Chateau Haut-Monplaisir Prestige

Purusing the local package store's selection this week I was looking for something deep, dark and brooding-hopefully with a good swift kick of tannins to boot. It was Saturday and I planned on swinging by the chop shop for a prime cut of red meat. What could pair better with a fresh New York steak than a California Petite Sirah, a Bordeaux bargain or a modestly priced Argentinian Malbec? With a bit of searching and an appetite to gamble I settled on a wine from the southern French appelation Cahors, a lesser known region that sits equidistant from the Atlantic Ocean and the Pyrennes Mountains. Once a competitor with neighboring Bordeaux, three major events virtually devastated the Cahors wine industry: (1) the onset of phylloxera in the late 1800s (2) the harsh frosts of 1956 which whiped out entire vineyards and (3) the financial success of Bordeaux which cast a blanket over its neighbor to the East.

Today, Cahors is comprised of roughly 15 % the amount of acreage that was planted in the late 19th century.

While these days a typical wine lover might say that 'Malbec' is synonymous with 'Argentina' (or maybe even Mendoza), some in the old world might claim otherwise. The history of the wine region of Cahors stretches back to Ancient Rome (50 BC), when vines were first planted and natives began crafting the "black wines of Lot." The inky, tannnic wines were at one time sent to the Russian Imerial court and used as sacramental wines for the Russian Orthodox Church.

Cahors, along with many French wine regions, is highly respected for its distinct terrior and tradition. The vineyards position, lying between the Atltanic, Pyrennes and Mediterrenean benefit from cool coastal breezes and an extended growing season as a result of Autumns with little to no rainfall. Likewise the wines often boast a strong minerality which is derived from chalky soils in the terraces of the Lot region, which were formed from erosion and ancient and modern alluvial deposits from the Lot River and its tributaries. Visually, the soil is emblazoned with a dark red, an indicator of soil rich in iron oxides, which were once mined in smelted in the region. Lastly, Cahors wines must be comprised of at least 70% Malbec (also called Cot, or known locally as Auxerrois) and are often blended with Merlot, to round out the mouthfeel, and Tannat.

Chateau Haut-Monplaisir is located on the third and highest terrace of the Lot region, characterised by its altitude and freely draining soils. Cathy and Daniel Fournie began the estate in 1998 when they decided they would like to make their own wine from the vineyards long farmed (the fruit sold to negociants) by Cathy's father. With the help of Pascal Verhaege of the well knon Chateau du Cedre, the Fournie's were able to launch their dream.

Each year the chateau produces three cuvees: a straight Cahors fermented and aged in cement vats, Prestige which is aged in new and used oak and Pur Plaisir which is unorthodoxly crushed directly into 500 liter demi-muids; their side staves pre-removed and stood on end for fermentation in barrel.

The 2005 Prestige poured a deep inky purple, mezmerrizing to the eyes and beckoning one to ask: what saturated flavors lurk beneath? Dark berries, plums and blackberries efused from the nose with smoky notes lingering in the background. The biggest suprise might be the mouthfeel, which was rounder and softer than I expected. My best guess is twofold: the wine according to the importers website press release was privy to "carefull use of micro-oxegenation" and the protein (my delicious steak!) help tone down the tannins as well. Inside the mouth the taste effuses more dark berries, baking chocolate (cocao),spice and smoke which coupled with strong acidity gives off a subtle cranberry flavor. The tannins hold strong in the finish reminding you that this wine is bold and robust, with ageing potential, but most importantly it should be paired with your favorite cut of red meat. So head out to your neighborhood carniceria and pick up a bottle.

Aprovecha!

For more info check out:

Chateau Haut-Plaisir importer press release

http://www.vintage59.com/pdf/haut_monplaisir_profile.pdf

French Travel and Leisure website

http://www.frenchentree.com/france-lot-quercy-cahors-wine/

Plan a Cahors Wine Tour!

http://www.frenchentree.com/france-lot-quercy-cahors-wine-tours/

Wine Enthusiast website on French Wine

http://www.frenchduck.co.uk/cahors.html

Great Buys I

2009-04-16T21:06:00.000-07:00

2005 Copeland Creek Vineyards Pinot Noir

Everytime I visit Bottle Barn in Santa Rosa off of Industrial Ave. I snoop for something off the beaten path, a wine quite possibly that none of the wine critics will crown (or should I say annoint) with a hefty 90+ point score. When I see the cue card boasting accolades from the Wine Advocate and other crowd pleasing wine pundits I swivel my cheeks 180 degrees and walk away. I'm over heavily oaked fruit bombs and high alcohol reds well on their way to fortified winedom. I scream for grit, grime, raw untamed wines at affordable prices with some terroir to boot.

On my way to the checkout, arms full with a few research specimens, I spotted my gem for the week. The 2005 Copeland Creek Sonoma Coast Pinot Noir, sitting in a cut cardboard box with a long winded, laminated review from Santa Rosa's own The Press Democrat taped on below. Speeding through the first few lines I skipped the rest thinking "What the hell, let's giv'er a try." After all, the region was appealing enough, Sonoma Coast, the alcohol a good percent and a half lower (13.5 %) than many California Pinots, the vintage was slightly aged and most importantly the price was right: $22. Yeah, yeah I know. To your average Joe-the-shovel-leaner the pricetage appears a bit steep, but in California this almost seemed like a bargain. And to be fair many top CA Pinots are flying off the shelf at 60, 70 and 80 bucks a pop; Kosta-Browne, Flowers, and Hanzell are but a few. Not to meniton that this was my weekend and I was gonna enjoy it!

Copeland Creek's 2005 Pinot poured a light ruby color, immediately signalling to me that the wine had a feminine style, maybe making it a bit more subtle and alluring. The nose opened up immediately with dark cherries, spice and raspberry. The mouthfeel was silky smooth with velvety (or absent) tannins and a baked red berry and slight oak taste that lingered for a while with well balanced acidity.

Incredibly palatelable. It's refreshing to taste Pinot Noir that could be cracked even on a hot summer day. Buying a case of the '05 to savor over the next two years would be a wise decision indeed.

A Week of Burning

2009-03-21T19:40:00.000-07:00

A month back I was stung by the ever mischievous poison oak. Focused on clearing drains alongside a 2 acre slope of Pinot Noir in Chalk Hill I inadvertently stumbled into the miserable leafless vine. Without any green indicators to send out a warning signal, I dug deeper into the ditch without a second thought. Two days later as I carpooled south to Northern Marin I scratched at my arm, pulling my longsleeve shirt back to reveal a bright pink, inflamed patch of skin, about the size of a post-it note. The first images into my head came from the scene in Requiem for a Dream when Harry Goldfarb is on a dope run to the lower reaches of the confederacy and realizes his right arm is terminally infected. A wave of terror spread over me and I panicked thinking, 'Shit, my arm might be infected! I could loose my fucking arm!'

From the driver's seat I heard Big D announce "Shit dude, that looks like poison oak." Bingo. "Look on the bright side, at least you didn't get hit during mid-summer when you are sweating your ass off constantly," my boss reassured me.

For the following two weeks I tried everything to get rid of the urushiol oil that was spreading its toxic hands across my body. I was livid, rightly pissed off. I'm from the Northeast. We have poison ivy which my body is practically immune to. You name it I tried it: aveeno, aloe creams, calamine lotion, technu, origin, homeade salves. When I arrived to prune with one of the quadrillas coated in pink flaky war paint someone would inevitably ask "Oh, Tommy do you still have la hiedra? Oh, Tommy that's no good. Has it arrived at your huevos yet Tommy?"

"No no no. It hasn't reached the balls yet," I responded as a the jury waited patiently for verdict. 'Oh, those silly Mexican guys' I thought 'always kidding.'

A week or so ago I showed up to work with Eugene's crew to be harangued once again. "Tommy, do you still have la hiedra?...Yes. O.K., now has it reached your balls yet?" they pried matter of factly. What the fuck was this? Twenty questions into my personal health? I thought I showed up to the vineyard not the dermatologist. I felt like an eight year old being harassed by his hunchbacked grandmother with thick black bifocals "Honey, do you got that...that poison oak on your little boy balls. Let grandmama see it."

No stranger to honesty I admitted the truth. "Yep, at last the poison oak has reached my balls. Happy?"

"Oh, Tommy, that's not good," came the general reply.

Maybe the Mexican guys knew all along. Maybe poison oak always has a final destination, albeit an unsavory one at that. A habitual scratch with an infected fingernail can be all it takes.

Striding into the office on Tuesday after a four day weekend Big D asked me if I had ever done any debris burning in my extensive work history. Thinking back on it I could only conjure up blurry memories of setting boxes aflame to drift into the depths on Lake Ontario and burning couches in the backyard of the Death Trap. "Nothing to speak of," I replied, "but I sure as hell would like to give it a shot." After all, I had seen the Kiwis burning giant tree trunks and debris at McKean Estates as I slaved away, hunched over two-budding young savvy vines. Shit, if they could lean on a shovel so could this guy.

Wednesday was the day of the burning bush. The pyro in me was itching to set flame to the motionless pile of cordon arms still heavy with sap from their recent parting with the mother ship that was recently converted to cane. At first the pile was stubborn, insubordinate to my prods and coercions, but with a little liquid incentive it was well on its well to dandydom. Like a woman or maybe a feline friend, a good, roaring fire needs to be caressed and nurtured.

Stacking the cordon cuttings high I leaned on my shovel and stared intently into the flames, a spitting image of old Moses and his staff high on Mount Sinai, chatting it up with the Burning Bush. Now realistically, if a burning bush called out your name on the top of a mountain what would you do? Haul ass back from where you came from most likely. Or maybe pop a few more mushrooms and eat a couple smores. It all depends on your personal character I suppose.

In the old days it was a lot easier to cannonize the supra-natural without advances in modern technology. In this day in age how am I to believe a bearded exile talked to Yahweh via a burning shrub. How the hell does a burning bush talk anyway and how can you hear it above all the crackling? These are the questions my Sunday school teacher refused to answer. As you can see they still haunt me like a spider monkey on Aguirre's back.

As the first fire raged I was approached by the absentee neighbor's gardener who also seemed lost in a haze as he mindlessly circled the mock-Tuscan villa in search of his money, or maybe direction. Approaching me from across a buffer zone of bolted mustard flowers was the adult Ralph Wiggum, bald and pot-bellied. What follows is rough version of our exchange:

"Hey, what what are you doing down there," queried the gardener.

Hmm, let me see I have a shovel and a giant inferno blazing in front of me. "Well, I am burning excess debris from the vineyard," I responded maintaining a cordial attitude.

"Oh, I thought you need a permit for that."

"Yep, we have one." I swung around and shoveled a heap of fallen canes back on top of the flame. "Yiiiikkess!" I hollered feeling the heat.

"Oh, what happened there?" asked adult Ralph stupefied.

"Well I got a little too close to the fire."

"What did that feel like?"

"Uh, burning."

Adult Ralph continued to go on tangent after tangent: Did I know where the foothills were and that Charles Shultz has an abode there? Ralph's business was called Gardening Unlimited and in fact it could be found in the yellow pages. Also, he did a much better job than these "meh-hee-conos" that you just pull off the street. At that point I started to tune him out, but the man had diahrea mouth; he could not stop spewing. Walking away he got out his digital camera to snap a few keepsakes of the countryside, the mustard ablaze on the verdant rolling hills. "I'm taking your picture" he called from afar.

"Go fuck yourself" I hissed under my breath ducking behind the burning bush, my own proverbial savior. See debris fires can serve a purpose after all.

By Friday the burned brush piles were in the multiples sending my sweaty poison oak crotch into a tailspin. While Spring was in full swing the burning brush manufactured my old little sweaty summer. The poison oak has fully engulfed my poor scrotum leaving it in an inflamed, irritated mess. Do you know what it feels like to have your crotch hurt while you walk? You sorta have to pretend to straddle a giant ball and waddle back and forth. It burns, keeps me awake at night like a nervous parent.

To rap this up sophmorically, poison oak is just another vehicle for natures true brutality and unforgiving disposition. The moral here kids is to pick up a field guide to identify this dastardly weed or do yourself a favor and stay away from the West coast altogether.

'Til next week bizachos.

End Notes:
1. Anyone with poison oak cure alls please email me.

Simple Sun-Soaked Endings

2009-03-07T22:36:00.000-08:00

What can you envision your perfect Saturday? Your perfect day off? The un-interrupted day off; neither clouded by the Friday workday nor the inevitable Monday.

Today might have been that day.

For starters, there's waking up next to someone you miss, someone that has been 3,000 miles away. Waking up early, not because you have to but because your biological clock demands it. Waking up to a warm embrace, rays of early morning sun peeking over the Mayacamas and flooding the room via the roof windows.

Followed by none other than copious amounts of french pressed dark roast and accompanied with Buffalo red potato hash browns, a few fresh hen eggs-over easy, a lox lathered bay-gul and fresh sliced of avocado. Hey, this is California after all. A true-black and blue breakfast might include a Mimosa, but those should really be reserved for recovering from the Saturday night battering ram.

Fully refueled with starch and 87 unleaded we meandered across the Santa Rosa sprawl, crawling through red lights and ped walkways to the rolling hills of the Sonoma Coast. Amidst the Russian River wetlands and marsh we sat betwixt bi-lateral cordon vines and Lynmar's ultra-stylistic tasting room. Below the veranda we tasted a flight of Russian River and Estate Pinot Noir and Chardonnay, basking in the cool afternoon march sun and layered wines. The bolted mustard green on opposing hillsides reflected our demeanor: golden, golden golden.

Our next pit stop was Iron Horse Winery, a down home sparkling producer unashamed of downhome grit and rustic scenery. A weekend barrel tasting made for a congested scene at the tasting counter (slabs of barn wood on barrels) but added to a jovial atmosphere. Unfortunately the sparklers were letdowns, filled with wonder bread and dank newspaper. The Chardonnay flight was a bit more appealing with the un-oaked chard displaying a perfumed nose with un-adulterated acidity and the Corral Chard giving off pleasant citrus and a voluptuous body. Goes to show you can't hate a varietal all the time.

At Spears Market, outside Guerneville, we picked up a hot pastrami rueben. Like many quaint Mom and Pop country stores in California the Lipton Ice tea can be found next to a full line of Traditional Medicinals tea bags and the Bud Light fills the ice chest next to a cache of Lagunitas IPA. For every redneck in Northern California (mine included) there is a shitlocked hippie not too far away. If only the Pennysaver would follow suit...

Daylight hours were capped with a picnic by the Pacific, our table an under appreciated boulder washed up some millennia ago. Gobbling up the sammy with salt and pepper krinkle cut chips we starred at the jutting rock formations. You know the ones. The ones that stand tall and jagged above the ceaseless ambush of waves. The sea mountains ingrained in our formative brains in The Goonies.

"That one is the man on the moon."

"Possibly, but with a gnarled wino's nose and a butt chin."

"What about those?"

"Turds."

"Oh yeah?"

"That is a finicky French waiter; even has a pencil moustache."

"And a styled pompadour."

"I was thinking more like a bouffant."

"Actually, I think it looks like a chubby Bruce Campbell."

"No way! But maybe Fat Elvis"

The sun set, although, not perfectly. Nothing comes out perfect. There's always a catch, a glitch. A discordance. A thick cloud bank swallowed the ball of fire as it does time and time again. In the golden glare we bounded lackadaisically between slippery boulders covered with sea urchins, our feet heavy and uneasy. Floating, yet the reality of the situation seemed palpable to us both.

The ending to another perfect day it would seem, but not everything is cut and dry nor black and white. Therein lurks the thought that in glory of every sunset there is a shadow and within the shadow there is an unavoidable truth.

No matter how hard you try, not every day, nor week nor lifetime can be a Saturday.

Just One of the Guys

2009-02-26T21:51:00.000-08:00

"Vamonos, pues!" Eugene boomed in his strict, no-nonsense tone. "Put down the clippers Thomas, it's 4:30; time to go."

Quickly, I finished cleaning up a head-high prune, meticulously blotting out the buds-to-be below the allotted four nodes saved to grow shoots that will be trained throughout the growing season. Pruning, I have quickly learned is a matter of balance and foresight. Like the struggling first grader who cuts class for remedial reading, so too a young weak vine benefits when it is cut back to two or four nodes, thus cutting its work load in half.

Normally when I think about a typical Saturday, I imagine waking up around noon to drink a big gulp of Gatorade to kill any remnants of a hangover and then cooking up a platter of eggs to be slurped down while watching an under appreciated 80s flick. Maybe something a la John Carpenter's early repertoire. Yesterday, in an attempt to bring home the bacon for a much anticipated visitor I pried myself from bed at the asscrack of dawn (read 5:30) to join the crew on their sixth and last day of work, before their day of rest: the holy day, God's day.

"Hoooola Tomas," greeted El Topo, the crews principal loudmouth and instigator. "We didn't think your huero ass was gonna work today!"

"Yeah, well I came here to do two things: prune some vines and chew some bubble gum. Looks like were almost out of bubble gum."

"Chicle, eso quieres? Chicle?" asked El Topo, " 'Cause I've got a pack here in my back pocket."

"Forget it," I replied laughing, my spirit already quaking at the length of the day.

Learning to prune grapevines, coincidentally, has become strikingly similar to my attempts to master the Spanish language. In Chile, I was given more often than not what we called "gringo edge." When other students were demanded the world, gringos were given an affectionate pat on the toosh as we effortlessly walked around the flaming rings of fire. Often times it felt like I would receive a passing score on an exam for successfully completing all my Spanish sentences with a subject and predicate. In the fields the treatment is often the same: my own remedial help. Most of the time I work alongside an experienced pruner that can help to point out potential canes and spurs in an ugly vine. Hey, get off my back. I've shown improvement.

Working next to a number of guys also gives you a snapshot of each workers world, where they come from. The two crews have workers from all walks of life: the politicized Salvadoreno, the comedian cantante from Santa Anamaya, the ex-cop from the Mexico City, the shit-talking workhorse, the gangster teen from SF, the mechanic from Guanajuato, the soft-spoken Oaxacan.

Around mid-day on Friday we chugged away down the rows in a vineyard outside Graton, el cantate had his trusty hand-held radio faithfully slung over his shoulder, resting for all to hear on his side. "Today I'm gonna call Dulce and win the prize: the ticket to Las Vegas," bragged El Topo. My young teacher was referring to a Santa Rosa based radio DJ, Dulce, who conducts a daily contest where listeners have to identify an unknown song based upon a short clip. Typically they are whining love songs, which sadly struggle to strike an emotional chord or break any new ground. "You're not gonna call you bullshitter" came one of the jeers from the field.

"Hola Dulce" greeted El Topo, covering the phone and telling El Cantante to turn up the radio's volume.

Standing next to El Topo I overheard Dulce respond through the cell phone "Hola amigo, how are you?" Her voice resounding as voluptuous and fresh as it did through the hand-held.

Then we heard El Topo's voice echo his responses to La Dulce's questions through the one- second time lapse: "Michoacan," "Trabajando" "Si" "Gracias." El Topo's typical boisterous demeanor appeared stunted in the face of mass communication. I was a bit stunned myself. For a few minutes our shears remained placid as we listened intently. From the next row over Homey, a young buck, shouted out "Dulce I love you!"

"What's that shouting in the background? Tell your friends not to be loudmouths," directed the Sweet's voice. "O.K. Antonio are you ready to play?"

"Si," replied El Topo timidly.

Booomp, booomp, booomp came the cries from the bands horns and then a number of tear jerking lines "Por que me dejaste solito. Ya que no estas, mi corazon esta quebrada indifinitivamente...."

"Ya pues, what the hell is the song name. C'mon tell me jue!" demanded El Topo, returning to his former self off the air.

"Honestly, I don't know it jue. Say 'Mi corazon esta quebrada'" replied the apprently not-so-well-versed freelance field singer.

As the last beats of the song began to fade to black, Eugene, el supervisor, briskly arrived on the scene with a stiff purposeful strut that mimics that of a native black bear. "What do you think you are doing on the phone?" Eugene demanded. "Do you think that you are being paid to talk? There's no talking here. This is work. We work, we don't talk on the phone. If you want to talk on the phone you can walk your ass outside of that gate and do it on your own goddamn time, not mine. Got it?"

El Topo, a faun caught in a big rigs headlights, meekly clapped his cell phone shut, his mouth slightly open and aghast throughout the reemy. Silence pervaded the vineyard as we simultaneously heard La Dulce come back on the air; "Antonio, are you there? Are you ready do make a guess?" Dead air. "Antonio are you still on the line?...Antonio. What happened? Well we seem to have lost Antonio, let's take another caller!" As Eugene marched away to fry another fish we all began to burst at the seams; fits of laugther filled the void created by the harsh reprimand. Dejected El Topo picked his shears out of the holster and bent over, frowning to continue with his labor.

That evening, at closing time, I was beat. Lurching over to cut weak vines all day reminded me of countless hours bent over pruning in New Zealand. Conversely cutting more mature vines requires thousands of cuts and snips, which takes the piss out of all the joints in your hands. My back ached and my right hand swelled with inflammation. Oh, but it is a labor of love.

The guys working in the field do it ever week. Nine hours a day, six days a week, 52 weeks out of the year. Pruning, planting, thinning, spraying, weeding, hedging, maintaining cultivating and picking your produce. Mexican workers, without whom, you might not have crisp spinach in your salad, tender artichokes for your chip dip and yes, delicious wine for your bourgeois dinner party. Next time you raise a glass to your mouth or take a trip down your local super's produce section take a minute to realize who's putting the food on your plate, and I will give you a hint: it's not your neighborhood accountant.

Too bad for El Topo, he could probably use a trip to Vegas.

End Notes:

1. El Topo means "the mole" in Spanish and is also the name of a great film by Alejandro Jodorowsky.

Living the Dream

2009-02-20T20:24:00.000-08:00

Before I could wake to rub my puffy bloodshot eyes the week blew past me faster than a bullet train bound for Tokyo on uncut amphetamines.

As the torrential downpours continued off and on throughout Monday, we got off to a late start, mapping out a vineyard in the Cloverdale highlands. At 2,000 feet a cool breeze cut like sheet metal on exposed skin, but the view made it all worth it; terraced vineyards chisel a mountainside across the gorge and boxed carbenet sauvignon vineyards, verdant and golden with bolted mustard greens, fill the Alexander Valley. Down below, way down, the 101 pierces and redicules the valley's former virginity, and Cloverdale spreads its stench with an expansive junkyard and failed makeshift meth labs.

California might be the first state in our fine union where you can buy a proper burrito in almost any locale, be it a taqueria, strip mall, mobile truck (dubbed luncherias by Mexicans or "roach wagons" by uppity white folk) and yes, even some gas stations. The Chevron off the freeway in Cloverdale is host to the Aztec Grill, a West Coast chain that offers customers a chance to refill their proprietary fuel tanks with diverse spread of mexican fare.

"Pollo con frijoles negros, please" I asked politely as two squat middle-aged Mexican women with jet black ponty-tails swinging to and fro busily worked away preparing burros at the grill as the cash register clanged away with gas sales.

Two burritos in my belly by noon. Now that is what I call a good day.

If Monday made me lament on the filthy excrement created by our civilization, Tuesda made me wake up and smell the roses, and by roses I mean to say "rancid refuse." As the rains persisted we collected collapsed cardboard grow guards, drainage piping and shatered PVC pipes to be hauled to the dump. Santa Schade would have been quite dissipointed at the vast quantities of PVC cut to fit the dimensions of our pickup's bed, destined to rot and leach carcinogenic toxins into the watertable. Driving up the 116 towards the Pacific the highway turns into a coastal rainforest, the forest floor lined with waving ferns and Redwoods covered in heavy lime green lichen.

Gavito turned to me and contemplated unloading the PVC for a fee, "Maybe we can pull over in town and unload this load for $50."

I turned and looked out the window staring at the thick green forest musing to myself "If I make a run for the hills now, I can still make a clean break from civilization. But what about my debilitating debt? Ugh... is it too late?"

Hump day went as it typically does, like old people having sex, slow and full of pitfalls. Our job was to unclog a 36' long drainage pipe clogged with years of sediment. What we learned: a hoe and a dream will only get you so far. In this case approximately 8 feet. "If we only had a little baby that could crawl into the pipe and haul out little buckets of crap," I thought aloud.

"Baby Jessica?" Gavito offered.

"Who could forget?" I said.

"That happened three blocks away from my house. Yep, Midland, TX" And all these years I thought it was a scam cooked up by some human rights group to araise awarenss about child welfare.

We flew the coop, headed to the hardware store. "If we could just get a bucket, a bit smaller in diameter than the pipe," I ventured, "we could totally pull it through with a rope and scoop out the sludge. Yeah, you like that idea? Yeaahhh?"

Silence.

Then we heard a slow familiar piano intro come onto the radio and Gavito began to sing softly under his breath "Blue jean baby, L.A. lady..."

"Holy shit! Is this Tiny Dancer! So fucking good!" Two minutes later we were pulling into Central Valley Builders Supply, tears streaming down our faces, Judge, the ginormous black Great Dane sitting confused in the back seat, his head tilted slightly to the side as raised our voices to the highest pitch "Hold me clooooser Tinneee Daaanccerrr, Count the headlights on the highhhwaaaay..."

Did we really have the capabilities of clearing a drainage pipe without access to a high pressure water hose? Absolutely not. And that is why we called in the big boys, a national plumbing firm that will remain nameless. Pulling up to the vineyard on Thursday, a man in retirment pants, stark white Dexters, a flannel and a buzz cut stepped out of the company truck adorned with the red, white and blue label and shook our hands. I was already starting to feel patriotic.

"Howya doin' fellas?" he greeted.

"Well a lot better if you can clean out this drainage pipe," Gavito twanged with a Texas inflection.
After a quick lookee-see the priavte contractor reassured us, "Yeah, we'll get 'er clean," smirking with a sardonic laugh as he shuffled back up the embankment. Five minutes passed with little progress.

"You sure you can get it?" I asked, second guessing the man I presumed to be a diehard Intimidator fan. Never second guess a Nascar fan. "Oh, we'll get this baby clean. You shoulda seen the shit we had to clean out yesterday," he said sending in a revolving sprayer to root-out the problem. "Yeah," reafirmed his lackey, in a disheartened tone, smiling just slighlty to reveal a shiny rows of braces.

Looking down at the operation we overheard the buzz cut man ask his aprentice "Boy, you wanna get wet and dirty?," pointing to a spraying jet of water, "yeah? Well then go suit up and get back down here." The backwoods pipe cleaning was starting to sound like a raunchy homeade porno. We decided to leave it to the professionals.

Friday, we headed down to northern Marin County to knock out a seven acre block of Pinot Noir and Riesling amongst the sprawling green hillsides, long used as grazing lands for dairy cows.

Northern Marin is a precarious viticultural area. The green lush hillsides become dryswept, singed mounts as the summer heat takes over and the cool winds snake their way into the valley. California, it turns out has little knowledge of and limited ability to grow good riesling (Anderson Valley representing some of the best Rieslings in the state). The site in northern Marin provides a suitable cool climate, albeit on the site we were prunig, low yields: 2 tons per acre. If it wasn't for the economic downturn I would imagine Marin county to be the next target for viticultural exploration and investment. However, with the economy teetering on a precipice, wine industry experts believe we can expect new turnovers in the wine industry, which I hope can only mean new blood, better wine and lower prices.

Since the ranch was so far away, the three crews, roughly forty guys were brought down to knock out the pruning in one day. Assembling at the gate of the vineyard, workers sat in the back of vans sipping coffee from mugs and putting an edge on their pruning shears. Pulling up the rear were two company trucks, both pulling port-a-johns. "Hey, here come dos luncheras now!" yelled out Monton, signalling towards the road. "Hey, I'll take five tacos with grilled steak," Jose quipped sending most into stitches.

Part of the agreement was that the bossman would bring down a taco truck and buy everyone lunch for the day, a sign of good will. After making short work of the vineyard, pruning the sprwaling t-budded pinot plants down to two healthy 8 node canes, the boys descended upon la lunchera like a plague of famished mexican locusts. Bellies full of fermented beans we tied up the day wrapping the swaying canes to the bottom wire as Jose el cantante belted out a post lunch serinade to a polka beat. "Comi un burrito grande, carne asada, queso y aguacate y ahora se revuelvan las cosas adentro. Voy corriendo por el bano."

Delicous Mexican food, it seems, has a tendancy more often than not come out faster than you can put it in.

Until next week, have a drink for me.

Worthwhile Northern California Rieslings:

Navarro Vineyards White Riesling Dry
Esterlina Cole Ranch Dry Riesling
Lazy Creek Dry Riesling
Pey-Marin Riesling

End notes:

1. Yes, Elton John's "Tiny Dancer" is on repeat on my itunes.
2. Friday, I went to ask for a Torta Cubana, but Monton snagged the last one. As A-man often propounds "There's two kinds of people in this world: the fast and the hungry."
3. RIP #3.

Mondovino vs. Bottle Shock

2009-02-14T19:54:00.000-08:00

Two films ruffled my feathers this week; the first, Mondovino, intellectually and the second, Bottle Shock, left me aggravated and cheated. There is nothing worse than feeling as uf an hour and a half of your life has just been flushed down the crapper.

Mondovino, a documentary by filmaker and trained sommelier Michael Nossiter, focuses on the globalization of the wine industry and polarizes the struggle between large and small producers in the United States, France and Italy. Nossiter, an American who grew up in Europe, simultaneously shoots footage and interviews some of the biggest names in the business: Parker, Rolland, the Mondavi and Frescobaldi Familes. The raw footoage and obtuse camera angles at first suggest to the viewer that Nossiter is nothing more than a mere amateur, foolishly stumbling into unknown territory. As the film progresses, however, the filmakers intent becomes clear: hide the camera and let each person tell their personal story. Not without a bit of prodding now and then of course.

Conversely Bottle Shock, a film starring Alan Rickman and Bill Pulman, was a gross mis-adaptation of the true story of early beginnings of the now legendary Chateau Montelena, the winery that went on to win first place in a private wine tasting at the Academy du Vin in Paris in 1976. Where Mondovino shocked with heavy critiques of the wine industry, the creators of Bottle Schock conjured up a complex plotline that climaxed conventionaly and completely misrepresented the actual history of the 1976 Paris tasting. Hollywood at its finest folks: throw in some plastic, a couple big name actors, an ubelievalbe love tale and a triumphant father-son struggle. Wallah! Another blockbuster for the uneducated masses!

From the begining of the documentary, Mondovino gives the mic to the little guy, even if he is screaming out to deaf ears from beneath the boot shadow of globalization. In the opening scenes Italian vigneron Battista makes a heartfelt declaration "It's not just the rich people that have the right to cultivate grapes. Poor people have a right too," wagging his pointer finger up and down. Battista looks away flustered and pans back to the camer, "But now people have become lazy. Carried away by consumerism. They've lost their identity."

In his work the Omnivore's Dilemna, Michael Pollan echoes some of the similar beliefs. The general population, specifically Americans, no longer chose their food, but rather have their food processed and chosen for them. All over Europe, people are afraid that the capitlist machine and consumer culture are already starting to erode their traditional values, customs, holidays, food, way of life and wine, too.

From the rolling vineyards of Italy, the documentary jumps into Michel Rolland's speeding mercedes, as the world famous wine consultant motors off to Chateau Le Gay in Pomerol, Bordeaux for a tasting. Rolland, a Bordeaux based oenologist and consultant to over 100 wineries worldwide, quickly sips, spits, and checks his watch as he is handed another barrel sample. Rolland spits again and states tersely "you must micro-oxegenate." Katherine, the owner stands close by in approval and Nossiter inquisitely asks her if she knows what that means. Rolland quickly interjects laughing "She does what I say. We do things because it makes the wine better."

Nossiter fires back offering "Not everyone shares your ideas about what makes a better wine."

Rolland offers a convenient response, still smiling for the camera. "That's called diversity. That's why there are so many bad wines." General approval and laughter creates a backdrop for the scene.

Ironically, Rolland is one of the most influential consultants that has been accused of homogenizing the wine industry. While working as a "flying winemaker" across the globe Rolland has worked endlessly, creating plump, fruit packed wines heavily influenced by the use of new oak. Over the last thirty years wine critics, such as Robert Parker, have begun give high accolades to young red wines with seamless tannins and big fruit that can be drank shortly after their release. Industry critics however believe that consultants like Rolland will lead to the death of diversity and individuality of regional wines. Soon it might become difficult to recognize the origin or a wine style, whether it be from Bordeaux, Napa or the Maile Valley.

Likewise, wine critic Robert Parker has been heavily criticized for his part in the homegenization of the wine industry. Parker, a wine writer by trade, became famous after he systematically classified the Bordeaux Chateaux in the 1970s with a one-hundred point rating system. Since then Parker has become one of the most respected (if not heard) wine critics in the industry. The stroke of his pen has become so powerful that many wine he gives over 90 points will most likely sky rocket in price and demand overnight.

Parker, however, sees himself as a Robin Hood figure, a small town American boy who revolutionized the French wine industry by leveling the playing ground. At his home outside Baltimore Parker remarks that when he was in law school Ralph Nader had a big influence on him and his future career, "the idea that everything was controlled by money and big business." And while Parker often gives big scores to smaller, lesser know producers, many of his highests scores go to the Chateaux with the most capital and financial backing. Not to mention the fact that Rolland and Parker are good friends, and the critics scores often times compliment the consultants handy work.

Conciencious wine objectors have dubbed this phenomenon the "Parkerization of wine." In effect many wineries have begun to mold their wines to Parker's palete in order to garner high scores from the critic.

Among the films personalities that rails against the Parker and Napazation of wine is Domaine de Moline's former oenologist and paterfamilias Huibert de Moline, a bald geriatric French man who trundles along as drops bundles of wisdom here and there. Touring the Tallipieds (Teathered Foot) Vineyard in Volnay, Huibert emphasizes that it is the place, rather than winemaking style that gives a wine its uniqueness. The French emphasis on terroir, all the environmental factors play into growing wine grapes on a specific piece of land, is held by many in the Old World as the most important factor in producing an outstanding wine. Moline points out that much like a classic piece of Greek literature, the Tellipieds vineyard, which was established in the Middle Ages, will long outlive his wine by centuries if not millenia.

Changing gears the film skips the pond to the United States, where Nossiter arrives in Napa Valley at the Robert Mondavi Winery. Immediately everything becomes artificial, gaurded. While Europe is steeped in tradition, the U.S. struggles for its own identy. First, the filmaker is greated by Mondavi's personal assistant, who insistst that Robert is positioned so that a recent dermalogical operation is hidden from the camera. Marching through the courtyard, the film stumbles upon a tour. In the middle of a pack is John, a humorous and personable doscent, asking the visitors to stare out into the vineyard and the next time they sip a bottle of Robert Mondavi "remember this beautiful vineyard and imagine yourself in Chianti, the south of France or some other beautiful vineyard you have never been to." 'Shouldn't they imagine themselves in the plush Napa Valley?' I asked myself. Feed garbage to the hordes and empty their wallets at the door.

The Mondavi's seemed, however, to be concerned with nothing more than image: Parker's reviews, selling copious amounts of wine and investing ventures abroad and at home. Take for instance Opus One, the meticulously groomed brand shared with France's Mouton-Rotshchild. The collaboration boasts an ostentatious winery where image and prestige reign supreme. 100 percent new oak barrells, exhorbitant pricing and no shortage of capital.

Stagliano Cellars is another winery featured in the film started by dotcom millionaire, Garen Staglin. As the adulterized name might suggest Staglin set out to model the winery based upon Italian styles, with the intent of making a wine with a hefty price tag. In America, capital is worship, identity is formulated in an office and creativity is spurned.

The only fault with the film might be Nossiters flip-flopping between the European mainland and the U.S. as he begins to make connections between empires. His emphasis, however, is simple: don't forget about the little guy. Remember wine is something to be enjoyed, not a beverage to only be prized and paraded about by the aristocracy.

Throughout the film dogs take the center stage, each one symbolic in their own respect. Parker has a Basset Hound, second only to the Bloodhound in sense of smell. In Argentina a campesino struggling to hold onto his small terrenito in the face of capital owns a black mutt named Martin Luther, a symbol of hope. Confusing the general public and indubitably shocking any upper class, Nossiter focuses his final shots on a pair of dogs on the streets of Italy. One lays in a flower box while the other comes from behind to sniff his rear. The prostrate dog gets up to leave and the new dog takes his spot. A perfect allegory for the wine industry: find a something you like, a style, a region or winery, and then copy it or use your weight to make it your own.

Bottle Shock, aside from the sweeping jawdropping shots of the Napa, was a complete waste of time and money. "VERY LOOSELY BASED ON A TRUE STORY" would have been a better caption to use to start the movie. Let's start with the facts ommited in the movei. Steven Spurrier was doing great business in Paris before the tasting of 1976 took place, mostly to English and Americans working inside of the city. The primary reason of the tasting was to demonstrate to the French that a revolution was taking place in the wine industry, and the U.S., was now a country capable of producing world class wine.

So lets get a few things strait. Bo Barret, as the time of the tasting, was a mischevious youth rather than the winery's savior. Sure, he eventually went on to become a great winemaker, but he did not end up in an racing to the airport to ensure Chateau Montelena's wine made the Paris tasting, nor was he present in Paris when the wines were judged. Jim Barret, however, was in France, although he was hundreds of miles away tasting in Bordeaux. Chateau Montelena never had a second generation Mexican winemaker named Gustavo either. The real winemaker that crafted the 1972 Alexander Valley Chardonnay was Croatian immigrant Mike Grgich.

The film's title Bottle Shock, is another name for the term bottle sickness, which occasionaly occurs after bottling when oxgen or too much added sulfur can give the wine a flat flavor and even turn the color a murky brown. The symptoms usually dissipate in a few weeks as the wine breathes oxygen through the cork. In the movie, Jim Barret has sent the shocked bottles to the dump but in real life they were signed and bound to be shipeed to a wine liquidator.

In the final scene (which I painfully limped through like a wounded deer), the character "loosely" represented as Steven Spurrier realizes Chateau Montelena has won for best wine in the white category. Glancing to the back row he recognizes Bo in his bellbottoms and tighfitting ringed t-shirt and quickly escorts him from the tasting hall, shot in an roofless French farmhouse for added affect (the actual tasting took place in a banquet hall).

"Do you have any good clothes in here?" Spurrier pries, pushing Bo's suitcase towards him.

"Well, yeah," Bo responds confused.

As Spurrier announces Chateau Montelena's Chardonnay as the winner the French judges sit aghast and then turn their heads to the backof the building, where a long haired Bo Barret stands, fancied up with a blue sport coat. And just like Spurier tried hide the true Bo Barret in the film, Hollywood has moronically turned the history of Jim Barret's dream come true into a steaming pile of poop.

Right now, the story of the Judgement of France and the history of Chateau Montelena rise to fame is suffering from a bad case of "bottle shock." Hopefully someone will step up to the plate and breath some fresh air into the subject through a new feature film or documentary. After all, who reads books in the Twenty-first century?

For the truth check out:

The Judgement of Paris: California vs. France and the Historic 1976 Tasting that Revolutionized Wine, by George Taber, Simon and Schuster

And don't forget to rent:

Mondovino by Jonathan Nossiter

Rainy Days

2009-02-14T13:15:00.000-08:00

The rainy season has finally arrived in Sonoma, CA, albeit a bit tardy. Vinters and Viticulturalists alike have been given quite a scare in early 2009 as spring rainfall has been virtually non-existant. Santa Rosa, the hub of commerce in Sonoma County, logged just .45 inches of rain in January, pushing it into the number two slot of second driest month on record. Juxtaposed with Santa Rosa's average January rainfall of 6.25 inches, the region appeared to be in a state of despair and desperation. Two weeks ago, radio broadcasters announced that county authorities had already begun to plan out strict water rationing regulations if the drought contintued.

To compound matters even more, much of Northern California has been in a state of drought since last summer. The vineyards themselves have been struggling since early spring of last year. As late as May of 2008, Sonoma and Mendocino counties were hit with a heavy frosts that wiped out grean growth, and effectively cut crop yields significantly for the years fall harvest. Less shoots on vines means less fruit which means less wine. Less wine of course for the growers and producers means hard times on the pocket books. While many professionals (especially in Europe) in the wine industry believe that a vine must "struggle" or face hardship to bear fruit capable of producing premium wine, it is also true that a vine can only be pushed too far. Without adequate balance of natural resources, principally sunlight, nitrogen and water, a vine will underperform and produce fruit not up to boot.

Examples of each could be found last year down under. In Australia, also hurting badly for water, a surplus of warm sunny days and lack of rainfall in some areas, caused a majority of the grape clusters to shrivel up and rot on the vines.

In the case of neighboring country New Zealand, it the polar opposite. As the verdant and rigidly manicured vines of Marlborough filled and sagged with heavy clusters of Sauvignon Blanc, the rains came pissing down mid-harvest. Our assistant winemaker Big Dave, a boisterous, Aussie juggernaut, lamented "Mate, this is just the pits. There is a ton (more like 6 metric tonnes/acre) of grapes on those vines and they are going to rot faster than we can haul them into the cellar." Mother nature dealt her royal flush and we suited up to weather the effect: a Sauvilanche. Grapes came flying off the vines, tank space became non-existant and we smashed 12 hour crush records. Even though the majority of grapes were saved, the rains had dealt a harsh blow, plumpening grapes with water and lowering sugar levels.

No worries mate, you can doctor that right up in the New World.

My first day on the job in the Sonoma, we walked the rows of the stark naked vines staring out over the valley pierced by Chalk Hill Road, the plants upon first glance appeared to be compliantly enjoying their mid-winter rest. Upon closer examination, however, the vines were suffering miserably. Making a calculated prune on a double cordon trained vine, the evidence spoke for itself: the fresh cut beared a dry wound. To put it more simply, there was no green tissue in the shortened canes, demonstrating that little to no water was entering the plant. In effect the plants were already starting to choke and with time the spurs and cordons would begin to die away. If the conditons continued plants could suffer from poor fruit yields, while some could even parish.

Typically, during and after pruning season the vines go through a period known as Bleed, whereby recently pruned vines ooze a slimy water based substance from their wounds. Much of the time a plant will "bleed" more if it is pruned late or if it has been a warm spring and the plant has begun to "push" early. Unfortunately the new pruning wounds showed no signs of bleeding or green tissue. The fact that the cuts were bone dry gave everyone in the vineyard a scare. "We're not too worried about it," remarked one onlooker, "we have deep wells and access to plent of water." But even drip irrigation is not going to be enough for a vine to grow and prosper; a vine's root system must burrough and dig its tendrils and root hairs deep into the soil to deliver the proper nutrients and strength to its upper half. Cheating will only bring a plant along so far.

Last Thursday, the Sonoma Coast and Russian River Valley breathed its first sigh of relief. Rain came, at first sporadically, then continued off and on throughout the weekend. Taking a brief pause in the beginning of the week it has held strong, replenishing the green pastures, draining into the underground water table and filling up holding ponds, a neccessity for large, isolated vineyards.

In life though there is always a give and take. When it rains, even sprinkles, it can be dangerous to prune vines, leaving them exposed to the deadly fungus Eutypa which invades plants through open wounds. Once inside, Eutypa eats away at the vine, slowing growth and eventually leading to the vines death. In efforts to avoid the fungal infection wounds are covered with an anti-fungal spray or paint and other jobs are delegated. Friday was one of those days.

Half hour into pruning we were blasted with a shower. "O.K. Chavos, were gonna switch it up. let's wrap!" shouted Alberto, commanding and corraling his crew. We hurriedly shuttled over to the convoy of parked vehicles to put on rubber ducky suits. Five minutes later we were back in the block, twine wrapped around our shoulders and twist ties protruding from our pockets. "Vaaamoooonoooss!" hollered Alberto, egging the crew on to get down to the new task at hand.

"Vaaamoooonos, pues!" echoed Burro, a machinery operator who boasts that he will outwork anyone in his crew.

Tying, like pruning, is an excercise in, not only balance, but also dexterity. Buds must be counted based on each vines previous year's performance and wrapped skillfully along the bottom trellising wire. One, two and....a half twists, cut the last node and twist tie. The canes are fragile and like stiff muscles often times need to be massaged to make the near ninety degree bend at the wire. A delicate process that the crew does effortlessly singing and bickering away under the erratic cloudbursts.

Energy is one thing that Albertos crew doesn't lack. In the field, the spirit of the crew is palpable throughout the overcast day. Each new downpour is greeted with a series of shouts "Jabon! Jabon! Jabon!," jestering at the fact that the heavens had given us all a complimentary shower. Two days ago I was reluctant to get out of my sleeping bag in the wee hours of dawn, listening to the rain bang away on the convex roof windows. I groaned and rolled over, wondering if the sun would ever return to replenish my vitamin E stores. Yesterday, I couldn't help but be happy, if not ecstatic to be out, laboring away in the rain.

Anything for strong, healthy vines.

Endnote: I just returned to the bottle store today and because of the surplus, 2008 Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc has been discounted greatly. Spy Valley, Dog Pointe and Kim Crawford were all around $11 dollars. Not a bad deal, eh? Load up for summer, but do be weary not all of 'em are gonna be standouts.

Tentative and Surreal

2009-02-07T15:02:00.000-08:00

Hiking a slope along the eyelash of the Castro last night, the air was diffuse with a familiar scent, a haze which evoked feelings of another place. Returning with a bottle from the package store, my olfactory bulb lit up again and I couldn’t help myself from telling Grimm that the floating odor reminded me of my favorite coastal city Valparaiso; another vertical seaside metropolis stacked high with boxed abodes. Grimm offered a logical explanation, “It’s probably the chimney smoke. Lot’s of folks still have working fireplaces.”

He was right. The wafting smoke emissions effused a homely aroma. Much like in Chile, the temperate Bay Area climate makes central heating unnecessary. The solution is an old fashioned heating source: wood. I was beginning to feel at home.

Returning from the arduous three block walk, we cracked a bottle of Ridge California Zinfandel York Creek. Perusing the shelves I thought I might be stepping out on a limb, but then again whats life without a few financial risks. The 2003 vintage seemed a bit aged for a bottle that might have been sitting right side up in a since its bottling year, but then again this was no ordinary bottle shop. The wine shelves were lined with single vineyard designates and other pricy gems, such as the ’05 Caymus Napa Cab retailing at just under two bills. Juxtaposed against a backdrop of beef jerky, generic soda pops and pre-wrapped deli sammies, the wine gleamed like diamonds in a waste treatment facility. In any other neck of the world, this bodega's main moneymaker would be Olde English and Phillies Blunts, but we were practically rubbing elbows with the San Francisco's gay elite. Welcome to the Castro.

As we pulled up to the counter, a flamboyant Middle-Eastern shop owner, dressed in a pastel button down, open slightly to flaunt a patch of gushing gray chest hair, carried on a hurried conversation with a regular. Where gender was bent, ethnicity stayed the same.

“Hey check out this,” cried the shop owner pointing to a featured wine in the Values/Smart Buys section in a current Wine Spectator, “I just got this one in!”

“Right on,” responded a bald, soft spoken man as he casually checked out with $90 bag of wine.

“Hey what do you think about that “unoaked” Chardonnay you carry. I’ve heard good things?,” queried the man two bottles richer.

“Meh. Some people like it, but me I prefer the big oaky ones. The flabby ones with the butter smell,” answered the shop’s captain from the helm.

Ugh. Even wine has fashion victims. Why eat a stave when you can have a crisp mouthful of citrus? Or at least a balanced chardonnay where a scant oak flavor provides structure and complexity. These were my thoughts, but of course I kept them bottled up. The only thing on my mind was the turkey sandwich soon to be grinding in my gullet.

Back at Grimm’s ranch, the Ridge Zin provided a much needed respite from my traveling woes. One cancelled flight, another overbooked and a third and fourth delayed left my bones aching and nerves fully frayed. Deep, rich and restrained upon opening with dark blackberries brimming in the nose shortly thereafter, the bottle of Ridge offered us another respite from the opulent and fruit concentrated Zins that have come to typify the California style. “Uhhhmm,” I sighed. “Wisely played,” Grimm commented, reassuring me of the selection. Yeah it felt good to be back in California.

Today was another story. Time to face reality, jump three busses to Sebastopol, check in with potential housemates and call work. Stepping out onto the street was lustful and surreal. People bounced down the street in high-cut running shorts and whizzed by on carbon frames fully clad in lycra. At the coffee shop, my voice was raspy and apparently a bit too foreign. Setting down my hulking backpack and mobile suitcase I shyly ambled up to the counter to ask for a “bay-gul”.

Staring me up and down the bemused barista asked “Are you from the mid-West?” Fuck, was I that easy to single out?

“No, Western New York, why do you ask?,” I inquired.

“Oh, well I lived in Wisconsin for a few years and you both pronounce bagel the same way.”

Everything seemed alien, unreal. For starters, people were smiling, jovial. Across the street from the coffee joint sat a prim and snug designer couple, coolly sipping their Jasmine tea over lunch. Winter, to me, has come to represent a brutal, uncompromising and relentless wallop of snow and bone piercing sub-arctic winds. Winter is supposed to be anything but warm, let alone sunny. I was in an absolute state of shock. Buffalo, the barren tundra, had left me frozen and unfeeling. Under the Bay’s blues skies and tee shirt temps, my congealed blood began de-thawing at a breakneck pace, leaving my head spinning and making every trivial task burdensome.

Shooting up to Santa Rosa was just another inevitable headache. The first bus driver, an aging boomer, threatened me before I even set foot on the transport. In an ominous voice he warned, "Now don't think for a second that I won't kick you off this bus if your bags are hogging up another paying customer’s seat.” Before I could push play, the bus trip had begun its downward spiral. Between San Rafael and Petaluma and four sentences into a phone call, an old maid reeking of patchouli, tersely informed me “there is no talking on the phone on this commuter bus.” Santa Rosa’s bus system, like so many others, appeared erratic at best. The transit mall teemed with bottom feeders and preying hoods creating a tense, overcast atmosphere. This was not the California I remembered leaving was it?

To put the nail in the coffin, a heavy homesickness invaded my body making me question my current motives. Everything in CA is tentative: comfortable housing, job success and a social life. Buffalo, throughout the past two months, albeit cold, was a dream. I miss the warm, supporting company of my friends, not to mention the bright and beautiful lady I left behind.

In the words of George Tabb, “Take my life, please.”

Icewine Invades Western New York

2009-01-14T19:51:00.000-08:00

Trudging along Lake Ontairo tuesday, a foot of thawing snow crunching under my hikers and a cool calm breeze soothing my blistered lips I couldn't help to begin to wonder if the local Western New York meteriologists had led the public astray. The eleven o'clock local news forecasted a Ramones strength blitzkrieg drop of 2-4" with erratic white outs. Snowfall was to come in fast, jagged bursts causing limited visibility and temperatures plummiting below zero. Contrary to the predictions, I was enjoying a casual stroll, my only trouble invovled keeping up with the steady fox trot of my parents' dog Madison, a capricious canine jetset on following every dead end rabbit loop along the way.

But where was the smackdown the local weathermen prognosticated? Had the Pope, Don Paul, slugged down one two many whiskey sours at Mother's, rendering him unable to follow the aberrant movements of sub-polar storm systems? I wanted answers! Shit, frankly I didn't give a damn. Don Paul, much like the real Pope, answers to no one! Not even you Mike Cjeka! (Another weather jockey whose last name subconciously drills into his viewership that he can forecast the weather with supra-natural powers).

Even when the Pope fails to hit the four-degree-guarantee, the mustachioed penguin marhces on uperturbed. The artic Buffalo tundra suits Don Paul and he appears to be tenured 'til he drops; and honestly if you are going to have a meterological icon he might as well have boast a nick- name resembling someone famous. In Buffalo, NY America's second poorest major city the weather and economy have one thing in common: they are both undeniably atrocious.

Growing up as a kid in WNY, I would adjust the tin foil tipped rabbit ears above the tube to tune into the clearest channel to weigh the likelihood of a snow day. The weather was an undiscriminating actor, dropping its load as it pleased. Whether or not it dumped a foot of heavy snow overnight determined whether I would be turpedoed off to prison in the number 62 yellow submarine or if there might be a snowball's chance in hell school would be called off. In elementary school there was nothing better than sleeping in and waking up to polish off half a box of Lucky Charms by the time Thunder Cats charged onto the convex TV screen. Hell, maybe the whole box if there was a secret decoder inside.

Tuning into the Pope was sorta like going to T.G.I. Fridays. Each experience included flare, excitement and then an utter letdown. At T.G.I. Fridays it was the mind-boggling vest buttons, ogling the young blonde waittress and then finally electing groovy grilled cheese off of an uninspiring kids menu. On WKBW it was the Pope's bristled upper lip, the glimmering chance of a day off school and the upbeat verdict: "Tomorrow highs will reach the low-teens, overcast with a chance of snow." Groundhog day.

While returning home from the park I decided to abandon the tranquility of nature for a second and check my cellphone which had been laying listless and half frozen in the back pocket of my overalls. Two voicemails. Somewhat peculiar, but nonetheless not unlikely. Verizon it seems has failed to place a hulking metal skeleton on every grassy knoll in the countryside. The first message arrived from my mother, announcing that the Motorola World phone was available at the Lockport store. Verizon strikes back. Erasing the first and skipping to the second Jonny Oake's voice rang loud and clear, happily announcing that he and a crew would be picking frozen grapes for icewine on Wednesday. I was invited to come along. Quickly, I phoned the grapelord back, saying "Yeah, that would be great, I'd love to help out" in a calm, cool tone, when in reality I was anxious to get in on the action.

For once in my life I had a reason to be excited about hailing from a region thats climate is known for brutal winter weather that makes life an everyday struggle for the better part of four months.

Pulling into LynOaken Farms I felt lucky to lend a hand in making icewine (Eiswein in Germany, the original home of icewine) for Leonard Oakes Estate. For starters, there is a small window when the icewine grapes can be picked. According to quality standards set by the Vinters Quality Association of Canada, icewines require a natural hard freeze, meaning the berries must be frozen on the vine at temperatures of at least 17 degrees ferhenheit (-8 Celsius). If the temperatures drop too low the berries could become too hard, making it nearly impossible to extract must (pressed juice) from the grapes. Throughout the last month while I have been back in WNY I have remained in touch with Jon, continually pestering him about a potential pick date for the icewine, but was answered several times with a vague, open answer "Well that all depends on the weather." What was I to expect, my friend grew up in a tight knit farming family.

Now it was go time. The Saskatchewan Screamer and other sub-artic airstreams came barreling into WNY creating the ideal conditions to pick: four days with temperatures staying below 18 degrees Ferhenheit.

As fate would have it, I had chosen the exact same week to vacation at my parents lakeside house. Fortuitous, I think so.

Second, it is impossible to make ice wine everywhere. In September I made the decision to move shop to California, an state abundant in vines and wineries where icewine represents an elegant, complex style that cannot be duplicated in warm climate viticultural appelations worshipped for their full bodied reds. That's not to say there aren't immitations or attempts make ice wine. Several wineries on the West Coast pick their grapes at optimal ripeness and then artificialy freeze the berries to create immitations of the style. The same is done in other parts of the world where temperatures will rarely if ever even fall below freezing, i.e. Australia, New Zealand and Israel. While artificial immitations may take on many of the characteristics of true ice wines including their complex, they often times fall short of embodying the real deal.

In the last three decades Niagara-on-the-Lake in Ontario, Canada has demonstrated that it is a world class producer of icewines, establishing strict guidelines and quaility standards through the Canadian governing body the Vinters Quality Association (VQA). After seeing the frozen Vidal clusters, healthy and hanging limply on the vine in mid-January, my eyes swelled with a wild enthusiasm: Western New York is a sleeping giant. The region wedged between Niagara Falls and Rochester along the Niagara esarpment has the potential to become a recognized wine region in the United States.

With a cup of insta-Folgers in my belly we were off and walking amongst four rows of Vidal vines, carefully examing how to move the remaining hanging and fallen clusters sitting at the bottom of the nets into the picking luggs. Walking up a row and giving the vines a good shake, the Grapelord decided we would knock the remaining hangin clusters into the closed nets and drop them into lugs. The remaining brown clusters, frozen and oxidized, held tightly but their fragile stems, let loose with a jarring shake to the fruiting wires. Our crew of six, walked the rows carefully ensuring every last cluster fell to the bottom, hand cutting stubborn clusters that ardently refused to let go of the mother ship. From time to time I would hand select a frozen berry, place it between my upper and lower minuscus and release its juices with an offbalanced chomp. Ummm....raisons, figs and a splash of sourness.

Of note, is the grape variety Vidal Blanc, a hybrid of Labrusca and Vinifera parentage, that is known for its ability to flourish in cold climates, achieving high sugar levels while maintaining balanced acid levels. These characteristics have qualified Vidal Blanc as a suitable and often times go to candidate for enduring the long hanging period neccessary for making icewine in the Notheast. Other varieties used to produce icewine inlude the traditional Riesling and Cabernet Franc (Canada) as well as the newly popular Seyval Blanc. Ice wine, however, is not limited to these varieties as creative vinters in the New World have taken advantage of lax regulation to craft the dessert wine from others including Shiraz, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Chardonnay.

After dropping the Vidal to the bottom of the nets, where it sat heavy and bulging, we got down on our knees to do the dirty work. Up to this point, it was hard for me to quantify the number of people hours that it took to nurture the grapes from gestation to harvest, but as we stooped low the effort became more and more clear. Shortly following the harvest period in early November, the farm crew had meticulously placed mesh nets around the four remaing Vidal Blanc rows, rolling and sealing the nets at the bottom. The purpose was twofold: keep the remaining berries away from the clutches of circling crows and prevent fallen clusters from droping to the ground. As we tore open the nets, the berries pit-pattering into the luggs, I turned and saw a few tears in J.J.'s eyes; his long hard work being undone tare by tare. Then I panned to Jonathan, master of the vineyard and cellar, who also had a tear welling up in his eyes for every rogue berry that landed outside the yellow boxes, to be preserved like a frozen caveman until the spring thaw.

No one likes spilled milk, so I began to open the nets a bit more carefully, rescue fallen berries and treat the grapes as they deserved: a potential mass of liquid gold.

In roughly eight hours we had collected the four rows of grapes, a hair shy of an acre and transferred, stacked and seran wrapped them in a storage barn; frozen and ready to be brutally wrenched of must in the following three days. Since I was in the country I did as the natives do and celebrated with a Bud Light. Watery and hydrating. Followed ofcourse by a 2007 Leonard Oakes Estate Chambourcin. Now that my friends tasted a bit more indigenous.

Thursday, the day of judgement. How would the berries press out? How high were the sugar levels? Would the family winery's antiquated (by industry standards), yet pragmatic screw press adequately squeeze enough must from the ice wine grapes to make the effort worth their while? All of these questions were answered well before I could arrive on the scene of the frozen crush. In fact I was having a bit of trouble peeling myself out of bed. My hamstrings ached, my lower back throbbed and a heavy sleep hung over me leaving me to doze off time and again. Why was I so tired? Well, quite frankly I haven't done an honest days work since November and picking had thoroughly kicked my ass. Another humbling reason to respect the production of ice wine.

As afternoon arrived, the sun bore down hopelessly at a sharp angle, doing no more than casting glaring waves to be reflected off the blanket of snow back at the cosmos. Temperatures remained low and we busied oursleves moving hardened grapes inside to be pitched inside the press's rectangular mouth. The entire ice wine process is slow and arduous and it soon becomes apparent why most winemakers in the Old World stick to basic dry table wines. Much like the growing season, the pressing process is long and drawn out. A typical ice wine press cycle lasted nearly three hours, the extraction at times was painfully slow. For a spectator, the process allowed me to taste from maturing tanks in the cellar and hear a tale of Ukranian immigration, but for the winemaker the waiting period appeared nailbittingly stressful. Pressing the grapes before the water warms to dillute the sugary must is always there, lingering and taunting you in the back of your mind.

Pressing is but another step in the labor intensive process. Next its fining, tartrate removal, yeast starters into bigger yeast starters, pitching, fermenting, racking, more fining and filtration before it goes to bottle. Then the consumer has to wait for the annual release date while the winery hopes the ice wine will move or they have enough to sate their customers demand. Let's hope there's heavy demand. Icewine could become the crown jewel of WNY.

Look for the Leonard Oakes Estate Icewine to be released sometime in late 2009.

For more info visit:

Leonard Oakes Estate Winery http://www.lynoakenfarms.com/loew/

Canada's Icewines http://www.winesofcanada.com/icewine.html

Icewine: the Complete Story by John Schreiner, Warwick Publishing, Toronto

"Icewine - worth the money and hassle?" Jancis Robinson, http://www.jancisrobinson.com/

A Jaunt up the Silverado Trail

2008-11-22T18:46:00.000-08:00

Bloger's note: Finally, a blog that is actually about wine! That's right the next two blogs will be undubitubably devoted to recent tastings in the Napa and Sonoma wine regions (maybe a few tangents, what can I say?). So for those who turn their nose up to wine look away and the rest please consume the following entries responsibly.

Let me start by saying I had a chip on my shoulder before even steeping foot in the Napa Valley. So when my friend Arantxa, a Valenciana working in the Salinas Valley, asked if I wanted to tour wineries in the Napa Valley I silently groaned while shooting back an enthusiastic line, 'Sure, I'd love to.' After all you can never really be a naysayer until you have sampled the peddler's wares. While I have been fan of big bodied, concentrated, super opulent Cabernet in the past, my palette has slowly evolved and over time I have become turned off to wines with backbones carved from new french oak and overripe berries. Bold, fruit concentrated, high alcohol Cabernets are of course, in vogue in Napa Valley and still fetching upwards of $250 per bottle from the utlra-premium producers. Even entry level Cabernets and Merlots can cost approximately $30 to $40 a bottle, leaving your typical wine drinker wondering where they can get a good value on a domestic bottle of wine (For many the answer is in the bargain bin at your local Trader Joe's).

For me the answer is clear: Europe and South America. As I wage slave I have a certain chunk of disposable income (that expands with my salary) to devote to wine. Increasingly aware of where my food and drink is produced I would ideally like to "buy locally" when possible. However it seems nearly impossible or rather, unsustainable for your typical laborer to purchase wine in California where an honest bottle of white starts at $20 and close to $30 for a red. Contrast these prices with continental Europe where the average bottle of table wine retails for roughly 5 Euros and the cost/quality ratio between continents is put into perspective. Thus, time after time I find myself returning to the same sections of my local package store to look for bargains in the Rhone Valley of France, the Rioja region of Spain and up and coming regions such as the Douro in Portugal. South of the border the best bang for your buck lies within the full bodied Cabernets of Chile's Maipo, Rapel and Maule Valleys or jump the border to Mendoza, Argentina to pick out a meaty Malbec to pair with your favorite medium to rare cut of grass fed beef.

But it was settled. I had agreed to tour the Napa Valley. Before I could even place my right foot on the gas pedal, I was aware that the trip was to be a tease, a pinhole glimpse at what the revered Napa Valley has to offer. After all it would be nearly impossible to sample more than a splinter of the wines produced in one day. However the trip would also have its rewards, demonstrating what a bit of wit and wisdom can afford two travelers on a shoestring budget. Since the trip was not originally my idea and I had little interest in the region I had no specific itinerary. Little did I know that neither did my partner in crime leaving us with grasping at straws as to where we should make house calls. Sure, I was familiar with the top end producers who's egos are perpetually inflated by shepherding critics, but many of them ie. Opus One, Shafer, Cakebread, Joseph Phelps, and Caymus require appointments, have exorbitant tasting fees or are only open for on-site sales. The night prior to our departure in a last ditch effort to get the low down on the Disneyland for adults I phoned my affable German pal Yohannesberg. Much to my surprise, the worldly Germ from Baden-Baden offered simple advice: start up the Silverado Trail and pop in anywhere that looks appealing. Easy enough.

Not wishing to forsake the wisdom of a man who has "been and done" we started out early(ish) Saturday morning up the Silverado Trail after fueling up and setting off from the Juice Bar in downtown Napa. Turning to Arantxa in the Tortuga Verde I quipped, "You know it never hurts to cleanse the palette with a tall mug of dark roast in the morning." "What?," she responded semi-confused and attempting to root out the the mix up in her breakfast order. "This is what you consider a muffin in the U.S.?" she queried pulling apart two thin slices of toasted bread, the insides chalk full of air craters. My belly bounced a bit as my diaphragm spasmed. "No, no, no. What you ordered is an English muffin," I informed her mentioning that it wouldn't be half bad with a greasy egg over easy and slab of American Cheese. Now that would be what we call a "Rebel" muffin.

Turning left onto the Silverado Trail we became the disjointed head of a long motorcade of easily bemused tourists and disgruntled valley dwellers. After all touring the valley should be pleasurable and done at reasonable speeds at least fifteen mile under the posted speed limit. Our first visit was in the Stag's Leap District of Napa Valley which first gained notoriety after Warren Winiarski's Stag's Leap Wine Cellars 1974 Cabernet took first place in the 1976 Paris tasting when it outclassed a hand full of Bordeaux first growths as well as other top California reds. The Stags Leap District, which was not classified as an American Viticulture Appellation (AVA) until 1989, received its name from local legend that alleges that stags have often times leaped off the jagged palisades, that loom boldly above the region, while fleeing the hunters' rifle. Aside from the breathtaking views the region has been characterised for its opulent Cabs and Merlots squeezed out of vineyards with little more than a few feet of topsoil resting on a solid granite floor.

Partially attached to the lure of the region's winemaking history as well as the physical beauty of the area we decided made our first stop at the highly esteemed Clos Du Val winery at the southern end of the Stags Leap AVA. Clos du Val (meaning "small estate in a small valley), which was started by an American businessman and French winemaker in the early seventies, has expanded in size and reputation over the past 35 plus years. Stepping out of the car I crammed the rest of my tautly wrapped breakfast burrito down my throat, salsa and sour cream careening down the sides of my face as a potpourri of Beamers, Mercedes and a stretch Limos pulled into the tiny parking lot. Yep, another a typical fall Saturday in Napa.

Heading to the loo to relieve myself for a comfortable tasting the Limo chauffeur's eyes lit up as he asked delightedly in a Slavic accent, "Uwe, you are from Neeuuu Yooorrk? That's a long way a way!" I gave a nod as I continued on my linear path as a crew of mid-forties bleach blondes exited the strechtmobile, their bosoms bouncing in tight-fitting designer tops, their spirits filled with mirth. "Hey, this guy is from New York," he enlightened the busty beauties, whom remained indifferent to the Croacians discerning detective work.

Post relief we entered the tasting room to meet Jim, a straight shooting grower who offered us industry studs a complimentary tasting of Classic (read entry level) wines upon proof of a pay stub or self gratifying business card. Done and done. Please maestro let the liquid gold flow like an untamed cascade off of a defrosting mount. OK, a series of five 3 oz samples will suffice. After the first pour, the spiel was on, our main man giving us the run down of fruit quality, new oak percentage, and sensory components of the wine. Our first sample, the chardonnay. Pourmaster J alleges that Clos du Val seeks to pick at optimal ripeness, with the chardonnay coming off the vines at 23 to 25 brix and using only 20 % new oak to allow the wine to show off vivid "tropical fruit." Pleased as I was to hear our host's fun filled facts the wine didn't quite meet up to specs and the finish felt as if my tongue and sides of my mouth had been swabbed with a stave of oak. The gaggle of giggling gal pals behind us starkly disagreed. "Oh my God. You know what gurlz?," shrieked one orgasmically, "this is like my favorite chardonnay ever. I mean ev-er!" The swirling pack of beautes agreed, bracing themselves on the bar, eyes bright and salivating for the next pour.

Next in the lineup was the Sauvignon Blanc which was made with grapes purchased from a nearby estate; Jim called it the prototype of what he looks for in a sauv blanc. Matter of fact he explained he had just spent three weeks in New Zealand the previous year and he didn't find one savvy that met his expectations or stood out. Arantxa and I turned and looked at each other amused as I rolled my eyes in disbelief. "Well, Jim," in a frank but casual tone, "us two bozos just finished a vintage in Marlborough last winter, the heart of suavignon blanc country, and I can name of hand full of outstanding wines from the region." Was this part of the spiel? Are American sauvignon blanc producers trying to steal back Marlborough's thunder in tasting rooms? Who knows? The wine it turns out wasn't bad with hints of citrus, pineapple, wet stone and maybe a bit of candy in the nose as well as lasting acidity. My cohort seemed to pick up a bit of green or vegetative aroma in the nose, but overall I was pleased. A hallmark, maybe not, but a summer bbq quaf, sure why the hell not.

What we did enjoy and what I was most surprised with throughout Napa Valley was the Merlot. As an avowed non-drinker of Merlot I was pleasantly surprised with the varietals drinkability in Napa. At Clos du Val the Merlot showed dark fruit, plum, baking chocolate and touch of leather in the nose with a medium body, strong backbone, smooth tannins and brooding dark fruit finish. Aside from the merlot's strong showing, outside the entrance to the cellar door sat 13 rows of merlot vines, acting as an educational tool on trellising techniques including spur, cordon, vertical shoot position and head pruning systems.

Shooting further up the Silverado Trail we turned into the infamous Stag's Leap Wine Cellars parking lot only to high tail it back to the main road as it was evident it was a hot spot along the trail. Opting to get off the beaten path we followed Jim's kind insider advice and called up Kim at Robinson Family Vineyards, a smaller family producer who's property neighbors Winiarski's prized domaine. With splotchy service my cell phone wavered in and out as I could barely make out Kim saying "where are you," "at the gate," and as my phone cut out "ye...c'mon...up." Soon we were negotiating a series of private drives and passing a pair of geezers clad in lyrca stretching aside their aluminum Ironhorse's as we rolled down into a three space parking lot under the enormous palisades coolly perched over the valley. Upon entering the tasting room, sister Carrie was organizing tasting bottles blanketed with CO2 and apologizing profusely for her current state: informal garb. No worries we informed her. After all why does wine have to be so formal.

If anything Robinson Family Vineyards eased my mind that Napa wasn't entirely filled with megalomaniacs hellbent on prestige and turning a massive profit. The winery which was started by Norman Robinson in the seventies has slowly evolved to a family centered hobby that generates a bit of extra income for the family. The winery tells a story of down home country wranglers who gave up horses for the wine industry. Idyllic, individual, proud, humble, bucolic and passionate would be some of the best fitting descriptors for the operation. As we headed out to take a look at the vineyard, tasting glasses gripped firmly in hand, the next generation of the family, a pack of youngsters with crewcuts, put down the pigskin to take a spin around the property in the six wheeled gator.

The vineyards, comprised of Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon grapes, are planted on roughly 7 acres behind a hand built log cabin on a hillside that skirts the base of the palisades. The terraced vineyards were covered in a layer of humus in an attempt to maintain moisture throughout dry spells. Carrie informed me that throughout the year the vines are continually stressed as water is non-existant(their wells dried up and they have to import water) and the root systems can only go down a few feet before hitting solid rock which prevents them from reaching a steady underground water source. Thankfully terrior is multifaceted and other climatic conditions make the region ideal for elegant reds. While temperature during the days remains mild and in the 70s to 80s the rock formations under the mountain absorb the heat and warm the vineyards throughout the night allowing for a long growing season while creating the optimal conditions for balanced fruit.

If the vineyard was eye opening the cellar was equally intriguing. When the fruit comes into the cellar from the vineyard it is crushed and placed into three ton vats where it is fermented out and then pressed off with a traditional wooden basket press that sits on a concrete slab that doubles as a dinner patio and outdoor kitchen including a clay oven stove, both crafted by the girls father Tom, a mason by trade. Likewise, the newest paterfamilias also carved out the underground cave used for barrel aging and the family's personal wine library. On display in the library is one of Norman's earliest productions, an '85 red blend labeled FART with a cloud of smoke behind the name, cheekily alluding to the collaboration between Robinson, Nathan Fay and Tom Turnbull. The Robinson family has essentially borrowed a few pages from older European producers who molded their wineries with their own blood and sweat rather than the dot com boom and investment banking.

Tasting the wine seemed almost second hand to seeing the property but we were nonetheless equally impressed with the Great Legs Syrah which showed dark spice, truffle and vivid fruit as well as the Estate Merlot which showcased truffle, currant, espresso and a hint of my arch nemesis green olive balanced with smooth relaxed tannins and boasting to age up to ten years. While it's fair to say that I wasn't blown away by the wine it doesn't really matter what I think. When I asked Carrie about sales and distribution she informed me that each bottle produced is virtually guaranteed a home. Even if that home happens to be the in the deep reaches of a the forlorn states Texas and Florida. Right then and there it clicked and it all made sense.

Hitting the road once again we bounced our way down the Silverado Trail to our next stop, Casa Nuestra, where we made another phone appointment minutes away from the tasting room. Stepping into the cellar door, once described by wine critic Matt Kramer as 'funky,' was a in and of itself stimulating to the senses. Our noses were immediately bombarded with patchouli incense, chimney smoke and old wood foundation. Unlike most tasting rooms, Casa Nuestra conducts its tasting (at least by industry standards) in reverse, starting with reds and finishing with whites. The idea is apparently common in parts of Germany where more acidic whites outshine gentle and fragile reds such as Pinot Noir. The tasting might have been my most challenging to date.

Our first glass was a sample of Tinto, a nine grape red blend including a portion of old vine zinfandel. As I splashed the wine about my mouth I starred into the eyes of a strumming Peter Yarrow and cast aside my reservations, for the time being at least. The old world throwback of planting nine varietals on a two acre plot was a bit more fascinating than the actual wine, that's nose appeared muddled and finished with unpleasant harsh tannins. Not to fear though, Casa Nuestra's Meritage, which I proclaim their best offering, closely resembles a St. Emilion blend (in varietal percentage at least) and offers dark spice and rhubarb with great finesses and delicious finish showcasing dark fruit. On the white side the Chenin Blanc shined brightly with crisp acidity and pear, apple and citrus in the nose. The reds' lingering tentacles were felt, however, maybe dulling the Chenin's finish and rendering the Rosado's nose indicipherable. Needless to say different strokes for different folks. If Old Gregg had a personal preference for a wine, Greg's place would stocked with cases of Casa Nuestra.

Our palettes worn and our bodies weary, Aranxta and I pulled up our bootstraps to visit one more winery, but this time on the well trodden route 12. While I had a few wineries in mind I knew that no tour of Napa would be complete for a foreigner without visiting the great house of Robert Mondavi. If baseball had Babe Ruth is to major league baseball what Robert Mondavi is to Napa Valley. The only difference is that when the Babe faded away after a few stellar seasons Robert Mondavi grew wise as a entrepreneur and visionary and soon transformed into Ted Williams, Mickey Mantle and Hank Aaron. The man just refused to stop producing quality wine for the masses as well as premium cabernet for the high end market.

To say that the Robert Mondavi Winery was a madhouse would be an understatement. At nearly closing time the parking lot was still packed and swarming with tourists of all nationalities and colors. Entering through the main arch we became eyewitness to group photo opps with a copper statue of a topless Victorian woman, meticulously manicured vines bedazzled with sparkling white pebbles and the general tasting room which looked more like a busy San Francisco pub, filled with long steamy lines and raccous laughter. We had just walked into a enophile amusement park for the masses.

My gut reaction was to book, leave the spectacle behind and retire to the relaxing hotel room with cable t.v., but on second thought we decided that it sure couldn't hurt to cash in on a free industry tasting. First we hit up reception which directed us to the Reserve Room crowded with suits and pearls, a stuffy environment with a shrewdly manicured and at upon introduction arrogant attentdant, who haughtily directed us down the club room. Mid-nineties tasting of To Kalon denied. We backtracked, as directed, to the Club Room which was adorned with Mondavi memorabilia and candid photos, a quiet retreat for enthusiasts to hand pick estate and reserve wines while pulling hors d'eurves from a communal marble slab. Jesus, the tranquil host was busy pouring and selling memebership to a feisty couple who would settle for nothing less than two membership cards. Jesus wiped the sweat from his unfurrowable brow and offered us up tasting menus.

Before we could order a more boisterous couple to the left of us sucked down samples applauding our host while complimenting "Now Chewey, that is one hell of a wine. Goddamn!" Reaching back into my faltering short term memory I began to wonder how Jesus, (traditionaly pronounced Hay-zeus) the burly Mexican-American guy in front of me became the eight foot Chewbaca from George Lucas' Star Wars. I let it go. Then once again we heard the same country twang, a mix of southern roustabout and California cowboy. "Hey now Chewey yer gonna hafta bring out another bucketa' olives cause I am gonna house the ones you got out here," declared the stocky gent to our left sucking back five stuffed greenies off of a toothpick. Taking interest in the short church mouse duo to his right, the thick necked man turned our direction and asked our place of origin. Disinterested in the cold dreary environs of Western New York the wrangling wine enthusiast immediately recognized the whereabouts of the Valenciana's abode in the Salinas Valley offering as advice "Now stay out of Watsonville ya hear."

Final thoughts on Mondavi: save your money and buy the Napa Cabernet a nicely balanced wine for the price. The Carneros Pinot Noir was an oak bomb and the Reserve Cabernet not quite worthy of the price tag.

Walking out of the tasting room Aranxta asked me for my brutal critique. Giving here a bit of the Belgian guy I mused "Well, the brie was certainly tasty."

Part Deux to come.

Check out wineries at:

http://www.closduval.com/

http://www.robinsonfamilyvineyards.com/

http://www.casanuestra.com/

http://www.robertmondaviwinery.com/

Guinea Pig Vacation

2008-11-19T21:58:00.000-08:00

(Letter taken from Recess magazine, Issue 1)

Dear Guantecilla,

Time sure does fly by if you don't take it by the horns, and even then the ride can be rocky. It was a mad dash to pack up my shit, move the last of my belongings out of my hovel at 29(I'm gone for good!) and hustle out the door to be shuttled off to the Buffalo/Niagara International Airport. Strung out and nerves frayed on too much black coffee, I slumped into a chair at the airport and awaited my four flight, twenty-two hour airborne itinerary.

Then there was Sydney; sunny, warm, humid, alluring. But Sydney will have to wait for later; when I have a one-week layover to visit friends. Christchurch came next and the vast, stretching Canterbury plains. The jagged, snow dusted Alps at 6000 meters above sea level accompanied with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc in my right hand wasn't a bad sight either. Still, after landing I was a bit nervous about customs and my immediate plans, which were basically nonexistant. My worries eased a bit when a younger chap stamped my passport with a working Holiday Visa imprint, telling me in a fatherly tone "Now don't work to hard, you're on a vacation ya now." Then he promptly informed me that there was a bike stand outside the airport doors where I could reassemble my machine. I was beginning to warm up to the place.

While my original plan was to cycle to Queenstown from Christchurch, hitch to Te Anau, hike with Jovencito for ten days, then ride up the West coast and bus to Marlborough in time for vintage I soon realized my itinerary was unrealistic. Plans changed. Sixty miles outside of CHCH I met a bit of good luck and bunked with an affable Kiwi family that offered me a warm bed and foraged mushrooms to saute on their range. I forgot how amazing it feels to wash all the grime off of your body after a full day of touring. Beautiful. But my legs felt like Jello Jigglers, there was moutainous terrain in my future and I had lost a day with the flight. If I was to meet with Jovencito in time to hike the Hollyford Valley I would have to bus it. And cheat I did! Lustfully! Taking the bus from Geraldine to Queenstown was a total cop out but i wanted to keep my word to my tramping partner.

The ride to Queenstown was gorgeous, lined with a series of hydro-lakes, rolling scorched mounts and an aqua marine river along a gold miners gorge. Adding to the ascetic was the circus styled ballads of Fintroll that played in my ears as the bus bobbed over the hills into Central Otago. While the ride was uplifting Queenstown was the pitts. Flocks of tourists, the buzz of mindless consumerism and a hostel fulla T.V. zombies forced me to flee town towards Glenorchy. Luckily, my gut instinct was rewarded with a free picturesque campsite 12 kilometers outside town on the edge of Lake Wakatipu. Some travel diety must have been watchin' my back.

A day later I returned to Queenstown and ditched my beautifull stead Jezabelle, the winged gladiator of the south. My first ride came via a German couple who's campervan soon coaxed me into a cloudy sleep. The Germs however left me stranded and kilometers short of Te Anau, but in New Zealand the next ride is never far off. Half hour or so later a pair of Israelis (NZ is teaming with them) were kind enough to offer me a lift, dropping me at a sparsely adorned town with a boutiquey main drag. I had landed on the edge of civilization in New Zealand staring at the rugged, untouched and untamed wilderness that makes up Fiordland National Park, only a jetboat's journey across the cold depths of Lake Te Anau. Life felt amazing.

Enter Jovencito; the eccentric fellow that he is. Who else profeses a bold desire to live on a tropical island with little more than a gal pal and a banana tree. What are the chances that two acquaintances randomly elect to travel to the same corner of a country halfway around the world? Rather infrequently, I reckon. Tramping through the Hollyford was mind blowing at times, challenging at others. Parts of the trail were a bit soggy and the sandflies were a constant menace but I was all smiles. When you read about a trail intersecting a "rain forest" your first thought normally isn't, "It's going to piss cats and dogs!" At least mine isn't. Well now I see things more clearly. There was a steady rainfall for five of the seven and a half days we hiked. The route, especially during the Demon trail portion, was a bit grueling, but the thick, lush understorey and podocarp forest that stood tall in the valley and mountains made the tramp priceless. We tramped, Jovencito's pack fell a part (of course), we snacked on scroggin' mix, we lost weight around the mid-section, J repaired his pack, we eagerly awaited dinner (pasta or rice and lentils flavored with veggie bouillon) and we crashed by 9 pm.

After departing ways with my faithful tramping companion on day eight, I set off for the Divide to hike the Routeburn. First day on the track was absolutely breathtaking and I fell asleep with the inside of my dome awash with a spectacular sunset. Three days later I emerged from the wilderness and hitched back to Glenorchy. My ride, a well groomed Aussie-Kiwi couple based out of Perth, were kind to give me a lift but a bit taken aback by my vile body odor, which by this point could best be described as dumpster juice delight. Kind folks they might be, the lady soon put her window down and they advised me that next time I should take care of "proper transportation." That one gave me a chuckle.

In Glenorchy I had a night fulla all things Kiwi. Cheap, skunky smelling continental lager; oil with a side of fish and chips and a match of Rugby Union. "Why the hell are they kicking the ball away?" I would ask the chap perched on the barstool next to me. "Couldn't tell ya mate," came the reply. I'm determined to understand rugby and cricket before stepping foot off the island.

In the early morning, I rolled out of bed shrugged off a mild hangover and stuck up my thumb once again to come full circle to Queenstown. A cheeky rugby mom, pulled over in a energy efficient four door and lifted up her eyebrows as I peered squint-eyed into the driver side window. Running over I asked graciously "Could I catch a ride?" A snappy, cockney reply was shot my way "only if you make it quick!" Hell yeah lady, give me a second! Then blammo we were rocketing back to Q-town along a winding road, the bubbling juices in my belly looking for an exit as I pursed my lifts and closed my eyes, waiting for the motor to switch off.

Queenstown turned into a two day layover, waiting to pick up my baby girl I tasted some of the scintillating and pricey Pinot Noirs Central Otago has to offer. God the ruby red varietal certainly tickles my titties; Amisfield, Valli and Chard Farm were among my favorite producers.

Full steam ahead to the Catlins! The battle cry for the last leg of my trip to be taken via two wheels. After all why walk when you can ride? After hearing rave reviews about the remote beaches of the Catlins and reading a brief blurb in a tourist rag I jumped on my bike and headed south toward Invercargill. While I thought that the first day out of Queenstown was bad (keeled over with cramps after pounding 50 cent wafer cookies) the second day was absolutely brutal. Side winds from the southwest, side winds mind you, were blowing me off the shoulder of the road and into the tall grass. Never in the past 7 years have I experienced such a harsh love/hate relationship with cycling. One hour my grin was as wide as the Grand Canyon and the next mother nature is bullying me into a standstill, questioning my purpose of existence. One day I'm on cloud nine and the next I want to ditch my bike (after ripping the steel tubes apart with my bare hands) and leave it for dead next to a tumbleweed and stick out my thumb. The latter feeling was one of those days, with long stretches at no more than 5 kph. When I finally reached a rustic Invercargil, creatively nicknamed the "asshole of the world," I was ravenous with hunger and eagerly crammed a falafell wrap down my throat at the second kebab place I passed.

After powering up it was smooth sailing. Gathering supplies, I stopped at a large package store and picked up a 750 ml bottle of Lions Red and sped out of town on Scenic Highway 92 at a startling 30 kph. That night I bed down behind a vacant community hall. No problems and only the occasional visitor who was stopping by to ditch their recycling in the local receptacle. The winds screamed through and rustled my onzie tent as I nursed my aching muscles with the malty sweet barley pop.

The Catlins are insanely gorgeous and rural. This area is actually strikingly similar to Chiloe with the rolling green pastures, vast untouched beaches, decrepit farmhouses and brackish rivers. In the past two days I gleefully watched half a dozen or so molting yellow eyed penguins come to shore for nightly bedding outside Curio Bay, caught an eyeful of the blubbery NZ sea lions and stumbled across the occasional fur seal. Fur Seal? Pretty original, eh? You think that the scientific community could have found a bit more of a humane name for these playful creatures. In the daytime the Catlins' forest is ringing with calls from the Tui and Bellbird and at night I can hear the opposing bone chilling screeches of the opossums. I'm cool with the night crawlers as long as they steer clear of my ten door and my ever dwindling food supply.

In two days I'm off to Marlborough. I can't actually translate into words how stoked I am about my upcoming job. I landed a six week gig with Giesen Wines as a cellar hand the day I arrived in CHCH. This is going to be my first foray into the industry and a great chance to get my feet wet. Keep you posted. Well, I'd better sign off before my second pen dies.

xoxo,

Tough Tea

Blurred Snapshots of a Sleepless Valley

2008-11-09T21:45:00.000-08:00

The Last [Intern] Supper

Thursday night we powered off to the coast in style in a red-lipstick four-runner, blistering through tight turns down the narrowly etched Highway 128. Erin sat calmly behind the wheel, navigating the road with an experienced dexterity, bouncing conversation between himself and Yohanasberg. Traveling the road as a youngster working for a high end catering operation in Comptche, (Former headquarters of the Dead) our chauffeur was a seasoned veteran of the coastal route. Behind sat Dorit and myself, and nestled between us sat resting vintages of Mendocino grown Zinfandel, a Deep End Blend and a Winterling Riesling that had journeyed a long way from its homeland in Pfalz to accompany us during the meal. The gentle vibrations of the road coaxed me into a light sleep and my body swayed about between curves, my noodle wavering in and out of consciousness. No surprise there.

However skilled Erin the road hog might claim to be the trip from Philo to Spendocino is a solid forty-five minutes time (add ten minutes on the weekends for pesky tourists lazily touring the valley in their sparkling Mercedes). Our party arrived late and mildly disheveled as we pulled up to the historic MacCallum House Inn and Restaurant. Jason the Wrench and his petite British gal pal Sid, waited sternly outside the Victorian inn that sat tall between artisan shops and stacked housing additions. We made unnecessary apologies which Jason quickly disregarded, well aware of Northern Californian timeliness. Standing in the rectangular lobby, we waited uncomfortably in a confined space infused with a rancid piss odor. Forced to reserve judgements and not ruin our dining experience, I bit my sarcastic, sand paper tongue and came to two conclusions to adequately explain the pungent aroma. Either A, some local Spendo sot had pissed unknowingly in the corner behind the moose antlered coat rack while homeward bound or B, an ill fated bottle of stinky Sancerre had fallen to the tile, lost to the heavens, leaving behind a lingering musk that will scare off potential Sauvignon Blanc drinkers for decades to come. Peering at early nineteenth century photos bordered nostalgically with milk of magnesia lace I gagged and plugged my nostrils beseeching the aloof greeter to seat us. Let's go! pronto, ameego! the agitated Texan in me impatiently grimaced.

At last we slouched down, in shapes resembling slippery S's allowing me to demonstrate my increasingly civilized yet residual woodsy eating etiquette and why in fact it you can take a redneck out of the country, but begging to ask the question, "Can you take the country bumpkin to a fine dinning joint?" Well you get the drift. Picking away at Pacific Rim baby oyster goo and inhaling a homemade sourdough bread I primed the pump for the main entree. While most of the group stuck to the commonplace Thyme scented Rosie the Chicken and the out of place Tempeh Mushroom Ragu (see Vegetarians are people too) I confidently ordered the pan seared duck breast with spaetzle and cider gastrique. The result, an impeccable decision. The breast was cooked to perfection at medium raw allowing the tender meet to be balance the seasoned fat beautifully. Every portion including the delicious doughy spaetzle was devoured with pleasure. I can always respect a restaurant that consistently delivers evenly cooked proteins and balanced spicing regimes. Not to mention that the MacCallum House had a do it yourself policy of placing logs on the open cobblestone fireplace. Goes to show that some dining experiences can be interactive.

Bulging with delight (and the lingering remnants of a Mexican lunch) we marched on to Dick's Place, a local watering hole established in the early 30's that Jason moonlights at as a barkeep on the weekends. The clientele at Dick's on your typical Thirsty Thursday included a raw, blitzted mix of eco-surf jocks, Northern Cali fratties (the likes of whom are amusingly aware of the regenerative powers of Kombocha), mountain men, the regular mix of inebriates and wet brains and second gen flower children with fat helicopter dreads. At Dick's your pet is not only allowed it's welcomed with open arms. Pulling up to the bar and assembling in huddle formation to avoid abuse from the natives a grisly Great Dane/Yorkshire Terrier mix excitedly sniffed our crotches for contraband. Needless to say I was beginning to feel at home and many of the tattered and faded instructional signs above the Kessler and Mohawk shelf began to remind me of my former "Home Away from Home," the legendary Bailey Ave. haunt Annacones (RIP). A heavy tear laced with Genny Cream Ale speedily nosedived to the floor as I ordered a pint of Barney Flats' soiled stout and a doubleshot of Baileys. Cree-me!

Adding to the mishmash of decor was the public house's proprietary clothing line consisting of undergarments, fishnets, girly tee's and your standardized deadbeat's hoodie. Tacky and equally gratuitous, I was personally touched by the g-string boasting a the Dick's Place logo and cocktail glass which sit slightly above the potential owners genitalia. A piece of advice, if you ever come across this piece of panty flair in your exploits. Run! Run for the East Coast and don't look back.

"Meanwhile Down at the Lodge"

Saturday nite I braved the brisk drizzle and strode down to the Lodge, Boonville's only social outlet for dejected hill folk, lingering logging clans and jacked-up cowboys and gals. Attempting to blend in, the Breggo intern Shaunt and myself donned designer sheep wool, a Carhart zip down and an L.L. Bean flannel. Pulling up to the bar, Shaunt (who's neatly groomed moustache further confounded the locals) complimented me on my Mossy Oak camo hat. "Damn, shoulda wore a cap," he lamented. "No problems pardner," I reassured my drinking cohort, "We'll maintain a safe space at the bar." That we did, plowing through a series of refreshing indigenous pints as a rowdy melting pot bubbled and gurgled around us. Most of the patrons were acquaintances, if they weren't already kin. The menfolk appeared mole like with prickly chiseled faces and mesh caps perched just above their beady eyes. Others looked Gnomish and when given a "what's happenin'" or "howdy" replied with a stiff grumble. The Boont ladies were few and far between, and tended not to stray farther than a burly lumberjacks arm-length away from their main squeeze.

Of course it was no surprise that we were disregarded as outsiders and given the cold shoulder. Boonville has a long history of keeping foreigners from influencing their culture and/or lifestyle. While the Anderson and Bell Valleys were being clear cut in the late 1800's a tight knit timber community settled in Boonville and created the local dialect Boontling, that was widely used and understood only by Boonville townfolk. According to A Wee Deek On Boont Harpin's, if a stranger did not understand the Boontville conversation then they were sharked or fetched. While historians claim the motive for the language was purely for entertainment purposes, others will argue that it was intended to confuse and keep out missionaries from outside the valley. Early rejection of forced Christianity. The thought gives me an added respect for the oldtimers. Even though the dialect was abandoned sometime after World War II as socio-economic conditions changed in the valley, some remaining descendants, historians and entrepreneurs hold onto Boontling for entertainment purposes and preserving their local heritage.

Boontling aside, there weren't any itch neemers down at the Lodge on Saturday and round twelve o'clock the townies put the pool cues down to form a pulsing dance circle, hootin' and a hollerin' to the hullabaloo. At one point a belligerently drunk Mexican man grabbed onto the arm of a biker resembling Grisly Adams, taunting him to a lip-splittin, but the astute barkeep soon cast the man out the front door. Later the disgruntled biker in club duds marched outside to split-a-lip, returning five minutes later shaking his throbbing fist. Goes to show that put up your dukes old-style boxing is alive and well in some rincones del mundo.

If the men were standoffish the ladies were completely disinterested. When I curiously asked one middle aged woman, dressed in semi-formal garb what was the occasion she replied with a dopey drawl, "Wurh inn tawne fer uh footbahl fundrayzer."

Well no shit! Saa-lud!

For more Anderson Valley fun:

Anderson Valley History
www.avbc.com/visit/history.html

Boontling
http://www.mms.mcn.org/~boontling/

Walking Tractor and Other Country Tales, Bruce Paterson. Heyday Books. Local fiction author.

Election Eve: Hold on to you butts!

2008-11-03T21:36:00.000-08:00

Today, bracing ourselves for tomorrows presidential election we maintained a low center of gravity in the cellar as continuous cloudbursts pissed down a steady stream of cats and dogs, hogs and heffers, baby dolls and merinos, conservacrats and feralchists. You name it torrential downpours strong and steady rang down in Anderson Valley as the crew scurried about filling barrels with finishing Chardonnay. Ulysses, whom maintains a perennial smile painted across his face, laughed lightly telling us that it always rains when the crowd pleasing white varietal goes to barrel. "Isn't that right parejita?," he asked his crankier counterpart Alfredo who's blank stare expressed his sentiments in the matter. Or maybe his unhappy state stemmed from being stuck once again with the FNG. Either way he wasn't the only one with a pair of wet panties in a bunch.

All and all the rain is good. The valley faced a drought this summer forcing growers to use much of their underground well stocks for irrigation. The fall showers are a welcome sight for producers worried about stunting next years crop without sufficient fall irrigation. While the valley floor has begun to green over providing a verdant pasture for the ruminants, the hills still boast a straw yellow hue that might take months before the grass is once again alive and well. In the vineyards cover crops are beginning to shoot through the soil lining the rows with prime grazing grounds and replacing depleted nitrogen. Harvest might have finished just weeks ago but painstaking preparations are already in order to ensure a healthy crop next year. "It's the circle of laiiiiffffee." Sing it Elton.

Most importantly dreary, bone chilling fall weather means it is time for hearty meals, root vegetables and squash! Bouef Bourguignon, Mediterranean Lentil soup and Chicken Vasquez are a few choice meals that are welcome sight, steaming on my table any time during the late fall and on throughout the winter. In Buffalo you might need to add a side quart of corn whiskey, but hey that's why food is regional. Tonight we enjoyed a delicious Minestrone with chicken alongside a few bottles of Methode A L'ancienne Pinot that happened to be kicking around the kitchen. Life is tough.

The recipe was easy and Doritos did the dirty work but you'll need:

3 Red Potatoes
1 Large Red Onion
2 Sweet Potatoes
3-4 cubes bouillon
4 Stalks of Celery
2 Carrots
5 Fresh Tomatoes or
1 Can diced Tomatoes
Salt and Pepper to taste
2 Boneless Breasts Chicken
Large Elbow Noodles 1/2 lb.
3 bulbs Garlic (minced)
2 tsp. Parsley
1/4 tsp. Cayenne (optional)

To do's: Chop veggies the way ya like 'em-mostly cubed. Saute the diced chix breasts in a pan and set aside. In soup pan saute onions and celery and continuously add water cooking it down for five or so minutes. Add roughly one gallon water to taste along with bouillon and remaining veggies, taters, spices and noodles. Let simmer for roughly half an hour. After add chicken and simmer while tasting that everything is cooked evenly. Gather some grubs (your parasitical housemates, not the trunk dwellers), serve, slurp and most importantly aprovecha!

Tomorrow is the day to cast your ballot. Do it! Voting, however futile, still gives you extra leverage when you bitch about the sad state of the country afterwards. Hell, if GOP tops out again I am hauling ass to Euroasia. Could be "See ya suckas!" Or would everyone become Mavericks by default? First Ronnie and now this elephant shit. How many years can I live in los Unite under the rich white man's fist?

Check out www.storyofstuff.com for an uppity, yet comical primer on contemporary consumption. Reminds me of my more idealist days of yesteryear.

Endgames and the Rocky Road Ahead

2008-11-01T18:26:00.000-07:00

Harvest has come to a sputtering, jerky halt in the foothills of Anderson Valley. A number of late harvest frosts forced many growers and producers to expeditiously cut fruit from the vines and haul it in to be crushed. The race was on at Navarro with much of the 150 acres of estate grown berries arriving in roughly three weeks time. A slick stream of sweat is still racing down my oft-times furrowed brow. Harvest is not always easy and can sometimes test the most well restrained nerves. The most vicious period during the day is somewhere between five and seven when punchdowns take place, depleting the body of sugar stores and making for a chaotic and scatterbrained finish to the day.

Now the hard part is over, for us at least. Gurgling airlocks bombarded with fruit flies echo in the oval room. Flatbeds lined with foaming red barrels rumble off to be neatly stacked in the warehouse. The hopper and crusher are give a final pressure wash to be put to rest in anticipation for next years harvest. The remnants of fleshy burgundy hued wine gushes from the Europress for once last time. All of which are the endgames of harvest. The crush pad has slowed to a standstill and soon all finished wines will be banished to the vaults, many to mature and some to undergo malolactic. Ah!, the slow steady pace of winter in Anderson Valley.

An ominous signal of a blazing finish to harvest were the toe curling frosts in mid-October. When you sign up to work a harvest you're aware the work and your position are finite and includes the danger of coming to an abrupt end. In Anderson Valley the spring frosts thinned this years harvest creating an exceptionally small crop and short vintage. Likewise fall frosts have forced the leaves to die off at an alarmingly exponential rate; the withering canopy has abandoned its dutiful job of glowing a radiating yellow in favor of turning a ball-scum brown and dirtying the vineyards natural beauty. A site not too many touring samplers will find too appealing. Even the car ride to work seems less appealing in the early hours of dawn. In the cellar a rushed vintage means less hours for the visiting interns and a slower work place in which 'looking busy' will become a learned skill that however important, will not be finding itself in block letters in any jaw-dropping resume. That is until of course you have taken stock in the robotic empire and Jeremy Rifkins' ominous piece The End Of Work. I digress.

A slowing pace in the cellar can also mean moving on to more menial jobs that however unbelievable boring can provide cash in your pocket for a few more weeks while you scour the web and network locally for gainful employment. In Marlborough cellar hands were given the chance to stay on for the expected full eight weeks by working three weeks in the vineyards, clipping in irrigation wire that sat lifeless on the barren soil beneath the vines. Eight hours clipping drip irrigation however monotonous improved my hammer wielding skills tenfold. The stainless hammer become an extension of my arm and I began to challenge the French Walloon to stapling competitions, nailing away down some 250 rigidly trellised Sauvignon Blanc rows with 60 posts a piece. In the morning I would rouse from my vintage camp styled bunk, cradling my right hand as it lie in a tense arthritic fist. Seasonal labor always has a price. (Later I found out from George the Nailer that I was holding the hammer too tight; a blatant rookie move).

Closing out vintage at Navarro meant helping with the pre-release packaging which consists of seven new wines being shipped out just before the holiday season. So when Cubs Dave, the tasting room manager, asked if I was on board to help with pre-release, I enthusiastically agreed, looking for a change of pace and an opportunity to lend a hand where it was needed. My gleeful sentiments were soon whisked away when I discovered the repetitious labor that awaited along an assembly line that screeched as the protective Styrofoam inserts trundled along rollers and raucous vineyard workers made light of their menial tasks poking fun at one another's questioned masculinity. For starters I was given the job of stacking addressed boxes on a pallet for the truck but was then transferred to breaking down boxes. A hulking cellar hand, Jessie the Body laughed ghoulishly from the line as he inserted Brut into the packages while he encouragingly mused in a oh-so laid back Northern California accent "your hands are going to get soooo bloody dooode." It's always comforting when you receive the support of your peers.

Day two I received a first hand glimpse at the birthing area of the packaging operation as I was commanded to the back environs to tape together rectangular boxes and stack them in anticipation of filling them with sleeping wines and a medieval mustard. There I stood, taping the base of recycled uniform boxes creating a fortress around myself, each column higher than the next shading my grimace from the otherwise jovial banter of fellow workers. Or maybe I was building a fortress to hide myself from a poorly educated selection of a collegiate program, an under skilled job resume, or wretched depression of hitting rock bottom. Two hours passed and I felt the futility of my job in the grand scheme of life. Two more hours passed and my elbow began to tense giving new meaning to tennis elbow; this time however I was experiencing a case of taper's elbow and my sagging diaper was beginning to leak. After enough repetitious motion your muscles tense and knot, telling you that carpal tunnel syndrome might only be a night's rest away. Just when you think that you can't sink any lower in the job chain you hit the cold shiny warehouse floor befuddled. How did I get to this point and where do I go from here?

For many, including the vineyard crew, the packaging line provides a respite from the laborious chores under the pulverizing sun or monsoon rains of the Anderson Valley. Many of the guys hail from the vast reaches of sunny Mexico (where everything is legal-Ole!) where the same jobs pay a small fraction of the salary in the states and languish in the opportunity to earn a fair wage. Unlike the others, my view of the job took on a much different perspective. The job provided for me a birds-eye view of the wine club and company's main source of advertisement and public relations. Each box is individually signed with a holiday greeting bestowing cheer or quoting an ancient biblical proverb embracing wines redeeming spirit and includes a newsletter detailing the events surrounding the current vintages. Endless hours of blood and sweat have gone into producing a quality product that however ephemeral will be celebrated with endless mirth and conversation (and hopefully killer food-no puns intended) in the months to come. As futile, demeaning and wearisome as it is to be working on the assembly line it is also rewarding; rewarding to know that when that package arrives you will have provided the impetus in making that person's day. Christmas in November for adults. Drink deep.

Likewise, the experience can be viewed from an optimistic standpoint. The bottle of Haute-Brion is half full rather than missing half a grand. In my case, when you start at the bottom you have no choice but to work your way to the top. The only question is how to get there? Advice has come from far and wide and flowed like nickel candy from a rustic fourth of July float oozing idealism and hard-knock experience. One mentor offered that my best bet was a barnstorming tour of Napa and Sonoma, knocking on well known producers doors along the way. Sounds ingenious but how should I acquire a magnanimous personality and sparkling pearly smile I have no clue. Pagan alchemy I suppose. Talking the talk is not always the same as walking the walk. On top of that wine country is rife with skilled cheap labor. Other options include the service industry, but pushing overpriced jammy Cab in stuffy tasting rooms is not really my thing and the stench of the backroom of the restaurant industry haunts me to this day. Another option is working alongside field workers during the rainy season but most crews are well stocked and tight knit no matter how tough and widespread the labor. Needless to say November through May are hard times for those trying to forcefully wedge their threadbare boots into the cellar door.

As the clock struck November the rains have begun to arrive in torrents. A relentless wave of showers hit the Anderson Valley over the weekend dropping an estimated four inches of rainfall. A much need respite from the summer drought that sparked off endless scorching wildfires throughout the summer. Another sign of the end of fall harvest and the sprouting of wild mushrooms and new growth of the giant coastal sequoias. Harvest finished out in the nick of time.

Personally, I feel the best option for the itinerant worker is to pursue vintage abroad as a skilled slave laborer enjoying the camaraderie of other aspiring winemakers while laboring away to the pulse of the harvester. Ah vintage! My dear friend and arch-nemesis. How I love and loathe thee! Australia's Margaret River and New Zealand's prominent Pinot producing region Central Otago are already in my sights. A double harvest, oh now that would be surreal (and taxing!) Time will tell if I have the right stuff and legal requirements to jump the pond once again and work down under with irreverent winemakers who've demonstrated they're the real deal.

Keep ya' posted. 'Till then no worries mate.

The Road to Perdition...

2008-10-23T23:00:00.000-07:00

is paved with tasty barley pops. That is of course if you are traveling interstate 80 above the Bay area and stop off in the stretching stripmall of Santa Rosa. Within Sonoma wine country lies a zymurgilogical gem amidst the hub-bub of the saintly metropolis: Russian River Brewing Company. Started by Korbel Cellars in 1997, RRBC and Vinnie Cilurzo catapulted to fame a year short of the twenty-first century by winning brewmaster and small brewery of the year at the Great American Beer Festival. It should be no surprise to family and friends then that this brewpub had been on my top ten swirl, sip and chug stops long before I arrived in California. Hell, for Beer Nerds RRBC represents an eclectic blend of Belgium nestled into an urban nook in the endless grapevines of the Sonoma Valley. Russian River specializes not only in American Strong Ales such as Double IPA's but cask aged sour ales matured in Cab Sauv, Pinot Noir and Chardonnay barrels from the surrounding wineries.

Vinnie Cilurzo has been ahead of the game for quite sometime. From the East Coast it is nearly impossible to get a taste of this man's beverages aside from reading a few tidbits in "Brew Like a Monk" and "Wild Fermentations." In the first how-to reference manual the brewmeister describes an epic trip to Belgium in search of the brewery's proprietary yeast strain. Almost like searching for your beers' future baby's daddy. Legend. In the latter publication Vindogg(if I may speak of the man as a peer) references the surrounding Sonoma winemakers concerns with his use of Brettanomyces Bruxelenis (seen in wine as a spoilage organism) to carry out his controlled barrel ferments stating "I told the local producers that if they have any concerns about the wild yeast I would burn their clothes for free before they walk out the front door (roughly quoted)." Witty and bold this man and his wife Natalie are going places.

Or are they? They don't really have to, there joint is bumping nearly every night. My housemates Dorit and Mor (who incidentally recommended we drop on by) mentioned the place was packed during their previous visit as well. Dude-o-rama, oh it the stench was heavy. Let's see know, there was Jonny Bradawg and Co. rambling on about the Three Sheets lush and banana esters while our eyes devoured a decor of fluffy pink brassieres and bulk hop sacks lining otherwise bare concrete walls. The open kitchen oozed a fried foods stench that infiltrated our clothes like a shitty drainbow at a affinity group meeting and lingered well into the Bonnie ride back to Booneville. Why is it that no brewpub can match fine ales with anything other than baked dough or bloody burgers? For fucks sake can I get some shucked oysters? They could have certainly paired quite well with RRBC's O.W.L Stout, a dry soiled black tipple lingering of burnt coffee notes. A bit flat for my taste but a pinch too much of black patent and that batch is one for the neighbors (or your freeloading, parasitical housemates).

So while I sipped, I too sat in a dual state of perdition and salvation. No Mojo Nixon and I were not drinking with Jesus, but I was enjoying a tasty drink platter of ten different tap offerings at the brewpub. On the other hand I was also in a "state of spiritual ruin." Reason being: I was missing out on two of my favorite punk bands performing in my home town at the very same moment. The headliner NOFX was a heavy influence during my formative years teaching me as I broke down basic trigonometry that no male could quite live up to a lesbian fist and the sanitary benefits of wearing a "Jimmy Hat." Of course there was also indelible life lessons etched into my brainsky with songs like "Beer Bong" and "Six Pack Girls." Getting girls meant drinking tons of cheap beer. Sounded good at the time. And roughly ten years ago from tonight I saw NOFX rock the Funhouse, apparently their farewell tour and possibly one of the best live performances to take place in Bladsdell. I mean c'mon were talking about bombed out Bladsdell. Who else played Bladsdell, Ratt? The venue was a humid swamp, the pit a slimy throng of degenerates with stickered hatchbacks. A drunkard puked on neo-Nazi, Buffalo Flea tried to buy a Jughead's Revenge Tee of my partner in crime Diabolical Dave and a second hand high and parched White Owl throat tricked me into drinking a litre-a-cola of Mountain Topps, the rustic dew.

"Man that was crazy."

Opening up for the California geezers was the poetic popthundergroup D4, whose Budweiser fueled lifeforce has not been felt in Buffalo since a dead drunk swaying performance at the Atomic, now Big Titties oops I mean Big Shotz, in 2000. Why have the burly boys of the Twin cities forsaken B-Lo and why did it take international geriatric supertars to bring them back? Who knows, who cares? Certainly not our loss. The first time, like laying with a woman in the biblical sense was unforgettable. The second time I saw the Dillenger Four rippers, I skipped the Young Judge's b-day party on Minnesota to drink black label in Clev-o and watch D4 blow down the Grogg Shop with Paddy's peepee plugged into a sweaty onlookers palm. The third and fourth shows were mwweeaahh, not aw memorable. But tonight! Tonight would have been the dance party of the year, sure to bring on a good case of laryngitis and over the head people spins. Mid-swirl I get my second phone call from Gaccess community at which I blundered outside and blathered into my dying phone "For Christs sake what do you people want?!" To which my response was a lo-fi static rendition of "Folk Song." I started laughing, took a couple deep breaths and went back into my sensory lab atop the bar stool.

Perfect timing? I think so young Paul Revere. While you can deduce whatever your sweet ass pleases from a song's lyrics this one is probably most emblematic of the my crew, my lost city:

"So many people with so much to show. Rotting away in the own little holes. One can only wonder why. I'll celebrate my home, but know that I'm not alone. Only fools are along for the ride. I'll think of the size of the world that's right outside. Please don't waster your time trying to hide."

Buffalo can become a stagnant cesspool filled with bright creative kids drinking 'till the cows come home. But hell we have each other, it's our home, maybe our second home and "We are fucking Proud!" And I am proud of my friends, their accomplishments and efforts to make the City of Lights a better place to settle/nest. It's also a blatant message to those in search of greener pastures; those that have abandoned the ruins at the end of a dirty ditch. People like well, me. Yep. And to that I will quote the Bouncing Souls when I say "To all you KIDS we're gone but well be back!" They all come back after all, right Benji?

Princess Passion and Gaccess you kids fucking rule! I love you both to death!

Tasting Notes:

Perdition: med-bootied, wheaty Sonoma Biere de Garde with hints of toffee. Smoothly pulverizing my liver.
Aud Blonde: smooth, with with bread, light choc. and toast. Who knew they could have so much character?
Hop Hearty: Proceeds go to fight breast cancer in this uncannily balanced APA. Seamless blend of malt and flowery bitterness.
Russian River and Blind Pig IPA's: Two of the best reasons RRBC won the 2008 Alpha King crown. I still want to throw a Blind Pig in the First Ward. Who's with me?
Pliny the Elder: similar to 90 min IPA but reasonably more balanced. Fresh cut grass and pine. Big malt body. I gave a toothy grin and Dorit grimaced with pain. You be the judge.
Dead Leaf Green: Psst. I'm pretty sure they flavor this tipple with Mendo's finest harvest bud. Tastes like liquid joint APA. Name says it all.
Salvation: Drink three of these tulips and you'll be in heaven until the next morning when your gut and kidneys are burning in hell. Rich, fruity nose, malty caramel body but a finish that screams rubbing alcohol.

http://www.russianriverbrewing.com/

"I say fuck what they say. It doesn't matter anyway. Only in the grave are you alone!" -D4

How Could Hell Be Any Worse?

2008-10-13T17:48:00.000-07:00

Today, Monday October 13 I lived my own personal hell. Jittery and flustered I stood third in line at the Customer Service desk at Wal-Mart in Ukiah. At first I was hesitant to swing by the mega-store that rolls back prices with a grotesque yellow smiley face as it steamrolls local business but I really had to get rid of a malfunctioning Ipod transmitter that had been lifelessly rotting in my trunk for the past month. My reservations were based upon the fact that a pound of scallops residing in my spacious trunk would soon be decomposing at a exponentially fast rate in the mid-day valley sun. But it had to be done. The purchase it turns out, was on impulse at a strip mall Wal-Mart along highway 80. My musical merry-making device was energetically incapacitated and I was crossing quite possibly the one most physically unappealing states in the country: Nebraska.

Hell, at the time I didn't even know if I had enough money in my checking account to cross the country and I was at the checkout in a Walmart at Strip Center (catchy name) in Lexington, NE buying bread, PB& J and a forty dollar charger/transmitter. To tell the truth, part of me trembled as I began to ponder how much money I had tucked away in my account, but after a "transaction approved" flashed on the screen I breathed a sigh of relief. "Whew," I thought, going on my best Valley girl judgment I concluded that "I must have like at least 300 bucks left. Plenty enough dough to make it to the Sunshine State." Checking your bank account for me feels a lot like going to the dentist for many. I never want to know how much money I have pissed away only to find out that I am verging on the brink of wanton bankruptcy while others don't want to find out that they have eight gaping cavities because they are addicted to dunking Oreos in carbonated beverages laden with high-fructose corn syrup (Just because it's Vegan doesn't make it O.K.) So there I was impulsively buying a product for my trans-Atlantic, well practically, journey across the vast expanses of our proud country. Said store could show us all something about integrity by changing their slogan to "Wal-Mart: Keeping America Rolling with Mass Trash Consumption."

Why did I really need this auto-sensory device? Need is such a strong word. Let's say "had to have." The answer can traced back to my driving coordinates at the time. I was entering mountainous terrain in western Wyoming and Jack-o had warned me the only public radio frequencies available to the public on the way to Jackson Hole focused primarily on contemporary bubble gum crooning country beats and a splotchy NPR station that was erratic at best. My trustworthy Road Master Road Atlas purchased for a mere three-fitty from a Lochness Monster on Niagara Falls Blvd. said it was five hours to Jackson from Hwy 80. Five fucking hours without music?!? How can one truly master the road without a killer trailblazing soundtrack
to accompany my thrill ride on "Why-ohm-mings most dane-jur-us highway," the 191. At least that was the omninous warning I recieved from the colorful folks at the Texaco in Rock Springs. "Big game litter the roads. Lotsa axe-cid-dents and tight curves," cautioned a pimply cashier clad in a Gothic jumpsuit who cordially pointed me toward the free tap water. Yum yum. The taste of blood and iron to wash down a heart palpitating energy beverage.

But seriously I want my Dillenger Four! Who is to deny me my daily dose of Avail, Mirah, Jonny Cash or Billy Bragg. This was indeed the right thing to do. After Wal-Mart I completely gave up on life and headed over to the thruway Starbucks, you know the ones that boast a giant sign atop a linearly reducing metal pole that looks like it sprouted some 100 feet out of the concrete. Yep, that one. At, ahem, Harbucks a bleached bombshell barrista stuck in the Nebraska matrix earnestly filled up my "Safety, it's My Job" mug with a perky smile and I scurried back to the Pontiac with my black death to test out my new toy. Finally, I would be able to surf the radio frequencies unfettered, much like a private loan agencies who deal government securities in the free market, in order to pick out the best channel to broadcast my personal hand-held music collection. Truth be told I already owned a radio transmitter which I had purchased from the French luxury goods store Target, but much to my behest the beastly only allowed me to choose from four different stations in the lower eighties. When I came close to any metropolitan area any stations close to the frequency I had selected would drown out my low-fi, fast paced clamor. Imagine your dismay as you belted out "Run for the Hills" and Ricky Martin's "La Vida Loca" stages a fascist corporate coup in your personal environment. That is the polar opposite of democratic. That's Clear Channel imposing it's playlists on my attempts to buck the system with Apple's advances in modern technology.

"So how did I end up at the customer service line in Ukiah?" you ask, likewise questioning if this rambling tangential discourse will ever come full circle. The answer is the frequency transmitter was a total dud. At first I though the batteries in the package had expired but one attempt and broken head lamp later and I realized nothing short of Taiwanese assembler was going to solve my technical issues. That and returning to Wal-Mart. I fully dreaded the latter option. Walking through the doors of the mega-crap store twice in one day would have broke my spirits for months. Instead I decided to take full advantage of the 30 day guarantee commonly used by poster tour shitworkers and use the charger while it was in my slimy scheming paws.

In the end it was what I had to do. Follow through with the return. So I stood in line at the gates of hell, the suburban boy on the cover of Suffer with Beelzebub perched on my left shoulder laughing maniacally. Three landbeasts were womaning the service counter, piling a landfill of returns behind the Formica blue counter as the cattle aired their displeasure with past purchases. To my left sauntered a heavy mustachioed gent with an Alcatraz Hotel tee accompanied by a barflyish lass, skin stained with years of thick smoke and sun-washed green spiraling tattoos. Ahead of me a scraggly geriatric woman arguing relentlessly over an unknown object of desire. Perspiration began to pierce my skin and omit a raw bouquet at the center of my armpit. The greeter, a Elmer Fudd character with extended flapping upper gums barked out a thick Texan call to newcomers taking time to catch up with regulars. I contemplated running for it. Dropping my package and booking for the doors. Anxiety poured over my being as the parking lot corralled livestock through the doors to be directed through the maze of products ingeniously crafted from the excess stocks of mono-cropped cotton, corn and plantations of pine. Calming myself I stuck it out, staying placidly put in line as the mobs destroyed the racks as beckoned.

Forty-two dollars richer (accredited to my account) I felt the consumer confidence in my pocket and took to the aisles, feverishly looking for dental products and cheap envelopes for my obligatory economic transactions. Flames cascaded down my shoulders and backside as I made a beeline for the register, finding even the express lines queued with as many as 5 to 6 people much to my dismay. I though this was about convenience after all. Making due I eavesdropped on the conversations in line. "Well Sheila's gotta new boyfriend, Mike's 'is name," gabbed a curly hailed middle-ager with a gnarly chipped front tooth. "Yep, she skipped from C to M in the alphabet," she quipped with a squirrely laugh. God save me. I turned to the trashy magazines, the lot of them covered with smiling tanned celebs and sculpted male specimens. I'm immediately taken with Howard Stern's Wedding photos. Craddling my purchases with the left arm I madly peruse the magazine only to find articles about Angelina's weight fluctuations. Holy Shit, I catch myself caught in a void of mindless voyeurism and fling the mag back to the racks. Then the beef jerky is looking me straight in the eye. Oberto's genuine dusty cow-dung covered antibiotic charged feedlot beef jerky is egging me on and I am restraining myself from adding the salty particles to my current pile of bullshit. Exchange of money and I'm out the door swimming in a boxed sports utility vehicle sea of unhappy desperate housewives and frowning princesses.

Thank you Kathy Lee Gifford, you dunce. Sam Walton I'll see you in hell. I'll be the kid at the bar in the Reagan Youth t-shirt drinking Belgian strong ales and talking shit about winter weather.

The Punchdown Herald

2008-10-06T00:12:00.000-07:00

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!

Monkey vs. Robot

2008-09-29T22:05:00.000-07:00

I always wanted to work in a factory. No, it wasn't because boot boys romanticized the factory workplace in the early seventies, but rather the experience. The mundane repetitious tasks and grinding of simple machinery would have been enough to give me an inkling of what it might have been like to slave away in the early stages of the industrial revolution as a new immigrant fresh off the boat(a Hungarian or Germ in my case) in a stinking meat factory or a steel mill. Actually, one of my more feasible goals in life has been to work as many jobs (most shit-tay and unskilled) as possible to have a better understanding of the workforce.

A small compilation includes: toll collector, phone solicitor, power plant shitworker, janitor, dishdog, mail clerk, deli-hand/foodeater, quasi bike mechanic, messenger, trail worker, flea market peddler, poster sales rep, guinea pig, landscaper and most recently cellar hand. Searching back into the dank environs of my memory bank the only jobs on my list that I haven't got around to have been Carnie, barkeep and Alaska fishermen. There is still time of course but after a recent trip to the Mendocino County Fair and a short whirl on the Gravitron I think Carnie might officially be crossed off the list. Honestly, I just don't know how long I can hang out with a bunch of leathery skinned dudes with soul patches and gnarly pony tails smoking resin behind the Eggbeater.

So, I always wanted to get my chops in ye olde factory, that was until last week. Last Thursday by mid-day I was over it. The warnings were there but they never really sank in. I should have believed Pat when he told me that working in a factory was so unbearable that it made him turn his back to Noise. Or possibly when my former roommates BBQ and Grandpa Crappaletti told of their horror stories of placing slices of cheesecake into boxes, once piece at a time for ten hours on end. But the idea was always there lingering in the back of my head, that was until I bottled Verjus and Pinot Noir juice at the winery.

The fun started on Wednesday when I was elected to help Manuel and Ulysses prepare the bottling line for two days of juice bottling fun. Upon his selection Jim quipped "I know you don't have much experience with hygiene, but the boys will take your understanding of clean to a new level." What the fuck? Was I being called out already? Over the last six months I have made a concerted effort to clean myself up. Hell, I thought I was doing pretty well. Friends didn't recognize me at the airport and ex-coworkers were a bit shocked. But maybe he smelled me out. The garlic/onion aromas mixed with heavy afternoon must is a dead giveaway that reeks of sketchy punkhouse dweller. Never underestimate an oenologist's nose.

While bottling is itself a delicate process, bottling juice (especially mid-harvest when millions of little yeast cells are floating about the cellar) is an incredibly nerve wracking business. For eight hours we cleaned the shit out of the bottling chamber, which sits betwixt the barrel room and a series of large insulated stainless tanks. Ulysses dusted away, Manuel dissembled the bottling line and I powerwashed the conglomeration of stones that made up the floor making sure the cellarmaster could see his face in every shiny pebble. Even the redwood walls were sprayed with a sanitizer to ward off nasty microbes that might foil our plans for deliciously sterile juice. The only thing in my life akin to such cleaning was the mini-bottling line at the Death Trap that without a doubt indiscriminately imparted it's proprietary yeast and bacteria into every homebrew, no matter how many failed food science experiences I cleaned up.

Thursday morning a number of vineyard workers joined us and we were under way. The clanking bottles on the line, the whoosh of the corker, the grinding of cogs and the bouncing Ranchera fused together to produce an ugly noise that vibrated my brain and tested my nerves. Stacking palettes was cake work but washing bottles with ozonated water and placing them on the line for two straight hours killed my back and strained my wrists. Place bottles on rods, spin, lift, shake, place on line, repeat. Two goddamn hours. Friday was not much better as I finished up my last two places cleaning bottles giving my elbow a nasty ache. The next stop was boxing the bottles, a 2 1/2 hour non-stop nightmare. For two straight hours there is no stopping, no cigarette breaks just boxing as the bottles come out onto a whirling table. Grab, lift, turn over wrists and place into a case.

I would seriously loose my shit if this was my full-time job. Can you imagine contorting your body every day into painful positions only to show up the next day beaten to do it all over again. At 27 you begin to consider your health, the vivacity of your body and protecting what you have. I'm close to another quarter life crisis. No health care, no stable job, no money and contemplating a second education and career from the ground up. Shit this is gonna be quite a ride.

Luckily for this cellar rat, the winery only bottles juice twice a year and everyone who works the line gets to take a bottle home. Pinot juice and vodka it is.