Post Harvest Headaches

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

"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

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

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

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

"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

"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

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

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

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

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

"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

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

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

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

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!

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.