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.
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