Don't Cry Over Spilled Wine

Streaming wine.

We have an old saying: "When racking wine you're going to spill." This has been true since 2004, so it was something of a miracle last weekend when we racked 3+ barrels of wine and didn't spill a drop.  No accidents. No spousal fights. The other morning as I took Bluey out for a run I noticed an inky color meandering beneath the garage door. I went back into the house, into the garage (which has been converted into a winery) to find that my worse nightmare was about to unfold: A container of wine leaning like a tower of Pisa about to tip over. (It had been placed on a wheeled stand not strong enough to support it -- of course, The Queen had warned me: "What are you thinking?" she said, about putting that container on that wheeled dolly? "It's not going to work.") As it is, only a gallon or so escaped, and I don't like that wine that much anyhow, a Petite-Sirah with the aroma of rotten eggs (more about that in another post). So here it is folks: With Winemaker's Journal, you get the good, the bad and the ugly. There's no reason to cry over spilled wine. The dog will lick it up.

Storm of Shakespearean Proportions

"Tom's a cold. Tom's a cold!" I called out as the season's first rain turned to hail. Soaked to the bone I meandered through the vineyard inspecting the flow of water, taking note of areas to patch. Oh, Tom's a cold, and I thought of old Tom Turkey trying to stay warm, huddling next to the hens. Over 80 degrees just two days ago on Turkey Day, Tom basting himself in the sun's warm rays among his harem. And now this. What a fall from fortune. 80 to zero in two days oh Tom's a cold! I thought of King Lear out in a raging storm spurned by ungrateful daughters and I, a Lear-like pauper, ignored by our Princess last week in the "Special Thanks" program of her play, "To The Men I've Dated: A Tribute." No tribute to the parents. Not a tribute to her dog. There are thanks to Judy (for ongoing support), and thanks to Katie (for the lights) and thanks to Caroline (for the sound), and thanks to Bryan (for the summer -- what's that about?). But where are the thanks to Papa, payer of the college tuition, and the bank roller of the production? Where are the thanks to mama, from whose womb she was untimely ripped? "Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks. Rage, blow." I said to Bluey who had followed me loyally into the storm, "Come, Fool!" and we picked up a mouse dead in his trap and carried him to the burying ground. As I dug the shallow grave my shovel hit a a skull which I pulled out and showed to Bluey, "Alas, poor gopher, I knew him Horatio."

My wits began to turn and common sense returned and I asked Bluey, "How dost, my boy? Art cold? I am cold myself." We headed down the hill towards the house, inspecting mounds of compost placed under each vine before the storm. The compost held its ground, and I took the shovel and worked it into the soil, to provide slow nourishment for the year ahead.

It is the beginning of another cycle in the vineyard and the first rain has fallen and the first steps to making the 2010 wines have been taken. Now warmed in the house, and having penned a few lines, it's time to get outside again and take the rake and grate the damp soil and sow annual grass seed as a cover crop. The rackings finished yesterday, siphoning new wine from the dregs of microscopic grape skins and sediment, tasting as I racked, the 2009 wines full of such promise. The sun is coming out and it will be warmer to work outside in the rays moving more compost and raking, scraping the dirt to prepare the soil for the seed as the new growing season begins today, with the first of nature's irrigations, and I take off my jacket as I warm up and start to sweat, faithful dog at my side, imagining Prospero releasing his magic to the vineyard.

(Kind words to our Princess: P.S. we love you. The play's your thing.)

Full Moons & Fires

It was the week of the full moon in Blue Merle Country, almost bright enough to read a newspaper under the night-time sky. It’s the time to hunt gophers without night vision goggles. It’s the time to take an evening stroll through the vineyard to enjoy the magic of this time of the month. It’s mid-October, and it’s warm enough to walk under the stars and the moon without a sweater. The Santa Ana winds are blowing in from the dessert, and I suppose that the snakes are out and about looking for that last meal before hibernation. Not wanting to be mistaken for that meal, I bring a shovel, making my presence known to all in the area. Some might call it paranoia. I call it common sense, especially since we found 12 snakes the first two weeks we moved here two years ago. I’m on a mission, to investigate the smoke rising from the West. It’s "fire season" in San Diego and I’m climbing to the top of the hill of the vineyard to examine the scene below, where flames become visible in the valley. The fire looks much closer than it is – but if the wind shifts, we could be in trouble, so I pack a bag, important papers and the computer and put them by the door just in case. My father used to joke about "sleeping with one eye open." That skill will come in handy this evening, as the flames are visible from the house where I set up my stake out.

It was the first day of Gopher Season, which opens when the bulk of the winemaking is behind us and at least one car fits in the garage. I was setting the first traps of the season when Merlot Mike and Nancy, out for a joy ride, drove over in the Gator. "Every time you come here I catch a gopher," I tell Mike. "Let’s see if it works again this time." We had just finished bottling wine three days before, so we broke open a couple of bottles for tasting. It was getting dark as they left, "another hour of sun wasted" I thought, but it was good to see them. It wasn’t the light that was lost, but water. In my rush to welcome them, I forgot to turn off the irrigation. The Queen called me at the office the next morning to report a flood cascading down the hill. There was no gopher in the trap – Mike’s hitting streak was up but we verified one in the area. Mr. Gopher back-filled the hole where we set the trap, so the hunt was on with me setting a trap, and Mr. Gopher back filling it. I set a good one yesterday, deep into the hole, and found a succulent root for bait. As Bluey and I made the rounds the morning, he froze in his "Gopher Dog" point and I suspected we caught one. When I arrived on the scene, Bluey had already pulled on the chain of the trap and there was Mr. Gopher, squeezed between the tongs. Without gophercide nor dynamite, so long Mr. Gopher! I throw him over the fence for the coyotes to snack on.

The saga of the 46 Phoenix Canarius palm trees (or, if you prefer the less scientific name, those [expletive deleted] palm trees) continued, with more digging, piercings and swearings. Merlot Mike called, "Can I bring over the Gator and help you move those trees up the mountain?" I explained to him no thank you, because this is my penitence, to atone for all the iniquities, sins and wrong doings during 20 years of marriage. It seems I am not the sole Martyr of the Palms. The Queen attempts to help me lift one of the trees into a hole, and her hand is pierced by a needle. Without a word she walks up the hill to the house, stoically bearing the sign of the "stigmata."

It’s been one year since we evacuated from the Great San Diego fires of 2007 and camped at Coyote Karen’s mom’s house. There were the Queen, Bluey & myself, Coyote Karen and her sidekick Pinot Noir "We’re Drunk" Sandra with her two shitzus, Merlot Mike’s cat (whom we called "kitty" and locked into the bathroom); Jack, Judy, Chuckie (the medical miracle with Down’s Syndrome) and their two golden retrievers (Max & Maggie) and a couple of cats. We were a mini Noah’s Ark – not having to worry about bringing a wine dog, Coyote Karen brought her wine collection and was very liberal with her libations. Might as well enjoy a good class of wine while your house burns. We sipped, and watched distant flames lapping hill tops.

Our houses didn’t burn this time (thanks in part to Sandra’s husband Jim who stayed behind to defend the neighborhood) – and this day, one year later, Karen called to say her brother (who co-hosted us refugees last year) was coming down for a visit. Would we join them for some brisket? Now the best brisket I’ve ever tasted was at The Salt Lick outside of Austin, Texas 11 months ago and the second best in the world is made by my cousins in Oklahoma. Ole Coyote Karen had lived in Texas herself a few years and must of learned a thing or two because I now declare her the Princess of Brisket, and I don’t say that just to flatter her in hopes of being granted privileged access to her wine collection or other hidden gems. "I added a can of coke and wine to the recipe," she explains, and I suggest that what’s good for beef should be good for gopher meat and I offer to go and find the carcass of the fresh one we caught this morning.

After the nourishment, it’s back to the "winery" and racking wines into the refurbished French barrel. I’m told there are two kinds of barrels: Burgundy and Bordeaux. I can’t tell you if the difference influences the taste of the wine – but the thinner barrel we got last year fit through the side door of the garage. The one we received on Saturday does not. But, this one doesn’t leak. The work begins at 2:30pm and finishes at 8:30pm, and the Queen starts singing some very melodic songs about how she never dreamed about "making wine" – that she only wanted a vineyard. I suggest that she go and plant a palm tree or something – which I’m glad NOT to be doing as I blend the Cabernet Franc, Malbec and Petit Verdot into a "Merleatage" (named after Bluey) wine. The Cabernet Franc tastes good for a 3-week old wine, the Malbec is surprising good and "spritzy" from malolatic fermentation, but the PV I’m not so sure about so we’ll see how the "2008 Merleatage" turns out. After that’s done – and I take a break from racking to plant a palm tree (which turned out to be our best financial investment of the week) – we rack "Bluey’s Blush", our first rose wine… and it tastes pretty good! (I’ll spare you the comments about how it has a "banana nose.") We come inside, enjoy the leftover blush topping wine chilled from the freezer, then open a bottle of 2007 Petit Verdot, which was just bottled a few weeks ago… and I’m thinking, what a difference a year makes.

First Harvest and the Last Racking

We survived the first harvest of 2008, taking in 7,000 pounds of Merlot (without any fingertips) at our neighbor's Escondido Sunrise Vineyard. Don, the veterinarian from Valley Center who is a veteran grower of Petite Sirah, was on standby in case anyone needed a digit sewed back. The only potential problem with having Don instead of a doctor: "They might end up barking after the procedure." It was quite a day, which began with perfectly cool weather for a change and a champagne toast. And once again, Nancy made brisket that couldn't be beat, accompanied by enough wine to fill a swimming pool and the stomachs of more than 50 volunteers.

The day before, Bluey and I took what grapes we could glean from the yellow jackets and honey bees -- the premier harvest from Blue-Merle Vineyard. Our goal: gather enough Tempranillo to make jam. We found that making San Diego's best jam ever is not an easy task -- I just threw the grapes into a pot and started boiling them. At the end, I ended up crushing them by hand, destemming them by hand, and picking the seeds out, by hand. The resulting liquid is nectar from heaven. But after adding some pectin, the liquid didn't set. So now instead of jelly, I've got pancake syrup or concentrated natural grape juice. (I added some to lemon juice and made a refreshing drink after the harvest.) There are still a few grapes on our 2nd year vines, and we're debating harvesting those for the farmer's market, or perhaps trying to make a blush rose?

Picking grapes is fun. Racking wine is not. It's a chore. But, with some wines, it needs to be done. "Racking" is the process of transferring wine from one container to another, which allows you to remove the lees -- or sediment -- from the container when empty. In addition, it allowed me to add some "oxygen" to some wine I have been storing in beer kegs. It seems ironic that we spend so much time trying to keep O2 out of the wine, and here for a brief moment we're trying to add it. But the fact is, wine stored in a beer keg does not experience that slow oxidation process which wooden barrels impart to wine, and I've found that wine we've made [expertly] and stored in beer kegs is somewhat "harsh" compared to equally made wines that we love which are stored in wooden barrels. A small, electric pump moves 15 gallons of wine from the keg into a clean storage container in a few minutes. That device sure is a lifesaver, because in the early days, we would have used a siphon hose -- and the procedure would have taken longer, if we were able to complete it at all. When I picked up the keg to rinse it out, I wasn't surprised to see a black widow at the bottom. The surprise was that she didn't bite me -- as I had been carelessly carrying the keg with my bare hands. Dodged another bullet. After racking the 2nd keg, I looked carefully at the bottom before putting my hand there. No spider this time. Just a scorpion.

This marks the fifth anniversary of winemaking for the Blue-Merle. My sister in Connecticut has one of the last remaining bottles of the 2004 Syrah, our first effort. I'd pay her $100 for it. It probably tastes pretty good by now -- too bad the Queen consumes all of ours before it ages. For five years, I've been a voice crying in the wilderness taking photos, writing web pages, and blogging about making your own, growing your own, drinking your own wine. And in five years, I think there are about a dozen of you out there, amused by our progress or lack thereof. The other day, I set up a group on LinkedIn called "Kaisha Society" which was an attempt to reconnect with friends who lived and worked in Tokyo 20 years ago. Kaisha Society has gone somewhat viral, attracting a dozen new members today -- whom I've never met before. Perhaps I should become a marketer of a non-profit professional organization for people whose work involves Japan rather than a raconteur of wine?

Then again, maybe I won't. I suppose there's at least one person who's been inspired by this story of a guy and his dog who make wine in their garage: Bill Powell. I met Bill at Grace Church San Marcos two years ago when we came down from the mountain to give worship, praise and thanksgiving for all of the blessings bestowed upon us and this land. He said he was thinking about planting some vines, and we shared with him our plans. We advised him to just do it, which he did, on a little strip of land in his back yard. When I saw Bill at Merlot Mike's on Sunday, he shared his news: He bought 10 acres and a house in Paso Robles, CA (the best wine country in the world) and is planting a vineyard there this winter. Way to go Bill!

Next stop: Malbec this weekend, Petit Sirah soon thereafter, then Petit Verdot.

Jan 24th: A Day To Remember

It was the best of times.
It was the worst of times.
We racked Petite Verdot wine into a new French barrel, finishing the task before midnight, but Bluey was lame and could only look, hopping along on 3-paws.
Today is our 20th wedding anniversary;
We have been married for 20 years.
It's raining.
A rainbow opened up at our doorstep.
Perhaps this marriage is blessed.
And it appears Bluey is healing.

Time to go out and bang some stakes in the ground while the earth is moist.

Bottling Weekend 2007: The price just went up $5

It's almost 4a.m. and I've just finished rinsing carboys and fermenters from their purple sludge, with one eye on the full moon and the other eye on the lookout for a pack of coyotes. This feels like deja vu all over again ... a day full of bottling, an evening spent racking. This year, we had it all figured out. We borrowed a pump and 100 feet of tubing. After everything was hooked up, we turned on the pump, the motor purred, and the wine trickled from the storage container into the barrel. Note the word: trickled. We were expecting a torrent. My little siphon hose works faster. The flow was less than one quart per minute. "The motor's no good," opined the Queen. I thought, perhaps, the tubes were too long, or too tangled. Finally as midnight approached, I went back to methods I knew that worked: using the Enomatic bottling device to siphon wine off the dregs into a 5-gallon carboy, then lifting and pouring the contents through a funnel into the barrel. When I was cleaning up a couple of hours later, I noticed something in the filter: wood chips! No wonder it didn't work; the filter was clogged. Lesson of the day: when using a pump, if it doesn't work, check the filter! Needless to say, we bottled 3/4 of the Nebbiolo (about 17 cases), and racked the Petite Sirah into the barrel with the Petit Verdot, creating a new, promising blend: Petit Petit. In our book, Petit + Petit = Grand. Stay tuned to see how the Petit-Petit turns out next year.

One revelation about the 2006 Merlot, which we also bottled this weekend. The grapes were grown next door. They were fermented with equipment that anyone could easily purchase. The wine was stored in a 15-gallon carboy, which anyone could purchase (or you could just as soon use a beer barrel). We bottled using a simple device. And as the winemaker's father would say, "It doesn't taste that bad." It ends up there was a 5-gallon carboy leftover of Merlot pressings, which we blended with slightly more than a gallon of the Nebbiolo -- I'm looking forward to tasting it after it's aged for six months in the bottle but I anticipate the winemaker's father saying, "That tastes pretty good." Anyone could do this.

When we finished, the place was a mess. But, within 24-hours, we had it cleaned up, and achieved an important milestone: we slept with both cars in the garage.

The first words out of the Queen's mouth the morning after were: "I'm tired of this." Her suggestion: "Sell the grapes -- forget the winemaking." There is so much work that went into the bottling, and the racking, that as I thought about the "costs" of the wine -- and how good it tastes -- we concluded that we would be cheating ourselves if we didn't charge $25/bottle for the Nebbiolo. Next steps: apply for that wholesale reseller license, and get the garage bonded.

Have any suggestions for the permitting process? Looking forward to your posts.