A Labor Of Love Between Two People

A Labor Of Love Between Two People

When I was a child my mom told me of my grandfathers superstitious nature of crushing his grapes under the full moon. This he said is a labor of love between two people. This did not sit well with my girlfriend who had to get up early the next day and go to work.
But since she loves me and agreed to "do whatever it takes" to produce our own version we studied our duties respectfully for months, pouring over manuals uncovered on the internet of recipes, perhaps written centuries ago by long forgotten vintors. Undeterred by the massive amount of information, she diligently poured over manuscripts sifting through what was relevant and what was not.
Once wine season arrived, we set out with our vinometer in hand and headed over the bridge from New Jersey into Philadelphia where our grapes were patiently waiting for us. They recently arrived from California and sat on wooden palates, in cold refrigeration as they have since we started importing them from the sunny west coast.
Little did we realize we should be buying from a local winery, where our grapes would be fresher and perhaps a little more "homemade." This I think is the key to making homemade wine and when you put your label on it should say homemade.
Pulling up to the warehouse we unpacked our equipment, and braved the cold fall air as we stepped into the cavernous hall of grapes. Suddenly, we surrounded by volumes of grapes we had only recently read about. Our mouths hung open as we scanned up and down the boxes upon boxes of Malbec's, Petite Syrah's, and what seemed like mountains of Cabernet Sauvignons.
We looked at each other and the same thought crossed our minds, We want them all." Fortunately cooler heads prevailed and we pulled out our trusty vinometer. This little device would point us to the sweetest grape with the highest sugar content, thus producing the highest alcohol content for our homemade.
We narrowed the field pretty quickly and decided on a Pinot Noir, which just happened to be one of Katie's favorite wines. It wasn't the sweetest grape we found but, I knew she was thinking to herself, how she would enjoy telling our friends the arduous task she experienced standing in the cold and in a refrigerator just happening upon her favorite grapes.
Having loaded our truck, we departed the port vowing never to return. From here on we would seek our wines in the garden state and deal with local farmers who knew their grapes and could speak to us directly about their fruit.
Never again would we have to succumb to some faceless foreign entity, who didn't care what we did. During our short ride home we were able to discuss our responsibilities once we arrived home. Little did we know what was waiting for us upon our arrival.
As we pulled into the parking lot which led to our warehouse, Katie exited our truck and opened the doors as I backed up to the door. Our crushing and de-stemming machine shined brightly as if waiting proudly for our return to empty our grapes into its red and silver mouth, ready to spit out the juice of our labor. As I unloaded the boxes, Katie stood beside me, in her torn jeans and apron, crowbar in hand, ready to tear open the pretty boxes labeled in different colors.
Placing our crusher above the giant vat, we slowly poured our pretty purple orbs into the waiting jaws below. As the stems shot out the sides and the juice covered us, I looked at Katie. Her golden hair tinged in purple, her cheeks aglow not with grape skins, but pride as she broke the grapes separating us from people who buy pre-made juice and call it homemade wine.
Her laughter filled the air and I was awestruck by the fact that her beauty shined through the dirtiest of jobs. That she could wear a ballroom gown with pearls or dirty juice stained jeans attests to her versatility as a human being. I was lost in that moment as we seemed like children making mud pies after a summer rain.
This however was cut short by the arrival of bees. No sooner had the crushing process began, they came and swarmed. I had experienced this before, and paid them no attention. Katie had not. And I forgot to tell her this could happen.
Watching her run and curse, I could not help but notice how light she was on her feet. Her macabre leaps and twirls, reminded me of ancient rain dancing the Indians performed in days long past. But no rain would come today, just the agonizing sting of bees attracted to our sweet fruit.
In conclusion, one can take away only good from this article. We bonded on a level that only few can achieve. The physical aspect wore off in a couple of days as we nursed our wounded pride (and bee stings). It was the journey of vine to barrel that brought us closer.
The decisions we bore together will remain forever embedded in our psyche. For on this day we learned that the making of homemade wine is not about crushing grapes.