Freezing Wine and Matrimony

Still no word on when we're going to drop the fruit and tension builds as the long range weather forecast looks more and more dismal. So the situation is that because of a rainy Spring, veraison was about 3 weeks behind meaning the fruit simply isn't ready, the brix are still too low. And the rainy forecast has everyone in the Valley on edge. I try to imagine what I'd do - knowing my temperament I'd pull the trigger too soon and end up with sour cherry juice and an attitude to match. Some wineries started picking a few plots in September, but we're holding out. Nerves of steel, us.

When I ask Gilles about how he deals with it, he compares it to flying. You hone your skills to be the best, but there's no way to control the weather or a surprise wind gust that tries to knock you out of the air. You know your destination and what it takes to get there; when the unexpected hits, the key to survival is to instantly adapt and adjust. Don't waste time panicking or being emotional about the storm. Accept it the minute it comes, reconcile yourself to it and then your choices become clear. So if the weather throws a curve ball at the grapes, figure out what adjustments are needed in order to make the wine "good" and get on with it. Let go of the preset idea about what kind of winemaker you want to be or what kind of wine you want to make, and adapt to the situation. So much for the romance of winemaking. Turns out it's more about crisis management. The lessons of life as taught by the grape.

Meanwhile the anthill buzzes away.


I thought I was sick of sampling before, but it turns out that was only a teaser. Now I'm out there everyday and with specific instructions i.e., only certain rows from certain plots and from certain sites. Gilles knows which plots produce the best wine consistently and always has various scenarios running in his head in case we need to drop in a hurry - what gets pressed first and to which tank etc. (The risk management aspect.) We test and test and test some more. I keep wanting to tell him that a watched pot does not friggin boil!

He's told me that if I bring him the numbers he's looking for, I will find a husband within a year. Sweet. Now that's something to work toward. When I laugh him off, he tells me that he's dead serious. He's been to three weddings of prior assistants this way! Now whenever he checks the numbers, the remarks are about whether or not I'll ever get married at this rate, oy! And every time I come in with the samples, everyone asks if I'm going to find a husband rather than what the brix are. When the owner's daughter goes out to sample, there's a full on competition over our marriage prospects. She wants to know what my numbers are the minute I come in and jokingly threatens to get pissed if mine are higher. News flash honey - you own the winery and I'm a cellar rat. I think your brix better than mine.

Now the game seems to have turned into a mission to find Subi a husband. My love life (or lack thereof) is a grab bag topic for use at any random moment. At lunch the other day, Eberardo mentioned that I looked tired. I thanked him for being concerned and agreed that I was very tired, this job was taking its toll. Without batting an eye he matter-of-factly informed me that I needed to find a husband, using the tone you would use if offering advice to someone who's new in town and clueless. I looked up and rolled my eyes, but he wasn't joking. "Find a husband, sleeping much better. Go to bed alone, eez no good." I told him I'd work on it. And being the helpful soul that he is replied, "is easy, going on the internet, find a husband fast." My life is now an indy version of Fiddler on the Roof! I'm thinking if this works out, I'm putting Match.com out of business.

And just when I thought I knew everything about sanitizing, I discover there is yet another way to clean a tank. The size of the doors on these things is not random, it's by design. Hi there!


Yep, big enough for a person! During crush when there are actual rotting grapes in these monsters, the buildup inside gets pretty thick. The walls become covered with tartrates, a harmless crystalline deposit that forms from tartaric acid which is one of the rarer acids found in fruit but is a huge component in grapes. Occasionally you can find tartrates in a bottle - in white wine they look alarmingly like shards of glass, in red wine they take on a red brown hue and appear as sediment. Wine geeks appreciate this because it means the wine has not been filtered and therefore has more complexity and aging capacity. But the modern wine industry's approach has been to produce a wine that is crystal clear rather than educate the consumer. Another controversial topic that I'll cover later.

Anyway the only effective way to make sure the tank is clean is to climb in. It's like being in a circular stainless steel sauna with a sprayer attachment for added moisture. After hopeless attempts at avoiding the wet t-shirt look, I decide to go with it and have a little fun. I'm not busting my ass for the mere $10/hour here. So imagine your basic home shower acoustics amplified by 100 and with stainless steel walls! I could go with the Flashdance scene but I'm feeling more the AC/DC vibe - Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap fits the bill nicely. I belt it out as loud as I can, and in my small insular stainless steel world, life becomes something else... I'm instantly transformed into the invincible 16 year old girl who saw them live in London and never thought her life would like this at 40! Why deal with reality when you can have make-believe?

I think I'm somewhat of an anomaly to Eberardo's brother Pollo. He looks at me like a cat, with sardonic half interest. The antics and intensity of my life have no bearing at all on his. And my little winery experience is his daily reality. There's not another career that he can switch back to if he decides he doesn't like this. He's the most hard working, straight shooting, quiet man I've ever met. A Mexican version of the old fashioned Marlboro Man and totally the opposite of Eberardo's incessant goofy ramblings. He very rarely speaks and never smiles. One morning I brought in home made banana bread and got a nod in response. The first time he said something to me, it was to let me know that I had done something wrong. There was no emotion, and the few pieced-together words of English got the information across very clearly. Felt worse than being yelled at.



One day we get about an inch of rain, which puts everyone on edge. But then something worse happens, the temperature drops that night. Now we could have a real problem! Freezing grapes isn't the issue, and in fact is sometimes desirable. In Germany and Austria, grapes are intentionally left to freeze on the vine well into December or January in order to make Eiswein (Icewine). This concentrates the sugar, acid and extract in the grapes, producing a very highly condensed specialty dessert wine, which is DIVINE. I highly recommend trying some!

The grapes are picked at around 5AM in freezing temperatures. Workers must wear gloves so that the heat from their hands doesn't melt the ice. Then the grapes are pressed while still frozen, giving very little extract because they are raisins by this time. In the US, the process is shortcut and simulated. Imagine that. Grapes are frozen after being picked because they are grown in a climate that doesn't freeze. The result is a product that is sweet and concentrated but lacks the complexity. Like a lot of CA wine, it's a fabricated trumped up version of itself (in my humble opinion). This practice is illegal in Germany and Austria. It's worth it to buy the real thing.

I digress. The problem with a frost in early Autumn is defoliation. Fruit ripens through photosynthesis, the biochemical reaction that uses the sun's energy to form sugars in plants. This process happens when leaves are green and healthy. So if they are frost damaged too early and fall off, no more sugar can form in the grapes. It's all about the brix. Even if there is consistent sunny weather immediately following the frost, the vine's reserve of carbohydrates cannot be restored without the leaves. Gilles is taking no chances. He is going to the airport to spend the night. If temps start to drop again, he has a helicopter and pilot on standby, ready to go any time he gives the word. Flying over the vineyards circulates warmer air from above and can prevent a freeze.

That night I dream of a frozen husband with a green leaf over his package. Interpretations welcomed.

Are We There Yet?

With all the anticipation, it would be nice if there was an exact date that declared the official start of harvest. But back to the expectant father analogy, delivery room will not be controlled, it tells you when it's time. You know it's coming, the signs are all around, stress levels rising, excitement and dread playing seesaw in your gut. Every day I drive to work in anticipation, wondering if today is the day. And if it is, what does that mean? I have no clue what to expect. Just that it's big.

When to drop the fruit - this is one of several huge calls that a winemaker is responsible for. Ideally we want high brix which means long hang time. But leaving them on the vine too long is risky in Oregon because you chance the rains. Dropping too soon though will give a wine that may be acidic, thin and astringent. If you pick unripe grapes there's not much that can be done. You have shit wine that at best can be bulked out. Again Oregon's unpredictable weather can be a huge problem when dealing with the challenge of producing a consistent vintage that meets consumer expectations year after year, whereas in California they glide by every year with reliable sun. Getting a vintage to express any individuality is the issue there.

So the decision to pick is largely a gamble here, and a little more than slightly stressful. The use of caffeine and nicotine are a given along with the frequent, unexpected and unprovoked outburst of profanities to release the high blood pressure valve. Gilles is on top of the atmospheric forecasts, but he also relies heavily on his gut, meaning that because he's French he knows better than the professionals. I keep expecting him to announce that he's getting in his plane to fly into the fronts himself to see which way they're going. The buzz is who in the valley has started harvesting already and who hasn't, immediately followed by a quick tisk or head nod indicating (I assume) the incorrectness of the decision. I keep my mouth shut and take it all in. The place feels like an anthill coming alive, busy and noisy.

Eberardo and Gerry fixing old crates and making new pallets.



He's hired two new guys for crush which means I'm no longer the only gringo, but still the only chica.


One of the things I disliked about the hair business was the heavy concentration of catty female dynamics, but being immersed in a pool of Y chromosomes has its own challenges. A small example: It's time to spray down the cellar to remove dust or random cellar beasties from the ceiling so that they don't drop into the open fermentation tanks later. This means moving all the tanks out, spraying down the walls and ceiling with the pressure washer, and then moving them back. There's a lot of finesse involved because while these tanks may be massive metal monsters, they are also incredibly expensive and easy to damage. Also re-aligning them must be precise, leaving exactly enough room for the forklift to maneuver as well as the exact spacing for rows of bins and barrels that will be living in here later.

(notice the guy in the rain coat behind the tanks being hoisted by the forklift to spray down the ceiling)


I'm convinced that there are extra nuts and bolts in men's DNA chain because predictably, EVERY TIME they take something apart and put it back together, there are left over pieces that somehow don't fit anymore. And while women are not known for being the logical gender, I'm thinking that if the parts were in there before they should fit in there after. So now imagine four guys going at this task instead of one. It's akin to seeing the oddity of the British Parliament for the first time and wondering how the hell they get anything accomplished with all the yelling, arguing and talking over each other (and because they all have Latin blood, the obligatory scratching of body parts). Anytime I tried to help in any way, I felt like I was being barked at by a pack of dogs. The key to this being amusing rather than annoying or hurtful is to let go of the "logical" impulse to be of use when there is an obvious problem.

At one point they were trying to slide the metal plates back under the feet of a tank that had been re-situated. 3 guys on one side lifting it while the guy on the other end tried to shove the plate under. I had to stifle the urge to ask the obvious - why not think ahead a little and position the plates in the proper place BEFORE putting the tank down? After watching multiple attempts, tank circling and arguing in English/Spanish/French I couldn't stand it anymore. I got on my hands and knees and crawled under the thing to check it out, ignoring the protective territorial growls. Well the problem was that there were three plates wedged under one of the feet to compensate for the uneven concrete floor, which meant that the tank was already level. In order to have enough room to slide the plate under, it might be useful to remove one from the other side rather than using muscle and might against concrete and steel. To which there was a moment of silence, then a mad scramble to fix the situation. Uh huh, you're welcome. The wine version of "how many guys does it take to screw in a light bulb".



One of the new guys came from Leonetti in Walla Walla, a top producer of premium reds, with a 7 year wait for their mailing list. He was there for six years and became head oenologist. But he gave it all up to move to Willamette Valley to learn Pinot Noir - the holy grail. His past experience is hardy Cab/Merlot grapes, very hot summers, drip irrigation and Rolls Royce level equipment. Now it's a rainy cooler climate, a finicky grape that is winemaking's biggest challenge and a mom-and-pop style in the cellar. He's going to have to start from the bottom and re-learn. I think his choice would be harder than mine. Even though I gave up a lot, it wasn't industry related, so the humbling nature of being at the bottom has less of a sting for me.

The cardinal sin right now is asking questions related to "why" I'm doing something. And the "how" questions should be kept to a minimum too. Figure it out. Gilles has warned me that it's army time now, shut up and do what you're told. I'm thinking mushrooms do well when kept in the dark and shit on... maybe if I try real hard I can aspire to truffle status? So having Preston on board is a boon because we run questions by each other and discuss possible "why" scenarios. It might look something like two mushrooms attempting explanations of the world at large. I feel like the middle school kid looking up to the teenager who knows everything. Still while the world of pinot may be new to him, his hands on experience and cellar training are invaluable and I'm constantly picking his brain. It's a workable arrangement, he gets to be the cool kid and I get to have at least some questions answered.

The other plus is that I'm pleasantly surprised that I have a broader knowledge base in terms of Old World and classic wines from classic regions, a general comprehension of wine outside production in small Walla Walla, Washington. I needed the affirmation because I've been concerned that my last two years of study have been a waste since they weren't production oriented. I've been a wee bit tortured (like that's anything new) over it. Ultimately the world of wine is vast and I don't know where exactly I fit (in keeping with my never ending "what do I wanna be when I grow up" theme). So the more I know the better. Education can never be a waste.

Here we are with our first wounds that required a bandaid. Yes it's on my lip, don't ask! It seems like everywhere I turn, there are random sharp objects sticking out of tanks, walls and presses, lying in wait to take out an eye or lip, or bust me across the nose and stop me dead in my tracks.