Be Careful What You Ask For (and Give)
When I was 7 years old I desperately wanted Electric Football. Remember it? Though pricey, Electric Football wasn't much more than a metal board painted to look like a gridiron. A motor made the board vibrate. The vibrations caused the players, who stood on plastic stands, to move.
It looked awesome in the commercials, where some incredibly lucky bunch of kids were duking it out, gleefully guiding their teams in pitched battle.
In reality, it sucked.
The players moved aimlessly. Guards were liable to head out on post routes and wide receivers were as likely to dive straight into the mass around the center as they were to go out for a pass. Not that it matter. The quarterback, when he let fly with the little "ball," was as accurate as your great aunt after too many glasses of wine on Turkey Day.
Apparently, a shitload of kids liked Electric Football because you never heard a bad word about it. Me? I thought it was ridiculous. From Day One. I used it several times, trying hard to get over the shock at how stupid the whole thing was. Then it found a place under my bad and there it stayed … for months … and years.
Somewhere along the way, my Electric Football game disappeared—probably at one of our periodic garage sales. But the heartache at wanting and getting something that was clearly outside the usual Christmas-gift price range, well, that only grew. And amazingly, it's still there. What kind of ungrateful son rejects the generous gifts of his hard-working parents? Me. I do. Loathsome piece of dog poop. What kind of son doesn't know better than to want such an asinine gift? Me. I don't. Wretched louse.
Now Rebecca and I are buying gifts for Niko after receiving his input. Earlier this fall birthday money from grandparents resulted in purchase of a little box with four musicians atop it. The box plays a few tunes and asks, repetitively, a short set of far too simple questions about who among the characters is playing what instrument. The minute I saw it, my heart sank. I knew it would fall by the wayside within weeks. And it has. I worried. Was this the beginning of a trend? How do we navigate between his toddler wanna-gotta-have wishes and our adult no-its-a-clunker wisdom?
"But it's what he wanted," Rebecca said, and a pain shot through my heart. I explained my fractured psychology and Rebecca, wise as ever, said that the important thing was that I never let Niko feel bad about not liking a gift he asked for. I said I wouldn't, but thinking about it now, I'm not sure that will safeguard the lad against emotional damage. After all, my parents never said a peep about me not liking Electric Football. All the guilt was self-inflicted, and not just after the gift was revealed to be so idiotic.
No, I think I overreached in ever asking for Electric Football. A new football—a real genuine NFL imitation rubberized-material football—would have been worn to its inner liner before it was discarded. Much joy would have been derived from it. But I wanted something fancy. Something cool. That was the problem. Fancy and cool, where simple would have done the trick. Now, all we have to do is get Niko to understand why he NEVER gets anything that's fancy and cool.
I'm sure "It's for your own good, son" will do the trick.
Saturday, November 16, 2002
Sunday, November 10, 2002
The Good Kind of Graft
We're planning on putting a small vineyard in at my parents' house. They have a huge backyard that's rather empty, I love to make wine, so what's to stop us? (Oh, about a thousand technical and logistical matters, but we're going ahead anyway.) In preparation, I've been bopping around grapevine nursery sites, most of which aren't too hot. But the folks down at Tablas Creek, in the Paso Robles area, have tons of cool info. If you're into wine or horticulture (or both), you'll enjoy the page that explains how they produce their plant material.
We're planning on putting a small vineyard in at my parents' house. They have a huge backyard that's rather empty, I love to make wine, so what's to stop us? (Oh, about a thousand technical and logistical matters, but we're going ahead anyway.) In preparation, I've been bopping around grapevine nursery sites, most of which aren't too hot. But the folks down at Tablas Creek, in the Paso Robles area, have tons of cool info. If you're into wine or horticulture (or both), you'll enjoy the page that explains how they produce their plant material.
Saturday, November 09, 2002
Fire It Up
Now that the warm season is officially and utterly over, we're using the stove again. Sure feels good. Roasted stuff, boy oh boy. Chickens, sweet potatoes, fingerlings, beets, carrots. Sweet and savory stuff. Tonight we veered in a slightly different direction, to pizza. The best pizza, ultimately, remains one consisting of a thin crust, a lightly (or not-even) cooked tomato sauce, whole-milk mozzarella, some basil and maybe a touch of reggiano and fresh oregano scattered on top after it's out of the 475 degree oven. But that doesn't mean this is the pizza you want to make on a dramatically cloudy, spitting Saturday in the fall. Pizza's greatest charm—to the guy at home having fun, the CD player cranked, the wine flowing—is its ability to succeed no matter what you put on it. I mentioned fingerlings. I love fingerlings. I am on a fingerling rampage. So of course fingerlings went on one of the two pizzas I made tonight. Roasted fingerlings cut lengthwise and salted. Mild Italian sausage bursting with sweet, luscious fennel. Then the white cheeses and a drizzle of olive oil. Done. Pizza 2 was caramelized onion and the cheeses. Niko wasn't too fond of these oddities, really, but Rebecca and I sat in the kitchen while the lad hopped about to Exile on Main Street and we loved 'em. Tomorrow we'll find another reason to crank the oven well above 400 degrees for several hours, I'm sure of it.
Now that the warm season is officially and utterly over, we're using the stove again. Sure feels good. Roasted stuff, boy oh boy. Chickens, sweet potatoes, fingerlings, beets, carrots. Sweet and savory stuff. Tonight we veered in a slightly different direction, to pizza. The best pizza, ultimately, remains one consisting of a thin crust, a lightly (or not-even) cooked tomato sauce, whole-milk mozzarella, some basil and maybe a touch of reggiano and fresh oregano scattered on top after it's out of the 475 degree oven. But that doesn't mean this is the pizza you want to make on a dramatically cloudy, spitting Saturday in the fall. Pizza's greatest charm—to the guy at home having fun, the CD player cranked, the wine flowing—is its ability to succeed no matter what you put on it. I mentioned fingerlings. I love fingerlings. I am on a fingerling rampage. So of course fingerlings went on one of the two pizzas I made tonight. Roasted fingerlings cut lengthwise and salted. Mild Italian sausage bursting with sweet, luscious fennel. Then the white cheeses and a drizzle of olive oil. Done. Pizza 2 was caramelized onion and the cheeses. Niko wasn't too fond of these oddities, really, but Rebecca and I sat in the kitchen while the lad hopped about to Exile on Main Street and we loved 'em. Tomorrow we'll find another reason to crank the oven well above 400 degrees for several hours, I'm sure of it.
Wednesday, November 06, 2002
Say it Ain't So
This morning's story in the Chronicle gave every suggestion that Dusty Baker would not return as Giants manager. The week-plus of time that had passed since the Giants' Orange County Fade Away hadn't left the skipper feeling warm and cuddly toward the ol' gang. The only way to phrase Dusty's posture is to say he continued to whine. It's painful to put things so bluntly, because for ten years Dusty was the heart and soul of the Giants, but honestly: It is difficult to think of another prominent professional so frequently and powerfully shaken by ungenerous critiques (and so unable to separate that minority of viewpoints from the mammoth tide of praise that regularly washes over him). So on one hand, the news tonight that Dusty is officially history here brings a shrug and a "whatever." On the other hand: that's the pain speaking, lashing back, shielding the hurt. Yep, it hurts to see Dusty leave. He is thin-skinned, to be sure. His big-game calls were sometimes suspect. But when we shovel away all the talk-radio BS we find a man of tremendous character and charisma, a man with a peculiar ability to keep and maintain respect and order in a time when shoddy behavior and chaos rule sports. We see one exceptionally cool mo-fo. Damn. No Dusty. I had convinced myself that after the shared agony of Game 6, Dusty couldn't abandoned us. But apparently he did not believe the agony was shared. 'Tis a pity. Good luck, Bake—and keep a close eye on Darren, OK?
This morning's story in the Chronicle gave every suggestion that Dusty Baker would not return as Giants manager. The week-plus of time that had passed since the Giants' Orange County Fade Away hadn't left the skipper feeling warm and cuddly toward the ol' gang. The only way to phrase Dusty's posture is to say he continued to whine. It's painful to put things so bluntly, because for ten years Dusty was the heart and soul of the Giants, but honestly: It is difficult to think of another prominent professional so frequently and powerfully shaken by ungenerous critiques (and so unable to separate that minority of viewpoints from the mammoth tide of praise that regularly washes over him). So on one hand, the news tonight that Dusty is officially history here brings a shrug and a "whatever." On the other hand: that's the pain speaking, lashing back, shielding the hurt. Yep, it hurts to see Dusty leave. He is thin-skinned, to be sure. His big-game calls were sometimes suspect. But when we shovel away all the talk-radio BS we find a man of tremendous character and charisma, a man with a peculiar ability to keep and maintain respect and order in a time when shoddy behavior and chaos rule sports. We see one exceptionally cool mo-fo. Damn. No Dusty. I had convinced myself that after the shared agony of Game 6, Dusty couldn't abandoned us. But apparently he did not believe the agony was shared. 'Tis a pity. Good luck, Bake—and keep a close eye on Darren, OK?
Storm Clouds Gathering
If you live anywhere but the arid southwest (which, in my book, extends as far north as the Mendocino-Sonoma county line), this entry will strike you as puzzling. I mean, what the hell, it's going to rain, big deal. But it is a big deal! We haven't had rain since mid-May. I have the vague recollection of a few episodes of heavy fog that could possibly have earned the title "drizzle." But measurable precipitation? Uhn-uh and pshaw. No picnics scrapped, no ballgames washed out, no bike rides cancelled; doesn't happen here in the May through October period. 'Splains, partly, why thirty-whatever million people live in California….
So I'm all tingly after reading the forecast discussion, which as of this evening states: "MOST RAINFALL OVER THE NEXT 60 HOURS WILL BE GENERATED BY STRONG WARM ADVECTION AND ASSOCIATED VERTICAL ASCENT...BUT COASTAL RANGES WILL SEE RAINFALL ENHANCED BY GOOD OROGRAPHICS...WITH THE MODELS SHOWING PERIODIC EPISODES OF 40-50 KT SWLY WINDS FROM 925-850 MB THROUGH FRIDAY EVENING. THE LATEST QPF GUIDANCE SHOWS RAINFALL TOTALS FROM LATE TONIGHT THROUGH FRIDAY NIGHT IN THE 1-3 INCH RANGE FOR MOST LOWER ELEVATIONS WITH 3-5 INCHES ACCUMULATING IN THE COASTAL RANGES...WITH EVEN LOCALLY HEAVIER AMOUNTS IN THE COASTAL RANGES OF THE NORTH BAY AND IN THE SANTA LUCIAS IN MONTEREY COUNTY. SINCE THIS IS THE FIRST RAIN EVENT OF THE SEASON...RIVER AND STREAM FLOODING IS UNLIKELY...BUT URBAN FLOODING IS A DISTINCT POSSIBILITY."
The thing we don't know about this storm is if it'll kick off an extended period of sogginess, or if it will dump and run, followed by weeks of cool, glorious, late-fall-tinted sunshine, the kind that leaves me wanly peering out the office window about 2 p.m. each day, longing to have my softening ass on my bike saddle rather than in the chair it calls home Monday through Friday. Three years ago December was bone dry, not a drop, low 60s and sunny every day. Last year, we got 15 inches of rain in December, spread out over two dozen days such that folks began to get edgy and gripey (except when they were talking to their Seattle and Portland friends, colleagues and relations). You just don't know.
Just to be sure, after work today we picked up all the summer toys and tossed 'em in the shed or the winery (yeah, yeah: garage), and Rebecca and Niko finished their long job of shoveling ten yards of recently delivered topsoil off the driveway and into place around the yard. Seed of a native grass was scattered. As evening fell we found ourselves sitting in the backyard, partially illuminated by a lone light, the big oak brooding overhead, a thick carpet of soft leaves from the eastern oak still reflecting a warm glow. The air was mild and so still you didn't want to breathe for fear of disturbing the holy equilibrium. We talked about some dreams and Niko babbled brilliantly, as he is wont to do, and looked customarily cuter than any living thing in the world in his red Osh Kosh b'Gosh overalls, and we got ready for the new season that was, beyond the hills and beyond our view, pushing toward us.
If you live anywhere but the arid southwest (which, in my book, extends as far north as the Mendocino-Sonoma county line), this entry will strike you as puzzling. I mean, what the hell, it's going to rain, big deal. But it is a big deal! We haven't had rain since mid-May. I have the vague recollection of a few episodes of heavy fog that could possibly have earned the title "drizzle." But measurable precipitation? Uhn-uh and pshaw. No picnics scrapped, no ballgames washed out, no bike rides cancelled; doesn't happen here in the May through October period. 'Splains, partly, why thirty-whatever million people live in California….
So I'm all tingly after reading the forecast discussion, which as of this evening states: "MOST RAINFALL OVER THE NEXT 60 HOURS WILL BE GENERATED BY STRONG WARM ADVECTION AND ASSOCIATED VERTICAL ASCENT...BUT COASTAL RANGES WILL SEE RAINFALL ENHANCED BY GOOD OROGRAPHICS...WITH THE MODELS SHOWING PERIODIC EPISODES OF 40-50 KT SWLY WINDS FROM 925-850 MB THROUGH FRIDAY EVENING. THE LATEST QPF GUIDANCE SHOWS RAINFALL TOTALS FROM LATE TONIGHT THROUGH FRIDAY NIGHT IN THE 1-3 INCH RANGE FOR MOST LOWER ELEVATIONS WITH 3-5 INCHES ACCUMULATING IN THE COASTAL RANGES...WITH EVEN LOCALLY HEAVIER AMOUNTS IN THE COASTAL RANGES OF THE NORTH BAY AND IN THE SANTA LUCIAS IN MONTEREY COUNTY. SINCE THIS IS THE FIRST RAIN EVENT OF THE SEASON...RIVER AND STREAM FLOODING IS UNLIKELY...BUT URBAN FLOODING IS A DISTINCT POSSIBILITY."
The thing we don't know about this storm is if it'll kick off an extended period of sogginess, or if it will dump and run, followed by weeks of cool, glorious, late-fall-tinted sunshine, the kind that leaves me wanly peering out the office window about 2 p.m. each day, longing to have my softening ass on my bike saddle rather than in the chair it calls home Monday through Friday. Three years ago December was bone dry, not a drop, low 60s and sunny every day. Last year, we got 15 inches of rain in December, spread out over two dozen days such that folks began to get edgy and gripey (except when they were talking to their Seattle and Portland friends, colleagues and relations). You just don't know.
Just to be sure, after work today we picked up all the summer toys and tossed 'em in the shed or the winery (yeah, yeah: garage), and Rebecca and Niko finished their long job of shoveling ten yards of recently delivered topsoil off the driveway and into place around the yard. Seed of a native grass was scattered. As evening fell we found ourselves sitting in the backyard, partially illuminated by a lone light, the big oak brooding overhead, a thick carpet of soft leaves from the eastern oak still reflecting a warm glow. The air was mild and so still you didn't want to breathe for fear of disturbing the holy equilibrium. We talked about some dreams and Niko babbled brilliantly, as he is wont to do, and looked customarily cuter than any living thing in the world in his red Osh Kosh b'Gosh overalls, and we got ready for the new season that was, beyond the hills and beyond our view, pushing toward us.
Tuesday, November 05, 2002
Election Report
The chatterers on the tube are so uniformly uninteresting that I'm at the computer, getting what I really want anyway: numbers. Or at least, I'm getting numbers from the states that know how to run a website, a group that unfortunately does not include my home state of California. Aren't we the wired capital of the universe? Then why is our server struggling to put out pages—while piddly South Dakota serves up results in a flash? Missouri does well, too. And Minnesota ain't half bad.
I mention SD, MO and MN, by the way, because they are the only states where we Dems have any hope left. And yes, I still care, even if the party sucks and has no vision. I tinkered with the idea of voting Green but frankly, that social and economic justice message strikes me as a too paternalistic, too group-identity fixated. At this point, anybody without a D or an R after their name is just whistling Dixie.
Results as of 10:36 p.m. Pacific Standard Time: It's a complete wipeout. Talent is going to eke out a less-than-1-percent win in MO; Thune is overtaking Johnson in SD and will win by an equally small margin; and Coleman appears headed toward a 3-4 point win in MN. Not unreasonably, Bush is going to see this as a mandate. Which is scary.
Update: Carnahan concedes in MO (margin of defeat will actually be about 1.5 percent), and Coleman maintaining lead in MN. Only the Johnson-Thune race is outstanding, and it's going right down to the wire: with less than 15 percent of the precincts remaining to report, Thune's lead is 1,000 votes out of more than 250,000 cast.
Last update: Johnson is toast in SD, behind by 2,000 votes with probably only 10,000 votes to count. So EVERY competitive race went to the Republicans, and they will hold a 52-46 margin in the Senate, pending the Lousiana runoff and with one independent.
The chatterers on the tube are so uniformly uninteresting that I'm at the computer, getting what I really want anyway: numbers. Or at least, I'm getting numbers from the states that know how to run a website, a group that unfortunately does not include my home state of California. Aren't we the wired capital of the universe? Then why is our server struggling to put out pages—while piddly South Dakota serves up results in a flash? Missouri does well, too. And Minnesota ain't half bad.
I mention SD, MO and MN, by the way, because they are the only states where we Dems have any hope left. And yes, I still care, even if the party sucks and has no vision. I tinkered with the idea of voting Green but frankly, that social and economic justice message strikes me as a too paternalistic, too group-identity fixated. At this point, anybody without a D or an R after their name is just whistling Dixie.
Results as of 10:36 p.m. Pacific Standard Time: It's a complete wipeout. Talent is going to eke out a less-than-1-percent win in MO; Thune is overtaking Johnson in SD and will win by an equally small margin; and Coleman appears headed toward a 3-4 point win in MN. Not unreasonably, Bush is going to see this as a mandate. Which is scary.
Update: Carnahan concedes in MO (margin of defeat will actually be about 1.5 percent), and Coleman maintaining lead in MN. Only the Johnson-Thune race is outstanding, and it's going right down to the wire: with less than 15 percent of the precincts remaining to report, Thune's lead is 1,000 votes out of more than 250,000 cast.
Last update: Johnson is toast in SD, behind by 2,000 votes with probably only 10,000 votes to count. So EVERY competitive race went to the Republicans, and they will hold a 52-46 margin in the Senate, pending the Lousiana runoff and with one independent.
Sunday, October 27, 2002
It Was a Great Ride
The moment Lofton made contact I knew what we were in for. I could watch it but I couldn't listen, and remote in hand I zipped the sound down to zero. Still it was horrible. The catch, the leap, the pileup on the infield, fireworks and smoke in the air, fans leaping and bouncing deliriously, every last red-shirted one of them pounding blow-up noise sticks as yet more fireworks blast away…. Just as I was sinking deep into despair and self-loathing (You idiot for caring so much about millionaire athletes, you fool for wasting all this time on a game), there was little Darren. You've heard too much about Dusty's boy, the most famous 3-year-old in America, but stay with me: He saved my day. He did it by sobbing in his daddy's arms as the Angel celebration unfolded in the aftermath of Lofton's flyball and Erstad's catch, of Rueter's gutsy performance and Livan's failure—and mostly, of course, in the aftermath of Saturday's monumental collapse. (That's when the Giants lost it, duh. Only the foolishly afflicted—like me, see earlier post—dared let hope make a comeback in the hours before Game 7.) Watching the tears roll down Darren's face I thought, "Yep, little buddy, it hurts." And I laughed. Little boys cry when their team loses. And so do big boys. And it's OK.
The moment Lofton made contact I knew what we were in for. I could watch it but I couldn't listen, and remote in hand I zipped the sound down to zero. Still it was horrible. The catch, the leap, the pileup on the infield, fireworks and smoke in the air, fans leaping and bouncing deliriously, every last red-shirted one of them pounding blow-up noise sticks as yet more fireworks blast away…. Just as I was sinking deep into despair and self-loathing (You idiot for caring so much about millionaire athletes, you fool for wasting all this time on a game), there was little Darren. You've heard too much about Dusty's boy, the most famous 3-year-old in America, but stay with me: He saved my day. He did it by sobbing in his daddy's arms as the Angel celebration unfolded in the aftermath of Lofton's flyball and Erstad's catch, of Rueter's gutsy performance and Livan's failure—and mostly, of course, in the aftermath of Saturday's monumental collapse. (That's when the Giants lost it, duh. Only the foolishly afflicted—like me, see earlier post—dared let hope make a comeback in the hours before Game 7.) Watching the tears roll down Darren's face I thought, "Yep, little buddy, it hurts." And I laughed. Little boys cry when their team loses. And so do big boys. And it's OK.
So Close
All through the Series, win or lose, I've looked forward to the next day's paper. That's part of the experience–kind of like rolling an interesting wine around in your mouth, gargling a bit, drawing air in and over it to make sure no subtleties are missed. This morning, I couldn't face the full 20-page section of rehash. All I wanted was a little Bruce, who I was sure would understand. At first I felt his merely solid effort had failed me somehow; I read, and the pain didn't go away. But now I feel hope and excitement returning. No doubt, this is a profoundly difficult time for the true Giants fan. The prospect of this long run of happy events ending in sadness, again, looms large. And to have had it sitting there in our hands–eight outs to go, nobody on base, a five-run lead … that's plainly cruel. Rebecca says she's afraid to hope and that is wise; me, I've got no choice. I've been with this team for 30 years, since I was 10 years old and declared my independence from the Minnesota teams I had followed since spending the first five years of my life in the Midwest. We were in California now and I needed a Northern California team. The A's were winners, so naturally I shied away from them. The Giants had a history of disappointing; they would be mine. Then and now. Bring on Game 7.
All through the Series, win or lose, I've looked forward to the next day's paper. That's part of the experience–kind of like rolling an interesting wine around in your mouth, gargling a bit, drawing air in and over it to make sure no subtleties are missed. This morning, I couldn't face the full 20-page section of rehash. All I wanted was a little Bruce, who I was sure would understand. At first I felt his merely solid effort had failed me somehow; I read, and the pain didn't go away. But now I feel hope and excitement returning. No doubt, this is a profoundly difficult time for the true Giants fan. The prospect of this long run of happy events ending in sadness, again, looms large. And to have had it sitting there in our hands–eight outs to go, nobody on base, a five-run lead … that's plainly cruel. Rebecca says she's afraid to hope and that is wise; me, I've got no choice. I've been with this team for 30 years, since I was 10 years old and declared my independence from the Minnesota teams I had followed since spending the first five years of my life in the Midwest. We were in California now and I needed a Northern California team. The A's were winners, so naturally I shied away from them. The Giants had a history of disappointing; they would be mine. Then and now. Bring on Game 7.
Friday, October 18, 2002
When last we met, on Monday, I revealed the sad fate of my just-pressed Zinfandel: It was leaking out of the barrel. This led to the purchase of another barrel and of a pump. Along the way this week, I also spent an hour in the hospital while the urologist performed an operation which my HMO calls "removal of sperm ducts." Vasectomy, indeed. Niko shall be the one and only! It hurt, dammit. More than they said it would. Three days later and it still hurts. OK, the pain is as promised--"moderate," not "extreme." But pain down there carries special weight, you'll certainly agree.
Meanwhile, there was craziness at work. Budgets, calls to "drive sales," research to do, plans to flesh out, writing to concoct, numbers to hatch, on and on. It almost felt like a real live full-time job, I swear.
But back to the winemaking. I picked up two 1998 barrels for 35 bucks a pop from Kristen, the charming and informative winemaker at Honig, and with my new pump moved the wine from the leaker into one of the Honigs. I wasn't very careful about pumping the dirty Zin and sent a lot of crud through the pump. The pump didn't mind, but the crud got all beat up and is now floating on the wine at the top of the barrel like pond scum. I've relied strictly on gravity in the past but with this much wine--by the end of this year's crush I'll have 260 gallons of wine in barrel, please don't tell the BATF--that was becoming impossible. I didn't realize how powerful a 1/2 horse pump could be. Next time I'll be more careful, for which the wine should be thankful. We'll let that Zin rest quietly for a few months now. I'm sure it will be fine.
I mentioned the end of crush: It comes tomorrow. I'm going up to Mendocino again to get old-vine Carignan. This poor grape gets little respect, mainly on account of the fact that growers have cropped it to high heaven and picked it too soon, and producers haven't argued with them when they did so. And why would they? The giant Central Valley wineries that bought most Carignan were feeding into jug wines, beefing up the color and flavor, and their first priority was to keep costs low. Treated right, I believe Carignan can make an interesting little wine, with deep color and rustic Rhonish flavors. Like Petite Sirah, it possesses much more character when picked from old vines. My source is Don Lucchesi's 45-year-old vineyard south of Ukiah in the Talmage area. Don gets about 5 tons an acre off his vineyard, a small crop by Carignan standards. At this late date, it ought to be plenty ripe, as well. I'll let you know what I think after I get back tomorrow.
One last thing: The Series, of course, starts tomorrow. Timing couldn't be more perfect. The last grapes are picked, then we settle in to watch the San Francisco Giants take their first World Series. What a wonderful fall this is turning out to be.
Meanwhile, there was craziness at work. Budgets, calls to "drive sales," research to do, plans to flesh out, writing to concoct, numbers to hatch, on and on. It almost felt like a real live full-time job, I swear.
But back to the winemaking. I picked up two 1998 barrels for 35 bucks a pop from Kristen, the charming and informative winemaker at Honig, and with my new pump moved the wine from the leaker into one of the Honigs. I wasn't very careful about pumping the dirty Zin and sent a lot of crud through the pump. The pump didn't mind, but the crud got all beat up and is now floating on the wine at the top of the barrel like pond scum. I've relied strictly on gravity in the past but with this much wine--by the end of this year's crush I'll have 260 gallons of wine in barrel, please don't tell the BATF--that was becoming impossible. I didn't realize how powerful a 1/2 horse pump could be. Next time I'll be more careful, for which the wine should be thankful. We'll let that Zin rest quietly for a few months now. I'm sure it will be fine.
I mentioned the end of crush: It comes tomorrow. I'm going up to Mendocino again to get old-vine Carignan. This poor grape gets little respect, mainly on account of the fact that growers have cropped it to high heaven and picked it too soon, and producers haven't argued with them when they did so. And why would they? The giant Central Valley wineries that bought most Carignan were feeding into jug wines, beefing up the color and flavor, and their first priority was to keep costs low. Treated right, I believe Carignan can make an interesting little wine, with deep color and rustic Rhonish flavors. Like Petite Sirah, it possesses much more character when picked from old vines. My source is Don Lucchesi's 45-year-old vineyard south of Ukiah in the Talmage area. Don gets about 5 tons an acre off his vineyard, a small crop by Carignan standards. At this late date, it ought to be plenty ripe, as well. I'll let you know what I think after I get back tomorrow.
One last thing: The Series, of course, starts tomorrow. Timing couldn't be more perfect. The last grapes are picked, then we settle in to watch the San Francisco Giants take their first World Series. What a wonderful fall this is turning out to be.
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