Volume 07
Three birds. photo joneberlinfoto
Off to the Races.
Everytime it’s the same thing. Alarm set, zero three hundred hours. The dumb phone too, set. Usually under the sheets around eleven hundred and four, five hours. Sleep? Mostly fleeting. A delirious cocktail of angst, excitement, self doubt and adrenaline. I was recently asked, “how many harvests?”
I had to think, count it out on my fingers.
Thirty-two, and it is still the same. Alarm set, cocktail sleep.
Every time, awake before the alarm sounds, every time.
Nope, never once, if you are asking. Always up before the bell tolls.
Delhi Blow Sand photo joneberlinfoto
Moka pot prepped. This pot has done a few around the sun. Kettle on the boil, medium roast packed down, burner on low. Oat (ya, I know) slightly warmed. Coffee sorted.
Khakis on, shorts less so, the older I get. Dickies, faded blue zip up.
Harvest suit.
The ignition turned (or pressed), slow roll. It is July for freaks’ sake.
A new normal.
Rolling, not quite there, searching for a soundtrack, sucking the caffeine down.
Twelve, to six eighty, to the four. Over the Benicia-Martinez bridge. Parallel to the Southern Pacific Railway. Dawn creeping, peeking. Weirdly, always thrilling! Down the four. Past two mega churches.
Hallelujah. There was a fellow who turned water to wine.
Through Antioch. Look this stuff up! Curiosity is a virtue. The place where Jesus’ followers were first called Christians! History tries to teach, but do we listen?
The one sixty exit, onto Main Street. Pole fitness studio on the right, Amazon fulfillment on the left. And, what of the stuffing in this Contra Costa sandwich? Mourvèdre, Carignan, and Palomino. Holes dug and sticks planted in 1925! On their own roots. In the middle of Prohibition. On Delhi Blow Sand. This resonates with me as the American Spirit and Dream rolled into one. One big fat Cheech and Chong joint of American Spirit.
Hallelujah!
This patch of beach sand is farmed by Allen Luchesi. Organic, with a deft touch. It is a privilege to ferment this fruit. The crew shows up. It is the first pick of harvest after all, usually a bit of a sh… show. This plays out, half of the crew don't show. No matter, those that do, pick the five acres before eleven. I take 3 tons, Morgan takes 5, and Ben gets 2 and a bit. The oldest Palomino vineyard in existence finds a home for another year.
Privilege, not taken lightly.
These beautiful, golden clusters hit the press by noon. A deep walnut colored juice is expressed into the pan before being taken to tank for fermentation. The chill is cracked so a cool ferment ensues. I am hoping to replicate last year's candied orange rind and Pecorino cheese saline yummyness but it is too early to tell.
Thirty two times and it is still the same. Off to the races.
100-year-old vines, tended and nurtured for another year.
photo joneberlinfoto
