My father made his own wine every year since he came to this country from Italy. To him, his wine was the only wine that mattered. He scoffed at people that spend money at the wine shops, let alone spend 50 dollars or even much more for a bottle.
My dad’s wine was something to be consumed, like water or beer, as a way to quench thirst and to accompany the meal. It was not meant to be swilled, sniffed or spat. There would be no conversation about bouquet, finish or tannins. With his wine, you could add ice cubes on a particularly warm day, or you could add ginger ale if you were in the mood for something fizzy. You could add drippingly ripe peeled peaches to a glass of wine and you had an instant dessert. This is wine that children were allowed to drink, diluted with water.
His wine was to be consumed in a juice glass. My dad still does not realize that people can spend 40 dollars for a single Reidel burgundy glass. I don’t want to be the one to tell him that I have two of these glasses.
Every year until the last 5 or so, I helped my dad make the wine in our basement. I helped open the splintery crates and macerate the grapes using an antique machine with noisy rotating drums of teeth. I helped press every last drop of juice from the grapes, stems and skins. Then, break open the cider press, take out the remnants…and re-press them to eke out another few drops. Nothing went to waste. I then brought out the stems and skins, compacted to a tight brick approximately 24 inches in diameter and 8 inches tall, out to the garden. He would use the remnants to grow tomatoes, basil and beans.
My dad would then spend the next few months coaxing a drinkable concoction from the foamy, fermenting grape juice carefully placed in a dozen five gallon glass containers. I never was part of this process. Perhaps, I was wasn’t so interested, or perhaps my dad simply did not want to reveal his secrets. But, I could never forget the fruit flies that inundated the house during this time.
Unfortunately, now my dad is battling a terminal illness. Since finding out that he was dying last year, he has stopped making wine. His stash from the year before slowly dwindled until there was a final gallon left and we have since gone through that.
As part of a living homage to my dad, I have able to amass a small collection of about 40-50 bottles of wine that I now store in the same cantina my dad and I would ferment his wine. This collection is my little homage to a great man. Right now, I am a neophyte still trying to determine what I like and have an almost obsessive desire to learn about all the wine-growing regions, varietals and vintages. I also love knowing what a wine is “supposed” to smell and taste like. I scour the internet for reviews and see if my opinion is in line with the pros. Usually, I am way off the mark, but it is such a fun hobby that I don’t care if my nose does not pick up hints of gooseberries and peach pits.
I sometimes find myself alone in the cantina, the same one I helped him build 30 years ago, I smell the years of spilled wine on the floor, the drying wine at the bottom of some of his bottles and the mustiness of that comes with time and living.
I have shared with him some of these bottles. He laughs weakly when I tell him the price (I only own one pricey bottle of wine..everything else is 25 dollars and most under 15…but he still laughs). He will take a swig of some Argentine Malbec and it is funny to watch his face contort because nothing tastes like the grape juice and battery acid that we used to make.
I enjoy at least one glass of wine a night. After I fill my glass, I raise it to the air and say “Here’s to you, Donato. Mille grazie per tutti. Cin Cin.”
what a glorious post.. how i would love to hear that you accompany your father at least one last time into the cantina,, and create a little wine… what a pleasure this was to read dan……
Left by paisley on April 8th, 2008