When I ordered those grapes a couple of weeks ago, the woman suggested
I purchase 25-30 cases of grapes, just as I was filling out the order
form. I had told her what I had for barrels at home and what my dad
used to produce and that was her recommendation. I reminded her that I
was a mortal and at $27/case, 10 cases would be sufficient, thank you
very much. To spend $600 on an experiment is not enticing.

I had planned on leaving work a little earlier than normal to give
myself enough time to make it up there, pick up the grapes, purchase
some supplies and ingredients, drive home, unload and make it to my
school parent meeting at 5:30. Needless to say, after years of driving
in Boston, I knew that was not likely to happen. When I finally pulled
into the parking lot, it was already 4:30 and I knew that the grapes
were not physically at the store and I would need to drive to another
location to pick them up. So, I skipped the browsing around the store
and did not buy any of the items I was going to need before I crush
the grapes. I drove to the shipping dock and handed the “gentleman” my
handwritten ticket allowing me to pick up the grapes. The first thing
he noticed is that I had a pink shoelace on my shoe from the week
before when my job was celebrating its relationship with the Komen
organization to cure breast cancer. I guess rule number one should be:
never wear pink shoelaces when trying to pick up grapes from a
shipping dock. Well, at least the forklift men had a good laugh at my
fashion faux pas. I loaded up my car with the ten cases while
pretending that the one inch splinter from the grape boxes did not
hurt; fearing further taunting. I pulled away from the dock and then
went a block up the road, dropped the tailgate and took a picture of
the grapes. A mix of emotions flooded over me. In one breath I was
every excited. The prospect of making at least one attempt to
perpetuate a cultural tradition was overwhelming as well as the
research value that this will provide as I write my book. In the next
breath, I was sad; sad that my dad was not here to be a part of it and
sad that it was only ten cases. When I took the picture, I noticed how
sparse it looked. I can remember riding home from the produce markets
with my dad carrying grapes on my lap because we didn’t have enough
room to put all the cases in his truck. I was also a little scared. I
knew that I would be making this wine all alone without the reassuring
verbal “hand-slaps” from my dad if I did something wrong.

For the entire drive home, the familiar bouquet of grapes filled the
car and I even got a knowing glance and a thumbs up from an old man in
his pickup as we waited at a red light.

Stay tuned for more updates!

Posted via email from Dan’s posterous

2. There is a fine line between the science of wine-making and the art of wine-making.

3. There is a fine line between assisting someone with making wine and truly understanding the wine-making process.

4. There is a fine line between traditions of the past and the path to the future.

5. For 35 years, my father danced this dance, while I usually helped.

6. This year, I will try to continue the tradition.

Stay tuned for updates!

Work has been leaving me numb lately and it is all I can do to work less than a 10 hour day. Too many projects, deadlines and fires to put out. You have all heard me whine about that ad nauseum.

The only thing on my mind on the drive home was a bottle of MacMurray Ranch Pinot Noir sitting in my cellar with my name on it. I could even picture on which shelf it was sitting. I knew exactly where I wanted to enjoy this wine; outside on the picnic table, under the grape arbor. This just might be my favorite place on Earth. Despite living in the city, with buses passing the front of my house every 12 minutes, under this arbor and I am instantly transported to the little village my dad comes from in Italy.

I didn’t even go into my house. I just went into the wine cellar and pulled out my wine. I brought it out to the picnic table and called my father to join me.

As you know, my father is battling Lou Gehrig’s disease. He can no longer speak except in a very thick, gravelly voice filled with mostly grunts and lots of guessing by his family. Even the shadow he casts has changed as this horrible disease takes over his once powerful body.

I told him to bring down a glass for himself and to join me. He came out with a plastic cup and I laughed. I poured him a glass and he eyeballed the 18.99 sticker still on the bottle. He smiled at me while at the same time shrugging his shoulders signaling his disbelief that a wine can cost so much.

Because of his disease, when my father drinks thin liquids, like wine, we have to be prepared for the reality that the liquid will move faster than his mouth can process it and he may sputter. This is a cause of enormous embarrassment for him and stress for us as we hold our breath.

I was busy swirling and sniffing while he dumped the wine into his mouth ungraciously. I saw him shut his eyes as I assumed he was merely trying to work his swallow muscles. But when he finally did swallow, his face turned to a grimace. He shook his head as if he just drank some vinegar and we laughed.

Here was a man who spent his whole life drinking only his homemade wine. He is no longer able to make it himself and I have begun stocking the cantina with bottles I purchased. Every single wine I have shared with him, caused the same reaction.

Once he got over the initial taste of the wine, we sat there, under the arbor with fresh shoots that will grow so thickly this summer that it will keep us dry when it rains. We were together, without saying a word, sipping the wine. I was no longer looking for those damned “cherries, spice and hints of vanilla” that the wine-maker tried to convince me were in there. Now, it was simply about being together; father and son, with never much to say to each other even when he had his voice. But the silence, the wine, the picnic table, the beautiful spring weather and the good company all combined to make my stresses slip away; even if for just a brief moment in time.

As the sun popped behind the thickening clouds, my father stood up and looked at the grape vines and held a fresh shoot in his hands. He tapped me on the shoulder and began speaking as if he had something very important to say. I could not honestly say that I understood everything but it was extremely clear to me that he was telling me how to prune the vines in the fall. I looked at him in the eye and told him that I am such a city boy that he will need to show me again in the fall. He smiled and lifted his hand and gave me a thumbs down.

(click on image to enlarge)

I know it is a little rough around the edges; most of what my dad builds is. Collecting wine, is quickly becoming an obsession. The room you see in the picture is actually part of the cantina that my dad built over 30 years ago. It was one of the first things he did when he bought this house.

This cantina would house no less than 25 gallons of homemade wine every year. As you know, last year my father was diagnosed with ALS or Lou Gehrig’s disease and has since stopped making wine. He lives upstairs from me and we cannot escape the gradual decline of his health. This collection is just one way that I have come up with to help me deal with the stresses in my life. My dad is an amazing man I honestly am not handling his disease well at all. I feel like I can fall apart at a moment’s notice. Luckily, I have my baby goats to remind me that I cannot shut down and crawl into a hole.

I confiscated a few shelves and have amassed a small collection of about 70 bottles. I am still in a very academic and discovery phase. I read other’s blogs religiously and devour their reviews. I then text message the wines to myself so that I have a mini-wishlist going at all times. I read about different varietals and wine-growing regions. I allow myself to be guided by what I am “supposed” to like first and then what I actually like as my taste buds develop.

I would be honored if you take a look at my collection, my hobby du jour. You can view a reasonably updated inventory by visiting my profile here on CellarTracker.

Let me know what some of your favorite wines are. I would love to hear your recommendations.

I have always considered blogging to be a very self-indulgent exercise and my recent pity party is proof of that. But I have also realized that my blogging world is as much about my relationships, very real and vital relationships that I have developed with all of you. When I wasn’t writing, many of you would still take the time to shoot me a brief email making sure all was well. I cannot begin to tell you how important that has been for me.

I think I am back on track. I have some real ideas for blog posts and I am aching to read your words again. Thanks to all of you, my dear friends.

Dan

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.”