I hate the hoorah implied by ‘hand-picked’. I hate it more round about the fourth-plus week of repetitive vineyard work. At the worst of times in the vines, ‘bored’ is an understatement. But ‘hand-picked’ is a misrepresentation. Not everything is blockbuster work but everything is done by hand — and once you’ve completed one task, in a couple weeks you’ll be back at the same vine again.
Tonight I will be late for my first drinking-with-someone-on-FaceTime-date which I know because even though it seems like everything is different, some things will never change. Other things are not so the same.
This is what I learned from harvest 2019: Don’t judge a man by what he’s got tattooed on his face (in this case, A.C.A.B) Supermarket salad crates also work for harvesting grapes and are cheaper than caisse I don’t want a pneumatic press You don’t make wine alone. I learned technical things too, as well
Today we ran out of water which is just as well because it provided the first line to a piece I’ve been putting off since since the mercury overdosed on too many degrees. Call it procrastination, meltdown or depression, but the question remains the same: How to start when the conclusion is the end? Before
Some kids get the itch to become astronauts but when I’m grown up I want to be Harry Lester. Once I am I’ll open my perfect little bistro. A tear-the-paper-off-the-table, stoneware carafe and colourful brocante-deco affair, doesn’t matter where so long as it’s hard to get to, oh – and in France. I will dress