Brass Buttons

3.27.09
There's no way I can write now. I have many things to say (as per usual) & I want them to come flowing out of my pen all in one smooth stroke. I am so tired.
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3.28.09
Ahhhhh...good, sweet, holy slumber! I'm enjoying a leisurely morning before work. I'm loaded with positive spirits today...why??...because, in the eloquent words of my dear Katie Santora:
"IT'S FRIDAY, BIATCHES!!!"
I've the day off tomorrow & it will be
a.) welcomed with open arms, as it is much needed, &
b.) the most glorious day. Ever.
For now I'm nursing an espresso at my favorite Hot Gossip Cafe. Gram Parsons is gently caressing my eardrums & there's a soothing Easterly breeze humming through the trees & dangling white flower pots.
My feet are throbbing with pain. I have two impressive blood blisters, one for each big toe. I'd like to say they're the result of backbreaking hard work, but the truth be told, they are simply battle wounds from an intense pickup rugby session held on the crushpad last night. With all the steel-toed boots flying around I thought I might be quicker with bare feet. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but the rough concrete against my tender bare skin took its toll. Worth it, though. We won...I think. I was quick, if I do say so myself. The Chilean would shout out every time I had the ball, "Go, Christ, Go!!" This is a nickname I hope, for the Lord's sake, doesn't stick. There's something about the longish mop of hair, gnarly beard & inpenetrable grin that has conjured up the most blasphemous of aliases. "Go, Christ, Go!!" & boy, I/he went. Perhaps these blisters are my punishment for answering to such a name.
Work has been picking up, getting all the more busy with fruit processing & ferment management. Still no Pinot...I'm impatiently waiting. The crew is jovial & kind, which makes even the most treacherous tasks seem enjoyable. & every night we sit down for supper, pull some corks (or unscrew some caps in New Zealand's case), chat & laugh, discuss current events & weather patterns & how to properly prepare lamb. It's a pleasure, truly.
Today should be a big day of pushing through truckloads of machine-harvested Merlot. It's an unusual experience for me as everything I know from Oregon vintages is about gentle, careful handling, painfully meticulous ferment management, & a blanket of earwigs to contend with. But here it is all about efficiency...keeping it together. What I find most impressive about my workplace in particular is their ability to stay efficient whilst producing top-notch wines. I marvel at it, actually.
I'll keep Katie Santora's mantra in mind throughout the day & pray for numbness in my damaged feet. And tomorrow, ohhhhh tomorrow...
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3.29.09
Well, it has arrived, at long last: The Greatest Day Off Ever.
I worked late last night. Sorta weaseled my way into some extra work when the rest of the crew was begrudgingly sent home. I really dig working with just a couple of people rather than the all-out-balls-to-the-wall screwaround the intern-laden day shift seems to bring. Nev (a supervisor) & Rob (officially the nicest person alive) & I attacked the presses with unrelenting force, squeezing the holy spirit out of a full load of Merlot. I'm not gonna lie, it didn't taste good. Bitter & chalky & green. Rob described it as "chewing on a banana skin." Very well. I've never been up to the task, but next time I eat a Chiquita I'll give it a try & be thankful I learned how to properly peel at an early age (the doctors all said I'd be a genius). The pomace looked like flaky purple flour when we dumped it out. It made me think of an odd farmer named Vincent. He used to come by during harvest at Shea Wine Cellars & sort of stand around and gaze at the rafters. Vincent would collect all of our press remains & load them up in his rusty flatbed.
"What're you gonna do with all this pomace, Vince?" we'd ask.
"Cattle."
"Huh??"
"Feed to cattle."
"Oh, they eat this crap?"
"Yup."
I went to sleep last night with darling dreams of drunk cows grazing the dramatic hillsides of Yamhill County.
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I was an early-riser this morning. Made myself a hot cuppa joe & drove my housemates to work. I spent the remainder of the daybreak hours in the bath carving the perfect slackjawed mustache into my face. It's a good one, blonde & creepy. Jim Frank might call it a variation on the old-timey classic Van Dyke. I dunno, though. I'm quite pleased with it, although slightly afeared of going out in public this way. I'm bound for the Sunday Farmers' Market in a few minutes, so I'll have to just brave it & see what happens. I guess I just don't want to be "Christ" anymore...perhaps now a name like Jed or Hank suits me better.
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The much anticipated day away has been remarkable. & a short-lived day at that. I would've liked to see it go on forever, but I know days like this are best appreciated in brisk laps rather than exhausting (expensive) marathons.
I'm resting in the Art-Decco-decked city of Napier at a hip cafe with a chilly Stella & some crazy sandwich involving a nuclear meltdown of avocado, prosciutto & bleu cheese.
I started the day off at the farmers' market in Hastings--a gorgeous display of local fruits & veggies & cured meats & mountains of creamy cheeses. I treated myself to some fresh-squeezed juice: beet, carrot & apple with a bit of lemon & ginger. Unusual & absolutely life-altering. I sat for a bit and munched on chipotle's while a middle-aged man played "Up On Cripple Creek" in the sun. Aude, my French housemate, handed me some cash & a four-mile-long list of items she was dying to have, but could not acquire as she was destined to be stuck in the trenches all day . I took the liberty of using her change to buy myself some mushrooms & tomatoes...merci, Froggy! Her list was amazing, though. The brokenest freaking English I've ever read. On the back she drew a basic map of the market & and X-ed every so often to indicate where I might find the perfect carrot. She even drew a little sketch of the type of lettuce she wanted, which was vague at best. I asked her what it was called, but her only response was "Salade! Salade!".
I then made my way to the nearby village of Havelock North where I was told I would discover the greatest pie ever to cross the lips of a human smacker. I did. Not sure what was in it...butter, I guess. As I strolled through Havelock's crooked streets I passed the shabby van that had picked me up for a nowhere-bound joyride last week. The kid peeked out of the window & cheered "Efternoon, freend!!" I waved back & kept on my way.
Next I headed South to the Craggy Range tasting room, which is off-site from the winery I've been working in. It's an impressive, modern structure--also a fully operating winemaking facility, but it's more of a show-off piece than anything--set at the foot of an enormous butte, sprinkled with quiet sheep & twinkling, zigzagging streams. At the peak of this monstrosity it looks as if there's a great sleeping giant catching some zz's, sprawled out in the sunlight. In fact, locals call this region "Giant's" because of this marvelous formation. The wines were lovely & the views, spectacular.
From there I traveled North & visited The Mission, one of NZ's oldest wine producers. It's set back in the hills along the coast, surrounded by crumbling churches & tiny farm communities. The wines were far from interesting, but again, the views were breathtaking. Then I continued in a Northernly direction to Esk Valley where I drove around like a moron on the gravel pathways looking for the tasting room. I eventually found it & dove into some more beautiful wines & had a chat with the saleswoman.
Now I'm here, as I said before, in Napier, sandwich now devoured, getting ready to head out & scoop up my housemates at the winery. Then it's flophouse-bound where I will find myself near the end of one amazing day of freedom. Tomorrow my work-week begins, yet again, & I will surely be lost in the throes of this insanity we call Harvest.
As the sun is tipping its brim I think of Home & I long for every bit of it.
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