Thanks to the drunken cyclist, I've found out about the #MWWC, or rather, the Monthly Wine Writing Challenge. From the website: "A few of us started the Monthly Wine Writing Challenge over a year ago with the desire to promote more creative wine writing. The thought was that we get caught up in tasting notes, winery visits, and the occasional food porn and we soon forget that part of the reason we put in all the hours that we do on these silly blogs is that we love to write!" And so this month I join the ranks writing about this month's theme...
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This is for all the grapes out there that don't make the cut:
Great wines have been made here since the beginning of civilization it seems. First, it was soldiers and farmers, making wine because it was safer to drink than water. Then, it was clergy, making wine for sanctification. The clergy were replaced by traders, looking to share this wine with the world. And now? Now it's like all those are wrapped up into one. Vignerons here tend to be part soldier and farmer battling diseases and the land, part clergy intercessing with the heavens, and part trader trying to make a living. And this year, I hope to help make one of the great wines of the world.
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Vignerons here tend to be part soldier and farmer battling diseases and the land, part clergy intercessing with the heavens, and part trader trying to make a living. |
I have to admit. It's a bit alarming, being harvested. After resting peacefully this past summer, hanging gently from a vine, being dropped into a bin and then hoisted onto a tractor is not very enjoyable. And it was worse that it all happened early in the morning waking me out of a deep sleep. Then, they dropped us off on the sorting table where we were carefully examined for quality and size. Sadly, some of us didn't make it, but that's always a risk, something we have to be prepared for. Next, we headed towards the crusher and destemmer. This was, by far, the most terrifying part. I knew it was just part of the preparation, but that didn't do much to calm my nerves as the big paddles spun around knocking me off my stem and cracking my skin so the juice inside me, the part the winemakers are really after, could begin to ooze out. Fortunately, it was all over very quickly and I was able to rest again, this time in a large vat, together with thousands of us, as we impart the flavor and color of our skins into the juice that up until a moment before had been carefully preserved within.
This part of the process was mostly nice, except for the regular interruptions to our day where we got sucked out of the bottom of the tank only to be splashed over the top, ensuring that we aren't separated from our skins for too long. This is also when our sweetness began to turn to alcohol. That wasn't so bad, but it did produce a very strange tingling sensation, alarming at first, but quite nice after a while. And then, the time came to be separated from our skins. The vessels that have protected our heart and soul all year have completed their role. We have received everything they can give us and now we get to rest peacefully in small, dark barrels until ready. But first, our destiny is decided.
The vignerons come and taste each barrel, one by one, to decide who will make it into the Grand Vin. I wait with baited breath as I hear them getting closer. And then finally, I see a little light appear at the top of the barrel. Is this the light at the end of the tunnel? Carefully, the thief is used to sample just a bit of the newly made wine. It takes only a moment for them to decide. "Second." Ilet out a long sigh. I will not be used to make the Grand Vin. But all hope is not lost, I have been chosen for the second label. Here, in Bordeaux, I have a Second Chance.