Grape Picking

Over my time here, I have become increasingly self-conscious of my Tom-Sawyer, fence-painter syndrome. No matter what it is on the farm, all someone has to do is hand me the paintbrush and I will spend the rest of my day doing someone else's hard labor. So, just as it was with plum picking, I took to the fields this week with unusual pep and excitement to start the grape picking. While everyone around me viewed this as a laborious chore, I was more than thrilled to lend my hand to work in the fields.

To begin, grape picking is infinitely more glamorous than plum picking. Unlike with plums, there are no picker "purses" that you have to awkwardly lug around as the harvest weight pulls you down. Instead of having to sling the nylon picking satchel, in the vineyard you simply move a little crate from stalk to stalk.

Second, you don't have to worry about bruising grapes. No matter what pressure you exert on the grapes, it is is nothing compared to the extreme amount of roughness the bunches are subjected to in the press. You can hardly do the squash-ready grapes any harm, and, what's more, a little bit of jostling probably just tenderizes the fruit for the impending juice extraction. With the plums, you had to worry about bruising; with the grapes, you are footloose and fancy free!

As a third accolade for the grapes: when picking, every little cluster counts. Where as you have to cherry pick plums according to specifications of size, color and texture, all grape clusters are good grape clusters. In plum picking, only about 1/5 of your picks are selected for sale into the supermarkets whereas with grapes, virtually 100% of your picks end up in the bottle-- a very satisfying thing indeed.

This leads to the last extreme advantage that grape picking has over plum picking-- the final product. No matter how you cut it, plums picked for a fruit basket will never be as romantic as grapes plucked for wine. There is something exciting and even empowering knowing that what you're picking provides the first step in the winemaking process and that your simple fruit contributions form the organic foundation for Bacchus' elixir. Even the smell of the grapes lends to this feeling of direct romanticism; the juice of the grapes leaves a sweetly pungent aroma on your hands that I can't help but associate with the cellar.

Invigorated with the uniqueness of the grape harvest, I was to undergo an evolutionary initiation into the world of the pickers. On the first day, I was the complete oddity in the vines, the temporary fixture that fascinated and burdened the workers in equal measure. The pickers felt they had to take care of me, and, for every stalk I approached, there was one person who proceeded me, thinning the vine foliage to reveal the clusters beneath; one or two across from me supporting my shears; and one who followed me, moving my crate along the vines. I felt like the silly molly-coddled American who wants to "pick" but doesn't want to actually break a sweat. By the second day, my entourage had been cut in 1/3 and though I still had someone who moved my crate when it was full, I was responsible for the slow transport of the

crate from stalk to stalk. Though improved, I still had one guy, a young man named Anele, who would appear randomly throughout the day, with a huge smile on his face, clear off all the leaves in my path. While I felt I was becoming less of a burden, shedding one of my entourage, it was clear that I was still being "indulged." Finally, though, when I arrived on my third day in the vineyard, I felt a change beginning to unfold. I could feel the slow but sure transition from "fixture in the fields" to "member of the picking squad." Not only was I left to thin my own vines and carry my own crate, I even gleaned a picking partner who remained with me for the whole day. It was here, when I finally had my picking "mate," that I got to glimpse the coordinated satisfaction of the vine tango. One of us took up residence on each side of the stalk, and, as the day progressed, our picking developed an unflagging rhythm and silent cooperation. As we worked our way down the rows in tandem, we would stop only long enough to snip the hard to reach spots for our "mate" across the way. In this way you began to anticipate where those cross-over bunches would be, anticipating your partner's need, so that you could swoop in, unasked, for that unique snippet angle to ease their picking burden.

By the end of three days, our Sauvignon Blanc harvest was finished, but I have to say that I was not disappointed in the least. While my interest never flagged, picking is EXHAUSTING EXHAUSTING work and I was happy to be done. On friday, to celebrate the end of the SB harvest, Justin invited all the boys to the deck for a glass of Rosé. Here are some of boys in all their glory! (Freddie, Anele, Chokies, and Emen-- sorry for the spelling!)