This morning, at winery before 6a. I think the last time I saw on my car’s clock was 5:54a. Katie and I finally removed the berries from B1 and B2, with me scooping them out with a dust pan, with the juice draining into a half-ton bin on wheels. Katie pressed the skins for any clinging steams. She warned me that the seeds should be pressed excessively, as it imparts bitterness, other unfavorable strokes. A colleague of hers lifted the bin by forklift. Katie then plugged in a hose, showed me the final housing barrel. She put the hose into the bunghole. “Should I just let her rip?” she asked Darren, her cellar mastering counterpart. “Let her rip,” D said.
“Are you ready?” Katie asked me, smile on her face, knowing how excited I was.
“Oh yeah, definitely,” I reacted. Katie pulled the lever, struggling a bit. As the wine fell into its new home, Katie and I closed our meeting, agreeing that we’ll taste topping wine tomorrow. I had to be at NWG in just splashes over an hour. How would I make it there on time? Had to dash back home, change into some new pants. Should have listened to her when she suggested I bring a change of clothes with me. While at work, 13 minutes late, I couldn’t help but stay the persistent Cabernet chords between my fingers, spread on my palms. Before washing them at home, I looked at my hands while walking away from Katie, purple as pompous plums
Now home, sipping what’s left of the Merlot, 2007 I find, thinking Merlot’s what I’d like to use for topping, and maybe a little Syrah. I’ll ask her if that’s a good idea. Oh, also doing a tasting in Alexander Valley tomorrow, at 11a. More wine flights for this writer, his winemaking research. Only way I’l learn aside from Katie’s instruction, the bookwork I do in time ancillary.
The Merlot, smooth like last night, musical, almost shy, not in a defamatory way. It’s flirtatious, making you work to cognize its character. Can’t believe I’m still awake. What got me through the NWG shift, cubeNOTES. They always save me. But I need to start blending them into a marketable manuscript, because I’m asking my Self more now than in any other scene stretch, “Where do these pages go?” Another sip might help. Vanilla chocolate blueberry, personified passion in glass.