ALRIGHT!! ALL RIGHT!!

Many thanks to the two great crews of this weekend who labeled their booties off! We did 125 cases of 05 zin on Saturday and 136 cases on Sunday and are all set to release the new vintage in the next week or two. For all those loyal die-hard (with a vengeance) volunteers who gave up the lure of carnivale in sf, bbqs, camping and other memorial day attractions, we are super grateful!

Specifically, Thanks and Great Job! to (in no particular order) Paloma, Isobel (in utero), Chris, Jesse, Val(erie), Mica, Amy, Matt, Dick, Joanne, Dave, Nic, Dawn and of course Ellison! If anyone has a picture of Ellison packing cases, send it my way so I can post it. Thats the sort of work ethic we like to see in the next generation.

We got a lot done and even had a good time. What more can you ask for? (Well, maybe some air freshener in the winery or charcoal underwear for one end of the table). On Sunday, after the work was done, the boys were apparently still ready for whatever was next on the agenda. As Pomme frequently says these days, "What ELSE?"


ALRIGHT! ALL RIGHT!

Bittersweet Success

I just heard that yesterday, the South Carolina Supreme Court overturned the homicide conviction of Regina McKnight. This was one of the cases that I worked on when I was at the Drug Policy Alliance and it was the one that has stuck with me as one of the saddest travesties that forces you to keep fighting.

Ms. McKnight suffered a still-birth and when the tox screen showed cocaine in the system of the fetus, South Carolina charged Ms. McKnight with murder. She was convicted and sentenced to 12 years in prison without parole. The South Carolina Supreme Court upheld her conviction, saying, in part, that because Len Bias died from using cocaine once, everyone knew it could be fatal. So a pregnant woman who took cocaine should have known that it could kill the fetus -- despite the fact that there is no scientific evidence showing that cocaine causes stillbirth. In fact, the most current evidence indicated that cocaine's affect on a fetus was about the same as lack of nutrition or poor pre-natal care, and less harmful that smoking cigarettes. See, W. Chavkin, Cocaine and Pregnancy - Time to Look at the Evidence 285 JAMA 1626 (2001).

Ms. McKnight is still in prison. The State gets to keep here there while they decide to appeal the decision or retry her again. She has served 8 years so far. So while I am so relieved and happy that the South Carolina Supreme Court overturned her conviction -- finally -- I am still so angry at how long she was been there and at the crimes of wrongfully imprisoning people that the States perpetrate with impunity.

Please read the article about the case: http://www.charlotte.com/205/story/620738.html. Ms. McKnight's case played a critical role in how I perceive the justice system and partly why I finally got off my ass and went to law school.

Karmic Retribution

I'm generally a fairly humble and modest sort of soul. I try to keep a healthy sense of self worth without approaching the bloated egos of my childhood rivals (my brother, "Super G," or my cousin, "The Man"). Yet sometimes, the evidence is unsurmountable. Sometimes, the universe just shouts at you and lets you know that you play a more significant role in the cosmos than you had previously thought. Or at least, it does me. And lately, I've received a Howler!

In what form, you may ask, did this Howler arrive? Now by owl or even post. It came in the form of some sort of terrible karmic retribution, where all the stars aligned to torment me.

(at the wedding, before Ttam and Alyks went to the bar)

I just was in Chicago for the weekend for Betta's wedding. Perhaps the rumors of the trip have already circulated (reports of riling up Canadians at 4 am at the bar, or Matt making the Iraq war veteran bridesmaid cry at 5 am at the bar), but the more important story is that of the karmic retribution. What is the best part of Chicago? The hot dogs, of course! and on the top of that list is Hot Doug's, source of the fantastic tee that I have been seen sporting (There are no finer words in the English language than "encased meat", my friend). And I have a bit of a history with Hot Doug (and no, I am most certainly not talking about Gardner). After hearing legendary tales of the duck fat fries, which are available only on Fridays, and the hot dog with foie gras served to protest the tyrannical ban on foie gras, I had no agenda other than going to Hot Doug's on my first visit to Chicago a couple of years ago. As I was about to get on the airplane, I hopped on the website only to find that Hot Dougs was CLOSED FOR THE ENTIRE WEEK in February that I was going to be in Chicago. Words cannot express my dismay. They close for one week a year and it just happened to be the one miserable week in February that I would be there. Well, I recovered, eventually, from that blow. [Is it inappropriate to use that particular metaphor when discussing hot dogs?]. Although I failed to realize it at the time, this was just one more dig of the universe punishing me for some yet incomprehensible transgression. The next trip to Chicago, over a year later, proved to be an aberration in the karmic scoreboard. I must have redeemed myself, if only momentarily. A friend picked me up at the airport and drove directly to Hot Dougs, where we proceeded to polish off 3 hot dogs and some (regular, non duck fatted) fries. The experience transcended all expectation so I bought the tee shirt to commemorate. Almost sucess! And then, after nearly another year had gone by, I found myself in Chicago a couple of weeks ago. And it was a Friday. I was feeling good. I was feeling great, actually! I couldn't wait to finally fulfill my date with destiny (by which, I mean duck fat fries). I was sneaking in a few chapters of my HP7 re-read and asked Matt to look up the address so we could head our for our fix. All of a sudden, I hear this great cackle of laughter, as if Matt finally got the cartoons in the New Yorker -- all of them, all at once. I waited impatiently while he recovered from the laughter to find out what was so funny. Yes, it is as you would expect from this long-winded build up: Hot Doug's was closed. AGAIN. FOR THE ENTIRE TIME I WAS IN CHICAGO. EVEN THOUGH IT WAS MARCH THIS TIME, AND NOT THAT WEEK IN FEBRUARY. ARGGGG.

So what else am I left to understand, other than that the entire cosmos rearranged the vacation schedule of Hot Doug's in an effort to foil me, yet again. It made me realize two things:1. that I, perhaps, am more than just an Extra in this grand production of life; and 2. perhaps I better start behaving myself a little better if I ever expect to get my hands on some piping hot duck fat fries from Hot Dougs (or oysters at Hog Island, or strawberries from the Watmaugh stand, etc. etc.). Just as soon as I can out how I soo offended the cosmos, I will try to straighten up and fly right.

(Did someone just say Cosmo? I'll take one, if you're offering...)

Mmm...dinner

Wiggles totally has the right idea. Eating meat is totally cool (and damn delicious!) as long as you go for fresh, free range, sustainable meat that has lead a good life (up until the terrifying last few moments being chased around by an over-fed dog whose favorite meal is excrement) and is not full of toxins, antibiotics, and botox.

I can't stand my meat with botox. Really, if I want a shot of botulism, I'll go visit my favorite botox injecting local nurse.

Anyway, I diverge. What I'm really ranting about is vegetarians. Who needs them? Give it to us, RAW, AND WIGGLING! The succulent, juicy first bite of a bloody rare rouge burger is a joy not to be denied. There is so much misery, heart break, and uphill battles that we face everyday, why deprive the body of the pure dopamine and seratonin shots to the brain with the irresistible taste of perfectly braised duck leg? Accompanied by sublime potatoes, fried in duck fat?


Which brings me to another point. Duck fat -- is there anything it can't do? Really? I mean, really? Yeah, I didn't think so.

So...quick fussing with the mundane demands of your job and put all that cranial power to the important question of the day: What's for dinner?

Joan Wilder? The Joan Wilder?

In 1984, when Romancing the Stone came out, I was seven years old. We would go up to Jesse and Jeremy's house and all watch this movie over and over again. This movie, along with Calvin and Hobbes and Superfudge, are among the most influential pieces of mass media from my childhood.

Given that, it was so absolutely fantastic to be transported to the mudslides and wild jungle of Joan Wilder's Columbia a couple of weeks ago. Ok, so really, it was a hike along the Na Pali coast in Kauai, but it looked and felt like the scenes from the movie. Life very rarely imitates the movies so its thrilling when it actually happens.


I'd like to say that the trip was full of dangerous adventure, villains in hot pursuit, high speed chases, drama, scantily clad women, raging waterfalls to be forged, wild pigs and chickens roaming through the village, and biting witty dialogue, but the speed limit on the one State road around the Island never tops 50, so the chases were certainly not high speed.


The rest of it, however, lived up to the expectations. The dialogue was perhaps not as witty as one might hope (it was a family trip, after all), but certainly was less corny than something scripted in the 80s. The chickens roaming through the hills are apparently so inbred that their internal clocks malfunction and the roosters crowed at all hours of the day and night. The drama was perhaps less romantic and life threatening (it was a family trip, after all), but the women certainly were scantily clad. I kept looking around for Danny diVito.

And the Kauai trip surpassed a Columbian jungle adventure in quite a few respects: no snakes, no crocs, and many many more mai tais. (Oh man, there was one mai tai that was sooo good.) Sadly, we returned [well, I could stop the sentence right there, actually] with a few sunburns, mosquito bites, and drunken tales, but no emerald. We'll have to try again next time.

Trumer!

The most exciting news of all:


We love Trumer!

Excuses, Excuses

I'm a slacker. What can I say? I did try to spend the evening catching up with the posts and putting down all the hilarious, heart-warming, self-deprecating, insightful, light-hearted, sardonic, and mundane posts that are floating through my head. Instead, I spent the evening putting pictures on my computer and online. Some can be seen here. And all I got to posting was this lame excuse for not posting!

In my defense, it is a busy season. We had twos T-days to contend with:

Followed shortly by Christmas:
With a whirl wind tour of the lovely Texas cities of Houston, Waco, Crawford, and Hearne in between. Talk about a frightening line up.

Well, we've come out the other end of the holidays relatively unscathed. Well, most of us have. Val was turned into a bit of a Nancy in the chaos of the pre-Christmas bachelor party:

And Dad followed up Val's bout of puking with one of his own the next night. He was like a bulimic Santa Clause trying to shed a few pounds in order to fit down our narrow chimney pipes. Or maybe he was just anxiety ridden that he wasn't going to make the "nice" list this year.
Anyway, there's more news to follow... and someday i may even get to it.

Potato Gratin

Our friend Richard (on the far right) passed away this summer. I heard about his tragic death when I turned my cell phone on around midnight of August 15th. I had just landed on the tarmac of Oakland airport and was returning home from vacation because my grandfather was about to die. The day after grandpa died, I went to the service for Richard. I was having a rough time so when they invited people up to talk about Richard or relate a favorite story about him, I didn't go up and say anything. I meant to relay the following vignette.

We were hosting a dinner party at Halcyon Court several years ago and many people from Kermit Lynch wine merchants were coming over, including Richard. Richard was a jolly gourmand with an appreciation of many fine things in life, including Potato Gratin. He arrived and came into the kitchen, my usual post during dinner parties, to say hello. He glanced at the potatoes I was slicing on the mandolin and with delight apparent on his face inquired: "Are you making potato gratin??" I smiled and assented. He watched as I buttered the LeCreuset Gratin Pan and added some minced garlic. "With garlic??" I smiled again and nodded. He watched as I layered the pan with thin slices of potatoes, and then sprinkled salt, pepper, and a few shavings of nutmeg. "And nutmeg??" I grinned again. And then with the gusto of life and the joy that gratin brings, Richard said "Oh, I LOVE YOU!" The evening was great, although between the wines and rich food I have only fuzzy happy memories of the rest of it. And now, when, as tonight, I make potato gratin, I think fondly of Richard.

(cover layered seasoned potatoes with heated cream and milk, and then shmear sour cream on top and bake for an hour and a half at 300, plus 30 minutes at 400)

(the picture is from the dinner before our friend Erin's amazing wedding in France, where Richard was the only person to plow through the disgusting, although very French, Andouiette sausage. what a champ!)

Trumer Sluts, for the record

I love Trumer. It's so refreshing and delicious. Just thinking about it now makes me thirsty. It's like Snickers -- it's really satisfying (I'm just talking about the great branding motto, not actually suggesting that Snickers is anywhere near as satisfying as Trumer) . Luke brought a keg of Trumer up the Sky Fourth of July party a couple of years ago. It was primo. The Fourth was so hot that all you could do was fill up a pint and plop down in the shade. Trumer, for those sadly not in the know, is a pilsner style beer that is brewed in Salzburg, Austria and now in Berkeley, CA, USA, planet Earth. It rocks.

The thing about Trumer, though, is that it apparently breeds low lifes. There has been a proliferation of Trumer sluts lately. Oh, you all know who you are. Don't pretend that you don't. A prime example is Paloma. I had never seen her drink a whole beer before in my life until Matt and I and Amy started bringing Trumer up to Sky. Now, it's hard to catch her without a mostly empty bottle in hand or trying to steal a less empty bottle from the clutches of one of the rest of us or from another Trumer Slut, like Chris or Lore.

Just in case not everyone know who you are, I'm here to out all you Trumer Sluts. Well, at least all of you that are caught on the digital film (is that even called film anymore?) that currently resides on my computer (photo credit to Mica Muskat and Cameron De Palma):
Ok. Matt isn't technically a Trumer Slut since he purchases most of that which is consumed up at Sky, but look at the expressions of longing on those two other Sluts...
Now Chris is definitely a Trumer Slut. It looks like he's been thrown under the truck here, but really, he's just hiding out so no one steals his first sip. Or the next, or the next, or the next, or the last...
Yeah, Maya's one too. She poses like she isn't, but it's all an act. Look at the professional guzzling...that's no joke. (And again, notice the jealous gazes of the unTrumer-ed onlookers).
And here is perhaps the most impressive or the saddest evidence yet. Yes, Katie (Katy? Kate? Our fact checking department attempted to confirm the correct spelling of her name but Val and Mica apparently have an early Friday night cut off...much like the Texas Criminal Court of Appeals) apparently likes a little Trumer action, but does she really need to get the little ones hooked at such a young and tender age? The look of pure Trumer joy on Sarah's face is understandable, but a little precocious and disturbing at the same time.

There are more. Previous posts in the archives have Trumer Slut-a-licious picutres of Val and Paloma both knocking a cold one back. But the rest of the pictures are on matt's computer and its up the stairs so I can't be bothered. Perhaps I'll add an addendum later.

And no, although I SHOULD be paid for this post, I haven't been. Now, please excuse me while I go check the supplies in the fridge...

The Harvest Moon Has Set

Yesterday was the last day of harvest. Picking in November is a novelty for Sky. Generally when harvest lasts into October, it's note-worthy. November? Unheard of.
It was atypical in many ways. The leaves had all fallen off the vines and we were picking late harvest from the old vines. I've never seen the vineyard naked and full of fruit at the same time. The crew was small -- Lore, Matt, Jesse, Chris, Paloma and me -- and we sought an elusive bunch of grapes so we wander in groups of one, two or three throughout the various blocks. Although the vines were loaded down with fruit, we picked only a bunch or two from the vines. Personally, I had no idea what we were supposed to be picking. Late harvest is dessert wine so we were looking for the sweetest grapes to ensure that there would be some residual enough sugar after fermentation. We were instructed to pick bunches that were raisony and had shriveled grapes, but weren't too dried out. And nothing with plump grapes. And nothing that was too picked over by birds. And nothing that was pink. And nothing that didn't smell right. And nothing that didn't taste good. We had 14 boxes to pick and it took hours. And I'm sure I didn't pick one bunch that actually met the specifications. Not that any one person could agree on what the specifications actually were. Needless to say, it was a typical sky deal.

After a mellow and light lunch of chanterelle mushrooms and humbolt fog grilled cheese sandwiches, we headed down to crush.

It was a particularly fun crush. We set up outside and crushed our quarter ton. The grapes, despite being undoubtedly all wrong in the vineyard, magically were transformed into awesome looking late harvest. Barely any juice and super high sugar. Matt got to fulfill a life long dream and vinify the grapes in a traditional manner as old as the zinfandel grown in Croatia back in the day (whichever day that was) (zin used to be thought to have come from the Primitivo grape in Italy, but was recently proven through DNA analysis to actually come from Croatia. Exonerated from any connection with La Famiglia).



I'm feeling a little post-partum but also relieved. Another harvest here and gone. Now we just wait with anticipation and anxiety to see the results of all the hard work and in two years we can assess the success of the endeavor. If it turns out well, I'm sure it was from my skilled eye at picking which bunches would lead to perfection. If it's a disappointment, it must be someone else's fault. I'm just saying, that's all.