Page 67 of Corkscrew You
But JP laughs.
“No point in mincing words, Ginny. Ava’s right.”
He turns his attention to me.
“Whatever you’re planning, Nate,” he says, “you need to pull outallthe stops.”
ChapterTwenty-Three
SHELBY
Iwonder which Nate I’ll get this morning. Serious Nate? Or the one who knows how to laugh?
I spent the weekend checking out the vines – everything’s looking pretty good. Not too many leaves or extra growth that can interfere with the ripening. Toothless Doug’s kept on top of the mowing and the weeds. No rot or fungi. We use only natural pest and weed controls here, and that means extra vigilance. But it also means better wine. In my opinion.
At this time of year, I take a few bunches for sampling, to see if any vines are ripening sooner than others. We don’t have a large vineyard, and it’s not spread over different terrain, so we don’t get too much variation. Helps to check, though, because it can make all the difference when scheduling the harvest.
In the two weeks before our estimated harvest date, I’ll be here every day, testing sugar and acid levels, and what we call flavour ripeness. There’s a science to knowing exactly when the grapes are ready to pick. There’s also intuition honed by years of experience, which I don’t yet have. Dad was a genius at it.
Harvest requires alotof preparation. Every piece of equipment needs to be checked, and I need to order in all the supplies for cleaning, picking, and the making of the wine itself, like the yeasts.
Once those grapes are off the vines, we need to operate like a machine: sorting out any duds, getting the grapes in the cold soak, de-stemming bunches we’re not using whole, and then the full-on process of fermentation. That’s when I am head down, butt up, because grapes and yeasts are as needy as kids in puppy love. After fermentation, there’s maceration, letting them soak in their skins. I’ll taste the vats every day during that time.
Thenwe get to do the fun, physical work of pressing the grapes by foot. I always step up – pardon the pun – and I can usually rope in Jordan, plus volunteers from the picking crew.
Chiara is a big no; she thinks it’s gross. Cam, too, has thus far refused to participate. He doesn’t like people staring at him, and we can drawquitea crowd. Grape stomping at Flora Valley Wines is party time for our community. People bring picnics and watch us go to work. The commentary gets more raucous as the day goes on. We stompers don’t get to drink anything but water until we’re done, but let’s just say, we’ve been known to make up for it later.
Don’t make the mistake of thinking this is some gimmick. Grape stomping might have fallen out of fashion, and been overtaken by more efficient machinery, but it’s stillthemost natural way to press wine. Human foot pressure won’t break the seeds, which can make the wine taste nastily astringent. And a human has better judgment about when to stop. It’s completely sanitary because the alcohol in the wine kills any bugs – and yes, duh, of course you clean your feet first.
Dad always swore that foot crushing intensified the wine, made it bolder. And when you’re a little place like Flora Valley Wines, youneedyour wine to stand out.
So, yup, a busy time of year. But wait – there’s more! Before allthatkicks off, we have bottling. It’s another reason why our barrel ageing is so short – only eleven months. We have to make room for the next vintage. And don’t tell the other vintners, but our secret weapon for the shorter ageing is Cam’s magic barrels, the ones he’ll only make for us. The flavour they add to the wine is pure alchemy.
We don’t have bottling facilities on site, so we use a mobile bottling service. Those guys are all booked in – one job I managed to do before I was demoted. Though I have to admit it’s quite a relief to hand over the logistics to Nate. Last year, because Dad was so ill, I had to manage it pretty much all myself. Just about wrecked me.
Cam was my number one practical helper then, and he will be again, along with Javi, my work crew coordinator. Nate, too, of course. The man with the plan. And the checkbook.
I’m ashamed to say, I still don’t have a firm hold on our cash position. I know, what with frantically chasing investors, I let the paperwork pile up. But judging by Nate’s desk, and his general personality type, he’s got that all under control. And I’m sure that if there was anything wildly amiss – like we’re about to file for bankruptcy – he’d have told me by now.
OK, it worries me that the pre-orders are still low. Had a couple more trickle in last week, but nowhere near our usual level. Our ability to keep going has always depended on us selling the whole lot. If we don’t … to be honest, I’m not sure what that means. Guess it depends on how much JP is willing to invest. He’s already committed to a tasting room and a proper e-commerce website, but those are longer-term strategies. And they also imply that he believes the business foundations are sound enough to build on. If this vintage is a failure, he may change his mind, and cut his losses.
Nate should know what’s up. I’ll be brave and talk to him about it this morning.Ifhe’s in a good mood. Which is where this line of thought began…
I hear the pick-up pull in while I’m feeding Ham and Luke their morning scraps. Only 8am. Nate’s early. I toss a cabbage leaf Dylan’s way, and hustle back to the house to wash up and put the coffee on.
My plan is to take the coffee over to the office, but just as I’m pouring it, there’s a knock, and the kitchen door is pushed open.
“Hi.”
Nate. The serious version, by the look of it. Oh, well, itisMonday. No one likes Mondays.
“I was just about to deliver your wake-up call,” I say, and hand him a steaming mug.
“Thanks.”
He holds the mug in a way that is not relaxed. Hope he’s not been angsty all weekend about our little Friday night phone tryst. Though I suspect that if being angsty were an Olympic sport, Nate would have alargehaul of gold medals.
“Shel, can we talk?”
