Page 12 of Wassailing We Will Go
This catches me by surprise. Harrison was…sad. Not only that, but apparently in full-on Big Lebowski mode.
It worked out well for us, too. Charlie needed the help, and he and Harrison hit it off right away.
That’s perfect. We had some odd jobs for him to do around our cidery, of course, but we’re still a pretty small operation, and he would have gotten bored quickly. Ryan hits me again with the dazzling gleam of his white smile. Anyway, glad it worked out. Looks like you’re up, but let me know about that last weekend, yeah?
Sure enough, I look over, and Angie is waiting for me to load my items onto the checkout counter. Sure thing, will do, I say and hurry to start loading groceries onto the belt. I pack them up as quickly as Angie scans them and make a hasty retreat out of there.
By early afternoon, I have done all of the domestic things I can think of. I have clean clothes again and no longer have to resort to grabbing things from my floor. I prepared and ate a lunch with multiple ingredients in it (including vegetables!). I even put up the miniature fake Christmas tree in my living room, which Steven has been eyeing with ill intent. I am absolutely going to be cleaning up tiny tree decorations from the floor later after he goes on a murder spree.
With no distractions left, I head to the cidery.
I park right beside the fermentation building, but when I open the door, I find it empty. Then I hear the voices from the tasting bar.
And then he fell straight through the ice, the idiot, and he hasn’t gone back out since!
Even from this one line, I know exactly which story Charlie is telling Harrison. It’s a favourite of his, and I let him get to his punchline before I walk in.
And that is why you don’t say yes when a Winnipegger asks you to go golfing!
I hear Harrison’s laugh, and I just know Charlie is thrilled to have had another laugh at his decades-old tale. I give a knock and walk in. Charlie is behind the tasting bar, and Harrison is seated front row centre, where there are quite a few empty little tasting glasses scattered about.
The tasting room is a deep ruby colour, with barn board accents, and the walls are filled with bottles from old vintages, as well as awards we’ve won from different cider competitions from around the world. The lighting is warm and inviting, instrumental holiday music is piped in from hidden speakers, and the added holiday decorations that Barb and her team have just put up make the cozy room even more welcoming and festive. The decorations are all non-denominational for the most part, with lots of evergreen boughs, wreaths, and white fairy lights.
Hey, gents, I say and sit a seat over from Harrison at the bar. I was nearby and just wanted to know how the racking went.
Beautifully, says Harrison. “You’ve got a good product out there. Just needs finishing up, but Charlie’s done an amazing job.
Figured now that that’s taken care of, the lad needs to know how to work the tasting bar, says Charlie. Before next weekend, at least.
Charlie’s been giving me the cider maker’s tour, says Harrison. And we’ve just done a tasting.
You should practice more before the weekend, says Charlie. Practice on Kate—she’ll sort you right out. Welp, I’m done. Gwen’s here to pick me up, and we’ve been here since seven. Lad is an early riser, like me, he says and gives Harrison a clap on the shoulder as he walks out from behind the bar. Well, rolls, I suppose. Have a good one, folks.
As soon as Charlie clears the room, Harrison turns to me. I’m still a little jet-lagged, and I’m not going to lie, I’m dying a little today, he whispers loudly. Are early mornings typical here?
Only for Charlie, I say. It’s not my usual expectation for employees. The bad news is you work for Charlie. I nod toward the glasses. How did the tastings go? Think you could handle a tour bus now?
Depends, says Harrison. Charlie says that he’s going to personally ensure that I’m the one to do the tastings for a certain tour bus visiting on Sunday that I guess is some sort of knitting and wine group that’s known for being a bit rowdy? he asks. Apparently, they come every year, and I am both intrigued and nervous.
Mmm, Bobbles and Bottles. I know it well, I say. I trust Charlie’s judgment, but we might have to get you a safe word, I say without thinking. It’s the kind of joke I would make to Daniel since we know each other’s humour, but with a new employee—with this new employee—I pause. For, uh, when the ladies get too much, I mean, I add quickly and awkwardly. Great save, Kate.
They sound like a fun group. Also, how about ‘butter tart’? he says with a wink. If I need rescuing, I mean. He moves on just as quickly before I can process that at all. I’m actually pretty excited to do tastings again, he continues, and he grabs a nearby bar towel and throws it over his shoulder and then starts clearing all of the empty glasses onto a tray. My last job involved more work in the orchards when I wasn’t helping with the actual cider making. Overall, it was a much more industrial production than this one. It’ll be nice to be behind the counter again.
It is nice this time of year, I say. During the summer, it’s so busy that it feels like you’re just pouring glass after glass without getting a chance to tell the story properly.
Oh? Let’s see a preview, then, he says. He’s grinning mischievously, and I think Charlie has already been a bad influence on him. I want to hear the story. From you.
He leaves the bar and sits beside me, resting his head on an arm as he looks at me.
So, what’s your favourite cider? He’s donned a ridiculous falsetto voice, and his impression of a Canadian accent is atrocious. What do you recommend?
God help me, I laugh. Fine, fine, I say and walk behind the bar, placing a tasting menu in front of him. We recommend starting with the less sweet and moving your way up to the ice cider, which is typically for serving alongside dessert or as an after-dinner drink. Do you prefer a drier cider or a sweeter one, usually?
Hm, nope, I don’t buy it, he says, clapping his hands on the bar. I don’t think you’re that stiff in front of real guests.
I am not stiff. I’m being—
Nah, I remember talking to you at the spa—you were natural then. Excited to talk about this place. Had a little glint in your eye, he says. Pretend I’m a cute old lady, maybe. What would you say then?
