The moon lights the way to my cottage. A lantern glows inside. Friends knock and enter, bringing veggies and bread. I pour sweet golden mead into clay mugs. I’ve been busy fermenting honey here in my hobbit hole. Folks pull out hand-crafted instruments. We build a bonfire under the stars, dancing and feasting until dawn.
That’s my vision of life after the apocalypse, an existence without indoor plumbing and electricity and WiFi. In my hippie fantasy, human society may fall into ruin, but it won’t look like the murderous anarchy of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. Instead, we’ll work together to survive and thrive. We’ll make music and drink mead—one of the most ancient and sustainable alcoholic beverages.
It’s going to be good.
OK, back to reality. I wasn’t thinking about surviving civilization’s collapse when I checked the progress of my bubbling liquid sunshine, aka a 6.5-gallon glass jug of honey wine.
For two weeks, my mead had been fermenting feistily. Then not so much. After a couple of weeks, the bubbling business slowed and seemed to stop.
“You need to buy a hydrometer,” said one advisee.
“Have you been using it?”
Yup. I reported that the specific gravity measured 1.040 a couple days ago.
“That’s pretty sweet, like a dessert mead,” he said. “But you have a lot of time.”
He suggested I give my yeast a snack.
Does the above exchange make me sound like I know what I’m talking about? Thank you, Internet, for giving me chem lessons so I can break bad in my home lab.
Here’s what I’ve learned: A hydrometer (glass tube that floats atop the booze) measures the density of the liquid in my jar. The specific gravity of water is 1.000. Pure alcohol is 0.792. My mead, as you can see, is quite dense.
Fermentation slows and stops eventually. But my mead is still too sweet and only boasts about 5.25 percent alcohol. I’m hoping for 11 or 12 percent. If I give my yeast a snack, it’ll kick back into fermentation mode. While honey contains all the nutrients required by bees (and humans), yeast is needier. As the sugar transforms into alcohol, my yeast needs another shot of nutrients—a concoction containing amino and unsaturated fatty acids and the kinds of stuff that I could probably get from crushing up a multi-vitamin.
Rather than mash up my Geritol, though, I obtain a packet of tan powder called yeast nutrient, and unscrew the wide-mouth air-lock cap on the mead. I place my hydrometer in the mead and give it a gentle spin. When it stops moving, I take a reading. Still 1.040. I taste it. Not too syrupy, a bit effervescent. Nice. But I’d prefer it to be drier.
So in goes the nutrients, and the concoction bubbles like madness. Happy yeast makes tasty mead.
Two weeks or so ago, my husband, Dave, and I started our first batch of mead. Making mead is easy, we’d heard. You can make mistakes, and the mead will most likely survive.
We’d obtained 18 pounds of orange-blossom honey for the project. After equipment, buying honey is the priciest aspect of mead-making.
Why are we buying honey when Dave keeps bees in his backyard, where they feast on red raspberries, roses and lavender? Fair question. Dave’s honey is simply too precious for experimentation. First, we’ll get good at this.
Of course, Dave can be a little finicky. “Does this honey smell OK to you?” Dave asked.
“It does not smell as good as your honey, honey,” I replied.
For references, we had Ken Schramm’s book The Compleat Meadmaker, and a recipe in the back of a catalog for home-brewing supplies. I searched for “making mead” online, and Google reported 31.7 million results.
We also had six gallons of filtered water, a thermometer, a hydrometer and a 6.5 gallon glass carboy (jug). We had sanitizer to clean a long stirring spoon, cups and measuring utensils. We had Prise de Mousse wine yeast, nutrients, tartaric acid and Irish moss for clarity.
We were ready. Gobbing honey out of jars was sticky business. Then we heated the must, aka watered-down honey, aka proto-wine. The proportions of honey to water differ depending on the recipe. One online recipe suggested two pounds of honey per gallon of water. Schramm’s recipe included twice that—15 pounds of honey and four gallons of water. We landed right in the middle—18 pounds of honey and six gallons of water, or three pounds of honey per gallon.
We boiled water and added honey along with nutrients and energizer. Adding honey cooled the water, but then we took the liquid back up to 160 degrees Fahrenheit. I fiddled with the burner for 10 minutes or so, trying to keep it hot without letting it boil. Another recipe calls for boiling. Go figure.
Heat then cool. Heat then cool. The must had to cool down again before we could add yeast.
So we waited. And waited. We got impatient. We were ready to sit down to crab appetizers and wine.
When the liquid was finally cool, we added yeast and stirred like maniacs to get plenty of oxygen into the must. I twirled a spoon until my arms hurt, then Dave gave it a go, creating a cyclone in the bottle.
We put a lid on it, fantasizing about the three cases of golden mead we’d be enjoying in six months or so. There’ll be a party with DIY music and a bonfire. We’ll drink mead from clay mugs. Sound like a good plan for a Friday night?
We thought so, too. Our work done, Dave and I opened a lovely bottle of Anderson Valley pinot noir for which we paid some serious dough.
The wine was excellent, and I’m thinking now it might be time to make wine-wine next time. Red wine. From grapes. This fall, in fact, I’d like to try my hand at, say, six gallons of zinfandel. I’m soliciting advice on this. Can I buy a smallish quantity of grapes and crush ’em in my kitchen? Yes, said one wine-making friend, no problem.
“But you’ll be sorry,” he warned.
“If it’s good, you’ll be sorry you didn’t make more.”
“If pinot noir is the next best thing to sex, you must be having really good sex.”
Dave never buys pinot noir at home.
“No balls,” he says.
We know this wine variety can be amazing. We’ve seen the movie Sideways. We’ve tasted good pinot noirs in Washington and Oregon. But we’ve encountered insipid pinot noir far too many times. Cuz insipid pinot noir is cheap.
“I can’t afford to like pinot noir,” says our wine-aficionado friend.
Now here we are, drinking elegant pinot noir and adoring it, eyes rolling back in our head, drool escaping from corners of mouths. We whip out our credit cards for more, more.
We’re drinking on the west end of Mendocino County’s Anderson Valley. Locals call this the Deep End. It’s too close to the Pacific, really, to grow grapes. Yet the Deep Enders do.
At Handley Cellars, tasting-room employee Ali Nemo pours a side-by-side tasting of 2011 pinots. One’s a blend of grapes from three appellations, two inland from here. The second pinot is from grapes all grown about 10 miles from the Pacific. Both wines resonate with complex flavors, feature rich color, and offer an outstanding finish that lingers on and on. But the wines differ in texture, acidity and flavor.
In the first, you can taste the sunshine. Pinot No. 2’s flavors are brought to you by fog.
Owner and winemaker Milla Handley, great-great granddaughter of Henry Weinhard, crafts wines from her 29-acre estate vineyard and also buys grapes from Redwood and Potter valleys. The grapes grown closest to the coast develop an “oceanic acidity.” The resulting pinot noirs have more tannins than we’ve come to expect from grocery-store pinots. That's why this wine can be plopped in a cellar (or dark closet) and emerge 15 years later drinking so, so smooth.
To get here, drive north beyond Santa Rosa. Head west on Highway 128 at Cloverdale, and cruise rolling green hills toward the coast. Now you’re in Boonville, population 1,035. Robert Mailer Anderson wrote a best-selling 2003 novel set in this quirky burg where oldsters speak a local dialect called “Boontling.” That’s a real thing. The book casts wine tourists as mere extras. That’s not far from reality, either. Mendocino County anchors the Emerald Triangle, where much weed is grown. We don’t encounter any native speakers of Boontling during our weekend in Anderson Valley but, dude, the grapes are good, good. This is a tucked-away place, south of Fort Bragg and, farther north, the Lost Coast, aka the King Range National Conservation Area.
Dave and I drive through Boonville to Philo (FILE-oh), population 349, where we’ve booked a room at the Anderson Valley Inn. Our first wine stop is Navarro Vineyards, named “Winery of the Year” at the 2014 California State Fair. We could stay here all day and let wine-room worker Nick Johnson pour 15 wines for us. These tastings are complimentary tastings—but we pass on award-winning whites and hit the reds. The 2012 Méthode à l'Ancienne ($29) blends pinots from 16 vines, all in Anderson Valley. Johnson describes low yields and tormented grapes grown near the coast, then pours for us the 2012 Deep End Blend ($49). Navarro won a gold medal, best of class, for this one.
I get it.
In two days, Dave and I drink spectacular pinots at many wineries. Along the way, we encounter a few zinfandels from inland vineyards. My favorites include Edmeades 2005 Perli Vineyard Zinfandel ($40) and its 2012 Gianoli Vineyard Zin ($35). Wine notes suggest “intense notes of blackberries and forest floor.” Who knew dirt paired so well with fruit?
These zins vary wildly from our beloved jammy zins of the Sierra Foothills, Amador and Lodi. Different spices. Blacker fruits. Oh yeah.
Anderson is famous for its whites and sparkling wines, so we sample a few of these. But for us, the pinots are the reds of note. At Drew Family Cellars, a smallish mom-and-pop place, we taste the 2012 Fog-Eater Pinot Noir ($45)—“pomegranate, orange and licorice with floral notes”—that was on the San Francisco Chronicle’s Top 100 wine list.
We learn that the term “fog-eater” is a Boontling pejorative for a person who lives too close to the coast, “on the margin.”
You know those bottles of wine that kill you with their luscious beauty? This is one of those. Fortunately, I have not yet hit the limit on my credit card.
Dave’s favorite Anderson Valley pinot noir comes from Harmonique and was crafted by Robert Klindt, a longtime local winemaker and owner of the acclaimed but now-defunct Claudia Springs Winery. Harmonique’s 2006 Oppenlander Vineyard Pinot Noir comes from grapes grown about eight miles from the ocean. Smooth with age, its essence lingers in my mouth for hours, days, weeks. I can still taste it. I have damp dreams about this wine.
Dave and I decide that we’re all about the fog. Blanketed by low stratus clouds, the grapes here strive for survival with testicular fortitude. We taste their anguish in the Deep End pinot noirs. Dave puts it simply: “These have the balls.”
At a newish tasting room for Lichen Estate, we sip a 2012 Pinot Noir ($65), a newly released work of art in a bottle. In the tasting room, we chat with Dan Rivin, who revels in the craftsmanship of small family-owned estates. The foggy wines of Mendocino’s coastal region are gaining popularity. And this makes Rivin oddly glum. He fears the coming influx of large corporate wineries that arrive “with suitcases of cash” and gobble up local estates.
“The secret’s out,” he laments.
There’ll be focus groups. Homogenized pinot noir that no longer pays tribute to the terroir of here. Emasculated flavors. Pinot that tastes like root beer and cotton candy.
Could be. Or perhaps the feisty Deep Enders will prove resistant to invasion.
Rivin pours us a last splash of pinot noir, luxuriously rich, with creamy layers of fruit and spice that taste like here.
We head home in a cloud.
It is well to remember that there are five reasons for drinking: the arrival of a friend, one's present or future thirst, the excellence of the wine, or any other reason.
The Arrival of a Friend
I was wrapped in a blanket under a tree. Giant snow clumps fell from dark clouds at Calaveras Big Trees State Park. A half-dozen wine loving amici and I were camping in Arnold, Calif. In March.
The weather can be temperate in spring. That night, not so much.
We’d spent the day visiting wineries in and out of Murphys, 12 miles away. We went to Milliaire, Indian Rock, Zucca, Stevenot, Newsome-Harlow and Twisted Oak. That night, we huddled around the fire, teeth chattering, passing around a bottle or two of newly acquired red.
Hubbie Dave barbecued friend Launie’s tri-tip over flaming logs. She’d brought the juicy meat in a plastic bag, marinated in garlicky goodness.
“I think it’s done,” said Dave. Misty aimed a flashlight on the steaming cow flesh and concurred. Seared yet rare in all the right places.
“Someone get a plate.”
“We don’t need no stinking plate.”
“No stinking plates!”
“Yeah, just pass it around.”
I can’t remember who first tore into the meat. It made the rounds on a long metal fork. Taking turns, we ripped and pulled and growled and gnawed like primal dwellers of caves. A tribe of Wino sapiens, toughing out the snow, lighting a fire against the chill of night. We somehow avoided dropping the meat on the slushy ground.
We woke up sore, stiff, mostly dressed in the clothes from the previous day, and smeared with beef juice and splotches of Murphys’ reds.
These days, if those friends visit my fireplace on a long winter’s night, I’d like to greet ’em with a bottle of Twisted Oak’s 2010 River of Skulls, a Mourvèdre from Dalton Vineyards, Angels Camp. Viscous. Barbaric.
Pairs well with carnivorousness.
One’s Present Thirst
Tonight, I’m visiting parents in the faraway Midwest. Here, access to fabulous wine is limited, and I wonder if this impacts the politics. Would tastier wine help the red states turn blue? (Wrap your brains around that metaphoric color challenge.)
When I last visited here, I brought my own crate of California reds, checked as luggage. Sad story: The airline misplaced my box, and by the time they found it, I was on my way back to California.
My family drank the wine.
This year, I thought I’d live like any other Wisconsin wine heathen.
While trawling the slender wine aisle at a local liquor store, I struck up a conversation with a hometown wine aficionado.
“So many wines!” she said. “And so many good wines!” It didn’t seem polite to argue.
I smiled and noted something about amazing California wines.
She shrugged. “California wines are fine—but have you tried our wines?”
We were standing near a display of wines from southern Wisconsin’s Wollersheim Winery. Mom’s a fan of the winery’s River Gold, a sweet white blend that sells for $8.50. And, yes, I have tried that wine.
“You should try it again,” she suggested.
And she went her way. And I said to self: Why not? The winery’s “dry red” on display was the $9 Prairie Sunburst Red, unoaked and Wisconsin-grown. I bought it. On the bottle was an invitation for a free winery tour in nearby Prairie Du Sac. If the website is any indication, more sophisticated wines can be tasted and purchased at the winery’s tasting room. I might have to zip down the road for what sounds like an interesting pinot noir.
Which could take care of …
One’s Future Thirst
In a few days, I’ll be in Reno, Nev., with Dave. In his cellar is the complex 2011 Whalebone Cabernet Sauvignon ($35). From Paso Robles! This delicious wine won this year’s Affairs of the Vine Cabernet Shootout. I don’t know what that is. But I’ve been thirsty for this cab since I tasted it in Paso last spring.
Sadly, I have already polished off my Whalebone Boneyard 2012 ($33), a gorgeously balanced blend of syrah, petit sirah, mourvedre, grenache and tannat. Oooh, ahh.
The future thirst is now.
The Excellence of the Wine
We made few purchases of expensive wine this year. Instead, we acquired many, many more bottles that we love—and can also afford. Superb wines at a budget-friendly price point.
On the first day of Christmas—OK, it was more like Thanksgiving—my true love gave to me a half-case of Amador Foothills Aglianico. Dave and my oldest son made a whirlwind wine run, picking up bottles from Murphys, in Amador County’s Shenandoah Valley, and in Fair Play, Calif.
When Dave spotted aglianico on sale, he remembered how much I had adored it on one of our wine hikes earlier this year. The wine feels light and round in the mouth—like satin and roses, a tasty Christmas ornament.
I bought a bottle of aglianico on my last visit to Amador Foothills about a year ago. Winemaker Ben Zeitman took me on a walk in his vineyard. Grapes were ripe, and we tasted the aglianico, picking small plumb fruit from the vines.
Zeitman said he would be selling his 32-acre vineyard and winery that produces 3,500 cases of wine annually. He was almost 80 and ready to retire.
Dave and I entertained a fantasy briefly. “Let’s buy a winery. Let’s live amongst the grapes and make small batches of delicious goodness.”
It sounds romantic, but we know better. Really, we do. We have wine-making friends, and we’ve seen how hard they work. I prefer to let the grape artists make the wine for me. Mmm.
Speaking of talented winemakers: Zeitman’s winery sold this summer to another winemaking couple I’ve much appreciated over the years, Tom and Beth Jones, who started Lava Cap Winery in Camino.
To me, that means the estate is in good hands.
Any Other Reason
When your kids come home for the holidays, and marvelous chaos descends on your dwelling, drink a good bottle of wine.
When your mate has had a long week at work and comes home exhausted, drink a good bottle of wine.
When you’re by yourself in a cottage in the woods, crafting words into sentences far into the night, drink a good bottle of wine.
When your book rolls off the presses, imperfect but done, drink a good bottle of wine.
When you don’t have time to cook, so dinner will be a bit of brie on day-old bread, eat this meager meal with a good bottle of wine.
The dog wanders through the Illuminare tasting room in Camino, Calif.
Like his owner who’s pouring our wine, the pooch is chill. I try to attract the dog’s attention, to give him a scratch. He ignores me. Uber-chill. Do people still say uber? Do they use the umlaut to spell it? Über?
When I drink, I overthink.
I sample the 2011 Mourvedre and fall in love.
“Rich fungal earth!” I write in my notes. “Earth! Earth!”
And on the venue: “The dog doesn’t love me.”
The mourvedre is $25, and my designated driver/love-of-life Dave buys a bottle.
It’s 2:21 p.m., and I’m on a mission. I could taste at six wineries in one day—if I started early enough. Paced myself.
Illuminare is No. 4.
I need food. I have to pee. But the mourvedre, that dark smooth stranger with intense brambles—it’s worth trying many wines to get to this one.
Camino is less than an hour’s drive from South Lake Tahoe, halfway between Sacramento and Tahoe on Highway 50. During harvest, it transforms into a magical wonderland called Apple Hill, with fritters, pie, caramel-covered orbs and bumper-to-bumper traffic.
This time of year, the Christmas-tree farms kick into gear. If you’re headed to Tahoe for the holidays and need some pine, Camino’s got you covered.
My favorite reason to visit this El Dorado County town any time of year: more than a dozen or so smallish wineries, all with tasting rooms featuring complimentary pours and friendly, knowledgeable staff.
Dave and I plan a day trip. I pick six wineries.
I will be deliberate. Go slow. Drink water.
I can do this.
First stop: Lava Cap Winery—Lava Cap’s tasting room opens at 10 a.m., perfect for breakfast wine. I’ve kick-started my palate with coffee and a pastry in South Lake Tahoe. I’m ready to swirl and sip.
The terrain explains the name: ancient volcanoes. Layered lava leftovers. Miner ’49ers discovered gold under this lava cap—which happens to be ideal for growing grapes and making intense wines.
The wine’s affordable at Lava Cap, with the famed Rocky Draw Estate Zinfandel going for $22, $18 for members. Floral notes, fruit and spices, nicely balanced. One of my all-time favorite zins in this price range.
I decline white wines and head to the reds. First up, the Sangiovese 2012 Matagrano Vineyard. The pitch: Perfect with your turkey dinner. The sangio is stuffed with fruit, spices and “pleasant toasted almond” on the finish.
I jam through complimentary and reserve tastings. Notables include the newly released 2013 Grenache and the Tectonic 2011, a mourvedre and syrah blend. Mmm. Mourvedre. I buy it.
So far, so good.
Take two: Boeger Winery—Designated Dave cruises country roads, dodging tractors and tourists. California’s best barbera emerged from Boeger Winery, not to be confused with Bogle (Gnarly Head wines) or Boegle, Jimmy (my editor). Cal State Fair folks this year awarded 98 points to Boeger’s 2011 Barbera. I find the barbera’s dark fruit and light caramel aura quite agreeable.
On to the reserve tasting—$10, and keep the glass—where I’m undone by the 2010 Vineyard Select Barbera. A wine so deliciously smooth that, if entered in the competition, it would have kicked the 2011 Barbera’s behind. The reserve’s $30; the double-gold winner is $16—and it comes in spectacular bottles with, yup, a black-bear label. Dave buys the latter.
I need cheese. A tapas trio waits in the car. Give me manchego!
Three’s company: Madroña Vineyards—By 1 p.m., my palate is raring to go, and I’m talking to tasting-room employee Jordan Miller about Madroña Vineyards’ take on Bordeaux blends. He describes the style as halfway between a lighter, spicier French rendition, and a thick-bodied Argentinian. Which takes my mind to places not wine-related.
Speaking of South American soccer players: Miller is talking about getting punched in the face with tannins. I’ve lost the context, so I wax forth on the wines of Northern Italy, having spotted a 2011 Nebbiolo (Hillside vineyard) on the menu. It’s not open, but Miller will open it—because I can pronounce neb-EE-oh-loh. So so delicious. Many gorgeous wines here. Dave joins the club.
Four, and not on the floor: Illuminare Winery—I snarf pistachios in the car. Nuts balance booze. We’re at the wine strip mall in Camino, shared by a handful of small wineries. We head straight to Illuminare, where winemaker Aaron Hill pours goodness in my glass. It’s mostly locals here, inquiring of Hill: “How’s the wife? How are the kids? How’s the dog?”
The dog is not as friendly as Hill’s 2011 Mourvedre. I’m a sucker for this varietal, done right. Hill has done it right.
I guzzle a half-liter of water and munch on crackers, channeling my inner Stewie Griffin. Whhheeeat thins.
Five, sakes alive: Bumgarner Winery—We’ve saved the best for second-to-last. Owner/winemaker Brian Bumgarner’s worked for several other wineries in and out of the area, including Boeger. He opened his own winery in 2005. Genius wines. Tasting room employee Tami Fries pours and talks to me about apple pie and tamales. Her secret: Many dried peppers and lard.
I note the splendid minerality of a 2011 Tempranillo El Dorado ($27) and happily roll my eyes back at the complexity of cabernet sauvignon ($35)
We buy the cab, and I also pick up two bottles of hard cider in cool-looking bottles.
Is it lunch time?
Sixth and sense: Crystal Basin Cellars—We walk past Crystal Basin Cellars, an old fave, to get to the winery’s café. We can come back and enjoy tasting No. 6—more mourvedre!—after grubbing.
Finally, it’s feeding time. Outdoor seating, warm afternoon sun. A friendly winery dog works the crowd. Pulled pork sliders. Artichoke ravioli. Rich. Recommended wine pairing: Bada Boom, a red blend.
And the wine tastes, uh, mauve. As in: I can no longer differentiate flavors, nor can I judge the nose or finish. Drinking more wine, at this point, would be pointless.
“Done for the day,” I write in my notes.
“The dog loves me.”
Mission almost accomplished.
Below: Crushed grapes in a vat outside of Crystal Basin Winery, Camino, Calif.
I’ve mentioned wine clubs to folks who don’t spend much time in tasting rooms.
“I think there’s one of those around here,” one woman said.
A wine club, right? A place where like-minded people get together to sniff and sip? Not exactly what I’d meant. At wineries, club membership is more like frequent-buyer programs. It gives wineries a consistent source of income. It gives me a consistent source of wine. Signing up means agreeing to buy something like a case of wine a year, or maybe three or four bottles every three or four months.
The wine shipments are discounted—and that’s the big draw. Some wineries release special bottles, limited-production stuff, only to their members.
As a member, a simple aficionado like me gets to feel like a member of the winery’s extended family—drinking with the homies, at a place where everybody knows your name.
I’ve been a member of as many as nine wine clubs at the same time. My husband Dave is also a joiner. Once, between us, we were in 14 wine clubs. That’s before we maintained two separate households. Now I’m in two clubs.
The trend’s obvious: I join when I’m a little tipsy, usually after I’ve tasted wine at one or two places during a trip to wine country. I can resist the impulse for my first few ounces of wine. But by the third or fourth winery, I’m itching to hand over my credit card.
The process can be accelerated by a trip to a winery’s barrel room. That’s where a prospect gets to taste unbottled wine to identify its potential. Wine out of a barrel is deceptively light, but jam-packed with alcohol. Oh, yes, this is good! I’m fine. I’m fine. Then I’m signing on the line.
I joined a club the first time I went wine-tasting in Amador County. Dave and I barely dented the long list of places to go. The Amador Vintners Association has 40 members, all with tasting rooms. And not all wineries are members.
So much wine. So little lunch. So fast to sloshy am I.
By Winery No. 3, I was ready for the pitch: Do I want to buy the yummy wine I’m drinking for less, less, less? Do I want to drive back to Amador for free pasta? Because I’ve been invited to join Villa Toscano’s Bella Piazza wine club! All I have to do is fill out a card, hand over my credit card information—and I’m one of them.
The thought of a pasta buffet hooked me. Free noodles sounded irresistible to my growling stomach. I imagined coming back for a weekend and dining on linguine dripping with pesto. Sampling wine and more wine.
Over the years, we’ve been back to Amador plenty of times. I never did get to the pasta buffet.
No matter. Wine club wine, it turns out, is the gift that keeps on giving—and the charges on your credit card keep mounting. If you can’t pick up this season’s shipment at the winery, they’ll ship it to you.
You can cancel. But that means a phone call. Or an email. So much work!
These days, I join clubs to buy consistently great wine that’s more affordable to members. As a member of Myka Cellars in the Santa Cruz Mountains, wine crafted by genius winemaker Mica Raas is half-price all the time. That $44 bottle of 2011 Reserve Malbec? It’s $22, any time I want it. Which is basically now.
Locally, Tulip Hill’s September wine-club shipment included four bottles of wine, retail value $132, for $60. That means I basically paid about $15 for the newly released 2010 Tracy Hills Inamorata—a mouth full of flowers and raspberries! (Opened it within days. Drank it. Mmm.) It’s $36 in the tasting room.
Most wine clubs include free tasting flights for self, partner and friends. Some tempt me with winery swag. At one winery, new members were rewarded with a wine glass that holds an entire bottle. Who thinks that’s a good idea? I do.
When we were members of Winery by the Creek in Fair Play, we could sign up to spend a night in the winemaker’s cottage—in the middle of the vineyard—for the cost of cleaning the unit. If we timed it right, we could be there for the sister winery’s all-you-can-eat pizza buffet on Friday nights. So, it was like $40 or $50 to eat, drink and stay in a cute cottage in a field of wine on the vine. Yeah!
Unlike the pasta buffet, we actually made this happen. Twice.
And the Winery by the Creek’s wine kept coming. Shipments of six bottles at a time. Drinkable and affordable. We possessed our own wine jug that we could refill with sfuso—loose wine—from a giant stainless steel tank. Damn, I’m pretty sure we had two refillable wine jugs.
Finally, though, I dashed off the sad email. Consider me cancelled. I did the same with seven or eight other wineries.
Why would I end such beneficial relationships? To save the expense, sure. And the wine was piling up, indeed. But most importantly, the upside of wine clubs is also the downside: We ended up going back to favorite wine regions and spending all our time at member wineries, picking up bottles for which we’d already paid, and tasting loved but now-familiar wines.
It was hard to discover new bottles of bliss.
Sometimes you want to go where everybody does not know your name. But they’re still glad you came. They might even take you into the back and give you some of whatever’s in the barrel.
Below: A perk for members—the pond-side picnic grounds at Indian Rock Vineyards in Murphys, Calif.
My wine glass is half-full, its stem pushed flat into light sand.
I aim my camera at the glass. Click. The top part of the glass distorts giant waves crashing into the shore. Click. A haystack rock occupies space between wine and brim. Click. Sky meets sea in a blur of blue. Plus wine glass.
Dave appreciates the crashing waves while I capture the moment for perpetuity. He’s plenty ready, though, to drink some Tulip Hill 2010 Lake County Aglianico. We’ve brought a half-bottle, left over from last night’s dinner. Dave’s glass is half-full, too. That’s the way with wine: You don’t fill glasses to the brim. Plenty of space gives the wine room to breathe. And all that air is good—until it’s not. Too much exposure to atmosphere, and your wine gets flat, insipid, tasteless.
It’s Labor Day weekend, and though we live apart, my husband and I have spent some weeks together, on and off, in Italy, Nevada and California. Now summer’s over, and I go back to assistant-professoring on a Cal State University campus. Dave works for a federal agency in Reno, a long drive from me.
This fall, we begin our fourth year living apart. We’re getting kinda used to it.
For our last weekend of summer, we plan a wine hike on the California coast. I wrap empty glasses in dish towels and put the aglianico—a limited release to wine-club members—in a silk wine bag. Fancy.
Because we’re complete dorks, we don’t say “wine hike.” Instead, we baffle friends by intoning “WEE-nay HEE-kay,” which we imagine to be the Pacific Islander pronunciation. After all, Dave contends, we began the WEE-nay HEE-kay tradition in 2011, when I left our home for a tenure-track teaching job in Hawaii. That academic year, Dave flew to Oahu about seven times, checking cases of wine as his luggage. Then we’d lug bottles of our favorite wines on various hikes, many up the leeward side of the Ko‘olau Mountains. When we reached a clearing with a view of Waikiki, we’d get out the sandwiches and uncork the wine. We had earned our red, red rewards.
We went on one of our first wine hikes during the summer before I left for Hawaii. I presented an academic paper at a conference in Granada, Spain, and then we kicked around for a couple of weeks. We made our way to the Andalucia region of southern Spain and caught the once-a-day bus from Malaga to the smallish city of Ronda. We decided to explore the labyrinthine roads outside the city. At a market in the town’s historic quarter, we acquired fresh bread, salami, queso manchego and a bottle of Descalzos Viejos. The DV is a Ronda (Spanish) wine with a (French) Rhone-style blend of garnacha, syrah and merlot. We knew nothing about it. But, hey, local. Taste the terroir and all that.
While other tourists stood at the top of the world, taking photos from the city’s walls, we descended 100 meters down into El Tajo canyon. From there, we looked up at the city’s architecture, including a giant arched bridge over the Guadalevin River. Parts of the bridge dated back 2,000 years to a time when the Romans shoved its civilization down the somewhat compromised throats of Celts and Phoenicians. And Rome fell. And Islamists controlled the area through 1485 when the Christians arrived. Inquisition ensued.
Southern Spain isn’t unlike Southern California. Summers are toasty, arid. That day, I took photos of a blooming cactus and felt right at home.
We picnicked on a mossy stone wall along an ancient cobblestone street, along a river, with a cute little foot bridge. We sipped Descalzos Viejos and declared it the best wine ever. Tourists far above us looked tiny. We imagined their jealousy, watching us enjoy this taste of Andalusian countryside and culture. We rose our plastic hotel cups in a toast.
Que bueno caminar con vino. How nice to walk with wine.
These days, I prefer drinking from glasses of the breakable variety. Aesthetically pleasing. More photogenic. Tricky to shove in a backpack.
Our Labor Day hike involves about 4 miles of tramping along a path overgrown with invasive but elegant pampas grass. Our destination: a stretch of the Pacific Coast that’s accessible only by boat or this trail.
We locate shade under a rocky outcropping, a sandy spot with a spectacular view of crashing waves. On the beach, a medium-sized tree, uprooted and turned to driftwood, rolls in the surf.
Dave opens the bottle and declares his intention to stay a while. He can stare at waves for hours, he says. I pour and take photos, looking through my glass.
We have cheeses—Cypress Grove’s Lamb Chopper and a hard parmesan—and slices of homemade sourdough bread. Dave dips sourdough in a jar of huckleberry jam and apologizes for getting bits of bread in the jar.
Crumbs don’t bother me. Dave picked those tiny huckleberries and then spent an hour sorting them to remove stems and green bits. I made jam. That was yesterday’s date night.
Some couples spend every weekend together. Hell, some wake up every day in the same bed. I’m pretty sure we did this for, like, 28 years. Now we have space, lots of space.
We don’t twist our tongues over this. We savor our wine and flick grains of sand from our cheese. We talk about California wildfires, earthquakes in Napa, patterns in the waves and our kids. Stratus clouds form on the horizon.
Then our bottle’s empty. We drain our glasses. Best wine ever—every time. The tide’s coming in, and before dark, the Pacific will wash away the grooves left in the sand by our wine receptacles and selves.
The designation of September as California Wine Month has lowbrow wine critic Deidre Pike drooling in her cab. It’s the perfect excuse for a humanitarian trip to delicious Napa.
Desert dwellers crave wine.
Rose Baker and her husband, Buster, suspected as much when they envisioned a wine bar in Yucca Valley.
The venue is no slick wine-country rip-off.
Rose and Buster’s Wine Tasting Room sports an eclectic vibe the couple calls “cowboy feng shui”—with Buddhas, cactus, dream catchers, Ganesha banners, mandalas, the headdresses of Southwestern tribes, craft beers, guitars and, of course, Northern California wines. Wines like Peterson Winery’s Mendo Blendo from Redwood Valley, Hop Kiln pinot noir from Healdsburg, and Rose and Buster's own private-label wines, from cab to chardonnay, bottled at Vista Verde Winery north of Paso Robles.
The couple carries Tulip Hill’s sauvignon blanc, a summertime hit obtained from the winery’s Rancho Mirage tasting room. They’ve exhausted their supply, though, and can’t get more, so they eagerly await the next batch.
“I’m bummed out about that,” Buster says. “I hope they’re making more. I have enough reds to choke a horse.”
Travelers can’t miss the new “Wine Tasting” sign along the Twenty Nine Palms Highway through Yucca Valley. Before the Bakers came along, a Yucca Valley wine aficionado’s choices were limited to mass-produced grocery store wine—with its six-bottle discount and bland selection—or a drive to the nearest wine bars in Palm Springs. Tulip Hill Winery’s tasting room in Rancho Mirage is a 45-minute drive, and Temecula wineries are twice that.
The Bakers wanted to bring a big gulp of Northern California to Yucca Valley. Buster lived in Santa Rosa 18 years ago, when he moved west from Ohio. His friends worked for wineries and turned him on to old vine zinfandels. Love at first sip.
“On my days off, heck, I’d just get in the car, drive out to Kenwood and make about five stops before it was time to turn back,” Buster says, reminiscing. “The next weekend, I’d head to the Dry Creek area. In those days, that's when Sonoma was famous for free wine-tasting. And only Napa charged.
“Now everybody’s charging.”
Sigh. Everybody’s charging.
It’s 91 degrees on a sunny Friday afternoon. Buster’s alone in the tasting room, but traffic is light. Hot afternoons, he says, make sangria a popular choice. Buster mixes his from Sangria Igardi, one of the only reds on offer not obtained from California. (The other is an Italian chianti.)
Buster adds fruit—and a splash of orange muscat. Chillicious.
“Believe me, on a hot day, people come in, and they like it a lot,” Buster says.
The bar offers a flexible flight of any four wines for $15—chosen from around 30 wines available. The fee includes a souvenir glass with the Rose and Buster’s logo.
“And we give pretty nice pours, especially if my wife is pouring! She gets talking to people and gives away the store.”
Rose is from Guatemala. Buster describes her as a minimalist. All the assorted bric-à-brac on the walls? That’s his.
“She is the yin to my yang,” Buster says.
The couple enjoys meeting folks from around the world who come in for wine. A trio from South Africa came through not long ago. They’d read about Rose and Buster’s on Trip Advisor. Buster didn’t even know a review of Rose and Buster’s existed on Trip Advisor. He’s busy juggling a lively Facebook page, Yelp reviews and live streaming of music events at UStream.
Social media makes me thirsty.
What wine would Buster want if he were stranded on a deserted island—and could only have, you know, one last bottle?
He names Manzanita Creek Winery’s Cloud Buster zinfandel from the Russian River Valley. It’s near Healdsburg. Mmm. Old vine zin paradise.
He looks at the bottle he’s holding.
How did Buster Baker’s life journey bring him to the desert? A cable-advertising pro in Sonoma County, Buster jumped at a better job in Los Angeles. That’s where he met Rose, and “it was love at first sight,” he says. The two married in 2008, went camping at Joshua Tree National Park to get outta the city, and ended up buying a house in Desert Hot Springs.
While scoping out kitsch at local antique shops, the two met their eventual landlord, who owns a consignment shop in Yucca Valley. He had some space opening up.
“Something this desert needs is wine, a wine bar,” Buster recalls thinking. “I’d been spoiled living up there in wine country.”
The wine bar opened around Thanksgiving 2013. During the slow summer months, it’s only open on weekends. For the first year, because of its liquor license, the venue closes at 9 p.m. This means live music starts crazy early at Rose and Buster’s.
Buster doesn’t mind for now, since it means getting home at a reasonable hour.
“I’m an old dude.”
If pressed, Buster describes his own appearance as similar to that of a famed 1970s recording artist.
“I’m reminiscent of Leon Russell, (with) the long straight hair, mustache and beard,” he says.
Buster worked in the music industry while living in Ohio. He sang in a band; emcee’d at the Cleveland Agora, a renowned music venue; and worked as a stringer for Entertainment Tonight, producing segments on the Jamaican World Music Festival and the first-ever Rock in Rio event. He’s met musical legends from Kiss to the Talking Heads, and has the photos to prove it. For a gift, Rose ordered him a coffee mug that displays a 1971 shot of John and Yoko from a meeting in London.
A guy walked into the bar recently and saw Buster drinking out of the mug.
“Is that … ?”
“Yeah, and do you know who that is with him?”
“Is that … you?”
Relating the story, Buster laughs. “I was a lot younger then. My hair was a lot darker.”
Buster’s the kind of guy who can narrate life adventures all day long—aka an engaging bartender.
“If someone wants to come in and talk about how I met John Lennon, come on in,” Buster says. “I’ll pour you a glass of wine and I’ll tell you a story.”
We are in a grape.
Dave and I are in the grape—yes, you heard me right. It's a contemporary wonder of Italian architecture called The Acino, named after an Italian word for grape. We’re looking through its translucent ethylene skin at a steady rain drizzling over acres and acres of Piedmont-region wine grapes.
Nebbiolo, barbera, dolcetto—the important reds. And arneis, a white grape with a loyal following in Northern Italy’s most-prestigious wine region.
The interior of this structure is 500 square meters, large enough for a hearty wine tasting event. And that’s pretty much the purpose of Ceretto Winery’s little building, an addendum to their ancient estate.
I’m reminded of a Napa wine mogul who built a European medieval-style castle just for fun. I write in my notebook: “Napa builds a castle with a view of grapes. Piedmont builds a grape with a view of castles.”
Because we’re in Italy, castles top many nearby hills. The sight of them helps me remember where I am.
For the past two weeks, Dave and I have been drinking our way through Italy. Which is a bit like drinking your way through California—by which I mean impossible. And exactly as much fun as you think it’s going to be.
We knew nothing about Italian wine when we began. Now we know that Tuscany is packed with tourists, but still does amazing things with the sangiovese grape. Dave and I savored the Brunello di Montalcino in Montalcino and the Vino Nobile of Montepulciano in Montepulciano. We drank the wines of the Cinque Terre as we sweated our way over the one-fourth of the famous coastal hiking trail. (Three-fourths of the trail was closed. Which gave us more time to drink wine. Thank you, TrenItalia, for the safe rides between villages.)
Our favorite wine town, by a far cry, is Alba, Italy, just south of Asti, the famous spumante town, in the Piedmont region. People travel to Alba simply to eat and drink. We have a day between the Cinque Terre and Venice. So we buzz up to eat and drink.
We discover that one day is not long enough to begin to taste Piedmont’s deliciousness, with its black truffles, handmade pastas and artisanal cheeses. We eat veal raviolini in sage and butter, grilled peppers adorned with fresh pesto, and goat cheese laced with vegetative ash served with a reduction made of wine, hazelnuts and frutti di bosco (fruits of the forest). Even the simple sliced salami served as a free aperitivo (appetizer) with our evening wine is saporito (tasty).
In Alba, we visit a handful of enotecas and book a visit to one of the area’s large family-owned wine estates.
This ain’t no Temecula Valley, where a wine-lover can drive from winery to winery, sampling whites and reds. Most Italian wineries don’t have tasting rooms with regular hours. Call or email ahead. Learn survival Italian.
Ceretto is huge, so a visit is relatively easy. The person who answers the phone dissuades me from attempting to use my Italian. Yup, it’s that bad.
The family has four estates. The Acino overlooks the family’s Monsordo Bernardina estate outside of Alba.
Our hostess wine guide, Serena Vaccaro, explains the symbolism in The Acino’s oak floors—“to recall the barrels of the wine”—and the stainless-steel fixtures that hold the grape’s “skin” in place. The outer layer is made from the innovative plastic used for Olympic swimming pools in Beijing. “The material is soft and pliable, frosted like the skin of a grape,” says Ceretto’s website.
Vaccaro pours three wines. The first, a 2013 Langhe Arneis Blange, is light and zingy with grapefruity goodness. “The arneis grape is not well known,” Vaccaro explains. “But instead of a chardonnay or pinot grigio, the brothers decide to stick with the local grape.” Though obscure, imported Ceretto’s Arneis sells in some California wine stores for around $18 to $20.
Then we try what’s described as the “king” and “queen” of the region—the barolo (a 2006 from the Brunate vineyard) and barbaresco (2010, Bernardot vineyard). The latter wine is sharper, more acidic. “It is young,” Vaccaro says. Her English is terrific. “Keep it three to four years, and it will be ready.”
Of the 2006 she says, “This is ready.”
There’s no pressure to buy the wine, though a folder in the tasting room offers the three bottles for the discounted price of 79 euro, which includes the tasting for free. Dave and I pay 10 euro each for the tour and tasting, resisting the urge to begin an Italian wine collection.
We head back to our B&B Casa Bona room for a nap. The place is a great find—within walking distance of about a dozen enotecas, which comes in handy if you plan to try a few glasses of wine.
Which we do that evening. A short walk, and we’re on at a piazza on the other side of town lined with bars selling wines by the glass. At Bar La Brasilera, folks watch the World Cup on a large TV screen. France is playing Germany. On a board, the bar lists the 17 wines open tonight. Five are more than a decade old. I order the most ancient, for a kick, the 1999 Langhe Rosso Sito Moresco Gaja. It’s 9 euro per glass, or 50 euro for a bottle. A glass works for me. The wine arrives, the color of dark-brown bricks, smooth as satin with a soft lingering finish. I’m drinking a wine from the last millennium. Y2K … wine.
Dave, a man newly in love, orders a barolo, and then another barolo.
We could be in any small California wine town, where winemakers congregate to wax eloquently about soil composition, irrigation and barrels. And maybe watch a game. Only these wine aficionados speak Italian. And I can’t think of many Cali restaurants that open 15-year-old bottles to sell by the glass.
Speaking of which: We know almost nothing about soccer. I take an Instagram photo of the game as it appears through my wine glass, feeling surreal.
Which team is which? The guys in white shirts miss a goal. Cheers! And we’re all happy. The wine is complicated, different. Life is simple. Bliss happens.
Tomorrow we head to Venice, to witness its sinking decay. But tonight, we’re in the grape in Alba.
The night I drink the Montefalco Rosso, Cesarini Sartori Fiorella, 2009—a blend of sangiovese, merlot, cabernet and sagrantino—might more aptly be dubbed Sunday afternoon.
I’ve been napping, dozing between the bells that ring out from a nearby Italian church. The bells clang one long, low DONG for the hour, and a brisker, lighter dong for each 15 minutes incrementally. So 1:30 goes like this: “DONG dong dong.”
That’s when I take a break from the hot day and sprawl out on my mattress.
The power went out for a minute yesterday. The digital clock next to my bed is flashing the wrong time. No matter. The bells keep me on track.
“DONG DONG DONG dong dong dong.”
I roll over and reset the clock to 15:46. Because I’m in Europe. There’s no confusing repetition of a 12-hour cycle here. A girl trucks through life one ’til 24. So it goes. Thankfully, the clock never rings 24 DONGs. Craziness.
I attempt to check Facebook. No luck. I’ve consumed my Internet bandwidth for the month. It will reset on Tuesday—in 48 hours.
I’m cut off from the world. I can’t post my witty, pointless observations about life for folks back home. Like “Q: How many Italian bartenders does it take to kick eight U.S. college students and a professor out of a bar when it’s closing? A: Only one, distractedly flipping the switch that turns off the Wi-Fi.”
I open the wine. The bottle is recommended by Pietra, a young man who owns Vino Symposium, a few labyrinthine blocks from my apartment. Pietra also sells vini sfuzi, “loose wines,” on tap in giant stainless-steel vats. Sfuzi—the original two-buck Chucks—sell for a couple euro per liter. Bring your own bottle; sfuzi go in any container. Last week, I bought a montepulciano/sangiovese blend. Pietra filled my 1.5-liter water bottle for three euro.
The Cesarini Sartori Fiorella starts out a bit tight, but smoothes out nicely. I’m sipping my first glass as I assemble a pasta sauce. I’d been to the market for onions, a red bell pepper, fat garlic bulbs and several kinds of tomatoes, including half-ripe Sicilians and small Piccadilli that pack a big punch.
Food tastes great in Italy, because the ingredients are fabulous. Extra-virgin olive oil pressed from local family farms. Pastas handmade at a shop just around the cobblestoned corner. Meats, fresh and smoked, sliced thin or fat or diced or spiced, in a thousand varieties. Veggies soaking up the sun in fields of Sicily or Tuscany or right here in Lazio.
I blanch the skins off the tomatoes while I sauté an onion, minced garlic and some red bell pepper in tasty extra-virgin olive oil. When the veggies are getting done, I add a half cup or so of Pietra’s sfuzi.
I’m drinking the Cesarini Sartori Fiorella because this is my week to encounter wines from Italy’s Umbrian region, slightly north and east of the Lazio region in which I’m living for a couple months. Each Italian wine region specializes in some specific kinds of grapes. The rare sagrantino grows in and around the city of Montefalco. I could not find the exact wines listed in my Italian wine bible—Vino Italiano: The Regional Wines of Italy. The book’s my tour guide. Without Internet, I’ve been poring over its pages. Highlighting and underlining. Starring the wines I’ve samples and the recipes I’ve tried.
The sfuzi bubbles over the veggies, and I add about a tablespoon zucchero (sugar) so the mixture will caramelize. I mashed peeled tomatoes with my hands, thinking about how delicious it must feel to dance around in a vat of grapes.
I stir the whole thing together—and I could eat it just like this! But I don’t. It will be so much tastier when it cooks down, and the flavors meld. The individual elements will lose their distinct characters and become one with the tasty sauce. In the Middle Ages, art was like this, says an architect who’s teaching a class in urban landscape here. Art emerged from the community without any specific artistic ego imposing its brand.
And then along came the Renaissance, and with it, the beginnings of rugged individualism. Religious and humanist pretensions. I digress wildly.
The day I drink the Montefalco Rosso, I chat with hubby Dave via Google chat on my telephone. This doesn’t use too much of my Verizon international data plan, which costs $25 for 100 megabytes of data. (To put this in perspective, I ran through an entire 10 gigabytes of data using Skype on my laptop. If I had to pay Verizon’s rates, that would be $2,500.)
Skype sucks up giant vats of data, which I imagine flowing from a shiny sfuzi-like tank, as precious as wine. I always remember to turn off my Wind (that’s a brand of Italian mobile Internet service provider) when I’m not using it.
My sauce gets tastier. The wine opens up. The two flavors seem molto compatible.
DONG DONG DONG DONG DONG DONG. It’s only 18:00. Too early to cook the pasta, thin coils of capelli d'angelo. I read some stories from a book of women writers on their Italian travels. Here’s Mary Shelley: “The name of Italy has magic in its very syllables.” She digs gondola rides in Venice.
I start boiling salty pasta water around 19:00. Italians use salt in terrifying quantities. And I’m liking it. I pour a second glass of wine with dinner.
Finally, it’s time. But eating is like making love: Describing it, blow by blow, gets weird. To cut to the chase: It’s an exceptional sauce that brings out the best in this blend of Italian grape varietals.
I decide to watch Life Is Beautiful, an award-winning movie about an optimistic Jewish poet in Italy as World War II breaks out. The tale depicts a young family that ends up in a forced labor/death camp. Dad saves his preschool-aged son by transforming the horror of the camp into a game.
My Italian’s almost OK enough that I could watch this movie without subtitles and still get the full-on heartbreak.
Eleven quarter-hour DONGs later, I’m crying in my Montefalco Rosso.
So it goes.
Some day in the not-too-distant future, I want to make wine. But I don’t want to ruin perfectly good grapes.
So I’m training myself on bread. Sourdough bread, specifically. This spring, I’ve been nurturing a sourdough culture: lactic-acid bacteria and yeast, feeding and reproducing on wheat flour and water. What’s growing looks like gluey carbonated yogurt.
Aptly called starter.
The bread-making process isn’t unlike the wine-making process. Both grapes and wheat undergo chemical changes as bacteria and yeast reproduce, causing fermentation, alcohol and gas production, and the tasty conversion of acids.
To be honest, I started messing with sourdough because friends were baking it. I enjoy gnawing on a tangy bit of bread while I slurp fermented red. So, yum! Sourdough pairs with cabs. With merlot and sangiovese and barbera and aglianico.
A few great pairings:
• An earthy mourvèdre with sourdough and baked brie, drizzled with honey and garnished with pears.
• A jammy zinfandel with sourdough toast smeared with herbed butter.
• A syrah with sourdough crackers, baked with sea salt and flecks of black pepper.
Let the mouths water.
Pairings aside, I’m getting evangelical about the chemistry of sourdough and its health benefits for my intestines, waistline and mood. As I write this, Pharrell Williams’ “Happy” is looping in my brain.
I’ve been calling my sourdough starter yeast. And, yes, the starter has some of the single-cell fungi that make bread rise. But in most sourdough starters, lactic acid bacteria outnumber yeast by about 100 to 1. I love the names of these bacteria—Leuconostoc, Pediococcus, Weissella. And most prevalent, you know her and you love her: Give it up for the multi-talented Lactobacillus sanfranciscensis! Though you’d think that the latter microbe must be endemic to its namesake, San Francisco, it’s been found in sourdough cultures in Belgium, Italy and Germany.
In February, Karen Dixon, who works at the Moonstone Crossing Winery in Trinidad, Calif., gave me a plastic container of gloop—a legacy sourdough starter passed from friend to wino to friend. She sent me to a website, Cultures for Health, with info on the care and feeding of starter and how to make, knead, proof and bake bread.
I’m learning so much, so fast.
Keeping starter alive requires little time—but that little time must be dedicated on a regular, rhythmic basis. To keep it active and ready to make bread, I feed it daily. Because it’s a growing community, the small starter gloop becomes a massive sticky vat kinda fast.
If you don’t want to feed an ever-expanding mass of bacteria and yeast, you can discard some. Since it pains me to slather happy, healthy gloop into the trash, I’ve found recipes for putting this “discard” to good use, making crackers, pizza crust, cinnamon rolls.
I bake. A lot.
At its simplest, sourdough bread is flour, water and gloop—with a sprinkling of sea salt. Some recipes call for milk, fat and sugar. My recipe uses none of these. It’s vegan, lactose-free, sugar-free.
Kneading dough causes the gluten to develop. A byproduct of fermentation is carbon dioxide, and the gluten holds the gas in, making bread fluffy. Because sourdough is a slow-rising bread, the developing acids make the gluten more easily digestible. Some gluten-intolerants have no problem with traditional sourdough bread.
What I’ve learned: Don’t skimp on kneading. My first loaves were tough little dough wads. Not sour. Not fluffy. A good knead takes about 20 minutes, at least. As it turns out, this is the length of a South Park episode.
My second loaves were sourdough geodes—impenetrable rocky spheres inside of which a tasty sponge-like mass resided. The loaves dried out before I baked ’em. Slicing required a chainsaw. But inside … success—springy moist crumbs with the texture of pound cake! And so mouth-puckeringly sour. I cubed this up and ate it with runny eggs for breakfast.
I’m getting better. Warmer weather means my starter is livelier and, to be honest, that makes the kneaded bread rise—double in size—too fast. It takes time for fermentation to turn the bread sour. A few loaves have tasted sweet, bland even.
Clearly, this is an art—and a healthful one. Sourdough makes me feel physically great. Why? I read, um, health journals to find out.
The acids in sourdough activate enzymes that make more nutrients available to your body. Also, studies of bread-eating folks showed lower blood glucose levels after eating sourdough white bread compared to any other bread, including whole wheat. That’s great news for me, since diabetes runs in the family. It’s also a potential weight-loss strategy. I’ve noticed if I eat a piece of sourdough toast in the morning with some protein, I don’t get the mid-morning munchies until around 1 p.m.
Bread is rising as I write at 11 p.m. on a weeknight. I’m enjoying a lovely glass of 2008 Zucca Mountain Sorprendere, a red blend, and watching the sixth season of Mad Men on Netflix. Lovely mounds of dough are rising on baking stones atop my record player and my pellet stove (which is not fired up).
I made the dough around 3 p.m. and kneaded for a half-hour. The loaves have properly doubled, and I’ve punched the dough lightly with my fists so it can rise again without globbing over the edges of the stone.
I could throw the loaves in the oven tonight and watch another episode or finish this column. For full-on sour, though, I’m going to wait. Bread for breakfast! Baked before work! I’m going to have to get up mighty early, but that’s OK.
Have I mentioned how much bread-making helps me value the work that goes into that bottle of fermented grape juice? Thank you, hard-working makers of wine. Someday, I’d like to join your ranks.
Wine Events Coming
It’s Wine Riot time at the California Market Center, two hours away from the Coachella Valley in Los Angeles, at 110 E. Ninth St., on Friday and Saturday, May 9 and 10, featuring a gazillion tastings, temp tattoos, a Bubbly Bar and some Crash Courses in wine education. The Riot “reinvents wine for the thirsty and curious” and runs $60 per each of three sessions—Friday night, Saturday afternoon and Saturday night. Tickets and more info at secondglass.com/event-categories/wineriot.