I was feeling a little smug as I finished putting the last of the cukes and tomatoes into a salad. I usually am desperate at this time of year to keep up with the output from the garden. I had made tomato soup and a hearty pasta sauce with the latest picking of tomatoes. The Japanese beetles had decimated the pole beans so we were not overwhelmed with green beans; we had a small amount to eat instead of buckets as we usually had. The cukes and melons were producing like mad but we were able to share them with friends. No waste and we weren't eating beans, melons, tomatoes, and cukes at every meal. My smugness seemed justified. Then Chip came in from the backyard and said, "The grapes are ready."
I flashed back to being nine years old. My grandfather made wine for each of his six kids' families every year. To him, and his kids, wine was mother's milk. Papa had a room in his basement where the winemaking equipment lived. He would have us grandkids milling about when it was time to crush the grapes. Inside the vat of grapes was a pair of white boots. A grandchild would be lifted into the vat, feet inserted into the boots, and he/she would stomp around on the massive pile of grapes. When the grandchild started to tire, he would be lifted out and another kid inserted into the boots. We viewed it as an honor. My grandfather viewed it as cheap labor. Fortunately for him, the grapes were crushed before he ran out of grandchildren.
As we picked the gorgeous purple grapes, I asked Chip what we were going to do with them. We already had grape jelly from last year's crop. We rarely drink wine so I was startled when Chip enthusiastically described the delicious wine we would be enjoying in six months. We picked on, and soon we had two five gallon buckets brimming with grapes.
Into the kitchen we went to begin the process of washing and stemming the grapes. It is a mindless task, and my mind drifted to the basement of my grandfather when it was time to see if the wine was ready to drink. My grandmother was the arbitrator of good taste. She would take the small glass from Papa and sip it. We who had gathered stood with bated breath waiting for her pronouncement. If she said the wine "wasa no good" (not ready), back into the cool room it went without argument from my grandfather. It was the only time he listened to her without arguing.
As we finished the stemming, Chip explained the process he would use to make the wine. He had spent a lot of time on YouTube watching winemaking videos. He also had picked the brain of the nice owner of Somethings Brewn' in Galesburg who provided sage advice along with yeast and other winemaking equipment. The next step was crushing the grapes. Unfortunately, we had no resident grandchildren nor did we have any boots, so we began the process of crushing using a Rube Goldberg contraption of pots and strainers, which worked pretty well. I mentioned that we should extract the grape seeds and make grape seed oil. Chip's astonished face left me laughing helplessly until he figured out I was joking. I may regret planting the idea, though.
A week later, Chip told me the green grapes were ready. Our picking filled two five gallon buckets. The grapes held the warmth of the afternoon sun as I placed them in a bucket of water to begin the cleaning and stemming process. I pondered the lack of predators; the purple grapes had been attractive to the local birds but apparently the green ones blended into the leaves well enough that they were not interesting enough to our avian friends. I tried to be grateful for the bounty.
Now I realized that we would have red wine and white wine. Lots of it, judging from the huge volume of juice the crushed grapes yielded. Chip happily bore the juice to his winemaking cave. I washed the sticky bowls and pondered how many friends we had who would welcome a bottle of homemade white or red. Not nearly enough to get rid of the wine before next summer's grapes needed picking. Maybe I could plan a meeting of the cousins and dump-uh, share-the wine in memory of Papa and his excellent wines. They probably would enjoy sipping wine they didn't have to stomp grapes to make. The wine should be ready around Valentine's Day if all goes well. If it doesn't go well, we will gift the cousins-with vinegar. White or red. It's one way to share our bounty.
I flashed back to being nine years old. My grandfather made wine for each of his six kids' families every year. To him, and his kids, wine was mother's milk. Papa had a room in his basement where the winemaking equipment lived. He would have us grandkids milling about when it was time to crush the grapes. Inside the vat of grapes was a pair of white boots. A grandchild would be lifted into the vat, feet inserted into the boots, and he/she would stomp around on the massive pile of grapes. When the grandchild started to tire, he would be lifted out and another kid inserted into the boots. We viewed it as an honor. My grandfather viewed it as cheap labor. Fortunately for him, the grapes were crushed before he ran out of grandchildren.
As we picked the gorgeous purple grapes, I asked Chip what we were going to do with them. We already had grape jelly from last year's crop. We rarely drink wine so I was startled when Chip enthusiastically described the delicious wine we would be enjoying in six months. We picked on, and soon we had two five gallon buckets brimming with grapes.
Into the kitchen we went to begin the process of washing and stemming the grapes. It is a mindless task, and my mind drifted to the basement of my grandfather when it was time to see if the wine was ready to drink. My grandmother was the arbitrator of good taste. She would take the small glass from Papa and sip it. We who had gathered stood with bated breath waiting for her pronouncement. If she said the wine "wasa no good" (not ready), back into the cool room it went without argument from my grandfather. It was the only time he listened to her without arguing.
As we finished the stemming, Chip explained the process he would use to make the wine. He had spent a lot of time on YouTube watching winemaking videos. He also had picked the brain of the nice owner of Somethings Brewn' in Galesburg who provided sage advice along with yeast and other winemaking equipment. The next step was crushing the grapes. Unfortunately, we had no resident grandchildren nor did we have any boots, so we began the process of crushing using a Rube Goldberg contraption of pots and strainers, which worked pretty well. I mentioned that we should extract the grape seeds and make grape seed oil. Chip's astonished face left me laughing helplessly until he figured out I was joking. I may regret planting the idea, though.
A week later, Chip told me the green grapes were ready. Our picking filled two five gallon buckets. The grapes held the warmth of the afternoon sun as I placed them in a bucket of water to begin the cleaning and stemming process. I pondered the lack of predators; the purple grapes had been attractive to the local birds but apparently the green ones blended into the leaves well enough that they were not interesting enough to our avian friends. I tried to be grateful for the bounty.
Now I realized that we would have red wine and white wine. Lots of it, judging from the huge volume of juice the crushed grapes yielded. Chip happily bore the juice to his winemaking cave. I washed the sticky bowls and pondered how many friends we had who would welcome a bottle of homemade white or red. Not nearly enough to get rid of the wine before next summer's grapes needed picking. Maybe I could plan a meeting of the cousins and dump-uh, share-the wine in memory of Papa and his excellent wines. They probably would enjoy sipping wine they didn't have to stomp grapes to make. The wine should be ready around Valentine's Day if all goes well. If it doesn't go well, we will gift the cousins-with vinegar. White or red. It's one way to share our bounty.
Today's post was written by Sandra DePalma-Odell. Sandra is a Certified Master Gardener serving Henderson, Knox, McDonough & Warren Counties. A former English Teacher of 27 years, she writes about everyday life as a gardener learning as she grows. In addition to gardening, she loves to read, cook, and hang out with her two grandkids.