Lesson Learned

Everyone learns in different ways.  Some by watching, some by reading, some by experiencing.  For instance, in my case I learned what amount of oak chips not to put into my wine by first nearly ruining a batch of Chilean malbec with exactly that amount.  Apparently Jon Iverson’s chapter titled “All About Oak,” which warned me of this problem in plain English, was not, in itself, enough for me to have learned that lesson.  This brings me to another point about trying to learn a skill by reading a dozen books on the topic:  It’s really hard to remember everything that you read in a dozen books.  Nonetheless, the lesson is now officially learned.

When it came time this weekend to give my chardonnay that oaky flavor that I so love, I threw away the “French Oak Chips,” which in hindsight did smell an awful lot like sawdust, and replaced them with “Medium Plus Toasted French Oak Cubes.”  The picture here shows the comparison of the recommended added dosage per gallon.  Wine barrels come in three grades of toasting – medium, medium plus and heavy – each of which are designed to impart distinct, yet subtle flavor affects over several months of exposure.  I’ve now deduced that the chips, on the other hand, were not toasted at all, and imparted their much harsher affect in the matter of a week.  Just to be safe though, I took Iverson’s advice and enclosed the cubes in a nylon bag so that they can be removed at a moment’s notice.  The cubes cost 10 times more than the chips, and Iverson correctly points out that “you are not going to get quality oak for a dollar a pound,” yet somehow 37 years on this earth, including 15 as a professional investor, failed to teach me the most obvious lesson of all: you get what you pay for.

What Tom Said

If and when I’m fortunate enough to be the proprietor of my own estate winery, I envision my year breaking down into three distinct phases: 

(1) Spring/Summer – Growing Grapes;

(2) Fall – Making Wine;

(3) Winter – Vacationing in Italy. 

As a home winemaker, I have the joy of experiencing phases 1 and 2 of this lifestyle already, albeit on a much smaller scale.  Phase 3, however, is not currently in the cards.  This troubles me in a couple ways.  First, and most obvious, I’d rather be in Italy right now, because it’s cold as hell in Baltimore and I grew up in the south for God’s sake.  But second, and equally annoying, there’s very little for me to do on my hobby at this moment.  Granted there’s the occasional racking, and there’s always more reading to be done, but the winter months for the home winemaker can be a bit dull.

It’s moments like these, as I ponder what to blog, that I’m struck by the wisdom of my old friend Tom Petty.  While I’m not sure this is what he meant when he said it, it applies here nonetheless.  Whether anticipating the lifestyle that the future might hold, or simply planning for the Spring bud break to arrive, when it comes to making wine, the waiting is the hardest part.

There Are No Small Wines

As a child growing up with the acting bug I remember being taught at an early age that there are no small parts, only small actors.  That was the kind of thing they told you when you were cast as an extra, whatever size you happened to be. 

A variation of that phrase has been running through my mind over the last few months, but one that applies to winemaking.  There are no small wines, only small carboys.  See, when you’re dealing in any decent volume of wine production, the smallest size container you’re likely to keep around is probably a 5-gallon carboy, and that’s purely for topping of purposes.  But when you’re dealing with a total volume per varietal of 6 to 8 gallons, as I am, you’re going to need some smaller containers, lest you throw away 10% of your production each time you rack because you happen to not have the right size container near by.  This would explain why there’s a thermos, a pickle jar and a vinegar jug in my basement right now each filled with the fruits (literally) of my labor.  While these containers may be small, I can assure that the importance of the wine inside them is not small to me. 

Why I think that my wine, like a self-absorbed child actor, is in need of a little ego stroking, I have no idea.

Decision Point

It was a big weekend at the home winery.  The very successful birthday bash I threw for Kim afforded me the opportunity to more than double the (non-family) winery tour and tasting guests I’ve now hosted at my modest establishment, including a visit from regular reader Rob (there’s your shout-out).

Birthday Girl

More importantly, after four months of sitting idly, it was time for the Malbec to be racked one last time prior to this spring’s bottling.  As noted previously, the Malbec has been showing a character in its finish that could be described as mushroomy, musty or smelly socks, depending on whether you’re buying or selling.  The problem has mellowed over the last few months, and I’m still optimistic that my first full release from the home winery will ultimately indeed be drinkable, but I called on Drew and Charlie, my assistant winemakers, for a second opinion on the blending.  In normal course, I would combine all four of my different sized carboys together when racking to make sure that each of the batches tastes the same.  However, I had previously detected a slightly different finish in the one-gallon carboy, and was considering keeping it separate, a decision which would have reduced by 20% my already meager production.  In the end, we agreed that the differences in the carboys were too slight to justify pulling that carboy out, and Charlie swears that he thinks the wine is perfectly drinkable today (although not as good as the Chardonnay and Pinot I currently have aging), but I would argue that it remains to be seen whether the decisions I made today (and over the last nine months for that matter) will ultimately lead to a wine I’m proud to put the distinguished Dry Run label on.

Reading the Defense

Perhaps it’s because I have playoff football on my mind, but I felt like Peyton Manning this week when I went to taste the Pinot Noir.  Mind you, as a football player I can’t stand the guy (I went to Vandy, he went to our in-state rival UT;  I’m a Titans fan, he plays for our division rival the Colts), but one thing I will say about Manning is nobody’s better at the audible.  And not unlike Manning, it took a whole lot of gyrations and commotion at the line for me to make mine.

Even though the Pinot had spent just 11 of 28 planned days soaking up the oak chips, it was already producing a powerful oaky smell and flavor.  So powerful, in fact, that it reminded me of the unpleasant mushroom-like finish that the Malbec started producing this Summer at a point I was never able to put my finger on.  The Malbec had 28 days with the oak chips, but it hadn’t occurred to me until that very moment that despite the fact that I followed the instructions on the package to the “t”, the Malbec might be over-oaked.  So I called an audible, and quickly racked the Pinot to remove the oak chips.  Whether I saved the wine, ruined the wine, or made the whole thing up in my head, it’s still too early to say, but one thing’s for certain – at least I made a call.