Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Winos.
I mentioned before that my sweetie is attempting to transform the grapes from my backyard into some kind of liquid libation that, if developed correctly, will stain our teeth and make us slightly dizzy (yay?). I planted the vines long enough ago that I have absolutely no idea what varietal they are, only that they’re very pretty (aesthetic sensibility drives many of my gardening choices) and are on a slow march to take over the world. My sole responsibility in this endeavor is to design labels for said libation, but I almost feel like I need to taste it first. Kind of like naming your baby before you meet him/her.
Did I just compare homemade wine to a baby?
Moving on. One of the pieces of equipment for this project is a “fermenting bucket” (and if that title doesn’t get your appetite a-runnin’, I don’t know what will). Our bucket has the below illustration on it, which I know is supposed to warn us to the dangers of small children falling in and hurting themselves and/or drowning, but to me just reads: “If you don’t cover this container immediately, please be aware that YOUR GLUTTON OF A CHILD WILL ABSOLUTELY DRINK ALL OF YOUR WINE.”
So I’ll probably look at doing some label marketing based around it being made in a gluten free, child-proof bucket.
We went down to Southern Oregon last weekend to see the Avett Brothers (one of my favorite bands) play at the outdoor Britt Festival in Jacksonville. One night was camping (I saw my first live skunk right outside of our tent! I was excited. Chris was not.), the next night was schmancy hotel and jacuzzi tub (no skunks, but there was a very nice Barolo and some roasted duck breast).
Chris did a lot of this:
…and also coined the phrase “Science Folktion” (PATENT PENDING!)
I, well, I did a lot of squealing. Because…okay, I have this weird thing that happens to me when I’m in the presence of a donkey. It started in Spain when I was walking the Camino de Santiago. I decided on the first day into a 500 mile trek that a donkey was my totem animal for the pilgrimage because they may be slow, but they pretty much just keep walking until they get food and a drink and a place to lie down put directly in front of them. Then I met Emilio.
Who, to be fair, was pretty much just interested in my croissant, but changed the landscape of my donkey-loving heart for keeps. Since him, my adoration has been like an allergy – the more exposure I have, the more extreme it gets. And there are a LOT of donkeys in Southern Oregon. Enough that I was quietly banned from driving because my partner was genuinely concerned that my excitement would guide us directly into a ditch. It is a testament to his foresight that he was behind the wheel when we saw one of these:
Which, in case you were wondering, IS A M@#$%!F#*&$*^# MINIATURE SPOTTED DONKEY. It’s like a tiny bubbling fountain of joy with enormous ears. I can’t. I can’t even.