Chapter 28: Cherry wine (3)

TL: Hanguk

Two days later, Redwood Farm.

Now, going back and forth to the farm as soon as I opened my eyes had become my routine, so I came out to the farm as soon as the sun rose and was continuously checking the condition of the grapevines with Armando.

Armando had been coming to work at our farm every day from dawn ever since graduation, and since I made sure to pay him a higher daily wage than other farms, he was grateful instead.

For me, it wasn’t a bad thing either. Until now I hadn’t really known, but the more I went through things, the more Armando was a kid with passion for farming. No, more precisely, I could subtly see that he wanted to become someone useful in society. It seemed that showed up through farming.

“The leaves are this fresh... so what are the pests that caused this much damage?”

Walking between the vineyard rows, Armando, as if lost in thought, touched the lush, dangling leaves. I bent down and pressed my hand to the ground as I answered.

“The scariest ones are the ones you can’t even see well. Like phylloxera, for example. It hides underground and gnaws at the roots. The tree looks fine from above, but if the roots are damaged, it can’t absorb water or nutrients and eventually it withers.”

"Then just catch them. Can't we just spray pesticides or something?"

“No. You can’t catch that one with chemicals. It even wiped out European vineyards in the 19th century. So now everyone uses resistant rootstock. Simply put, you use American grapes that are strong against pests just for the roots, and graft the variety we want on top. You block it from the roots up.”

Armando, as if startled, looked down at the soil under his feet.

“To think it starts underground... that’s scary.”

I continued and lifted up a grape cluster on the tree right next to us, which had just begun to take shape and had grapes the size of small peas forming.

“There are ones that stand out, too. It’s called the European grapevine moth, and the larvae burrow into the grapes and chew everything up. Mold forms on the injured grapes, and before harvest the whole cluster can rot away.”

“That’s insanely harmful, huh? Then how do you stop that?”

“There’s a way. If you hang pheromone traps all around the vineyard, the males can’t find the females, so they can’t reproduce. This is called ‘mating disruption’.”

“Ooh- even the name sounds legit?”

“Right. And when the larvae have just hatched, you can use microbial agents like Bt bacteria (Bacillus thuringiensis; natural microbial insecticide).”

“Bt bacteria? What’s that?”

“It’s a bacterium that produces a protein toxin only for certain pests. It’s completely harmless to people, animals, and plants.”

“Then we just spray that all over the ground?”

“No, if you spray it on leaves and things, Bt spores stick there. Then when moth larvae eat the leaves in that state, the toxin activates in their gut and their gut function gets paralyzed. Then they can’t eat and starve to death. The end. How about it? Awesome, right?”

When I said starve to death, I slid my hand across my throat. Then Armando’s mouth fell open.

“You really seem like a teacher. There’s nothing you don’t know.”

“You have to know everything to run a farm this big. Farming is war. A war fought with knowledge instead of swords. If you prepare properly, you can prevent the damage.”

No matter how much I told these kinds of things to the workers, it was common for them to just glance around and pass by, so I’d say it once or twice and stop. But Armando had a lot of curiosity about farming and was diligent, so I was teaching him.

Just then, Mom called.

“The cherries are here! Hurry and come down!”

“Okay, I’m coming. The cherries are here. Let’s go.”

Armando and I ran straight toward where the winery was. Before long, in the distance, we could see a huge truck stopped there.

"No way, something this big came?"

Dad and Mom were looking at the 53-foot trailer attached to the back of the truck and were startled.

“I told you it was 10 tons.”

At that moment, from the truck’s passenger seat, a young and beautiful woman hopped down.

Amazingly, it was Chloe.

“Huh? Why are you here?”

While I was surprised, Chloe greeted my parents.

“Hello. I’m Chloe, Brian’s friend. Since it’s coming from our farm, I came in person.”

Since I had already explained how the cherries had ended up coming, my parents immediately grasped the situation.

"Oh my! You're so pretty!"

Mom kept exclaiming “beautiful” and happily held Chloe’s hand, and Dad looked at me with slightly suspicious eyes.

“Friend, friend...”

“For sure?”

“Yeah, she’s a friend. I’m telling you, for sure...”

At that moment, Armando, who was beside us, chimed in.

“She’s really just a friend. Brian isn’t interested in Chloe.”

Dad made a strange expression at those words. Then the truck driver jumped down holding an invoice in his hand. He held out a pen to Dad and said,

“Please sign to confirm it arrived safely.”

“Ah, one moment... I’ll check the condition of the cherries first. Alright, now please unload the cherries!”

Since it had been set to arrive today, we had called the workers in advance. Because a report had led to a big drop in illegal immigrants in Napa Valley, it was hard to hire workers, so we had to pay 20% more than usual to get them to come.

Armando, Dad, and I started carrying the cherries, and in the meantime Mom had a halting conversation with Chloe using basic English.

Inside the refrigerated trailer, wooden crates packed full of red were stacked high. As we took them out one by one, the cherries’ distinctive sweet-and-tart scent spread out through the gaps between the boxes.

After carrying the crates into the winery and turning my gaze, I could see that the fermentation tanks and bottling equipment that had been used to make vinegar until recently were all sparkling, perfectly cleaned.

The stainless steel panels, catching the sunlight, gave off a smooth silver sheen, shining as if the equipment had just been bought new. On the floor were traces of having used detergent and rinsed it out several times, and the hose hanging by the wall drooped quietly, still holding a slight dampness.

To make cherry wine, we had called in a professional cleaning company and prepared everything perfectly.

Dad picked up a cherry from one of the crates and examined its color with interest. The cherry skin in the sunlight glittered like a transparent glass bead, and tiny droplets of moisture clinging to the surface added a ruby-like glow. Dad put it in his mouth, chewed, and smiled with satisfaction.

“Oh... the sugar content is incredible.”

Chloe, who had come up at some point, smiled proudly. Maybe because she thought of them as cherries she had grown, her pride showed plainly on her face.

“Right?”

“That’s why Brentwood cherries are famous.”

I also picked one up and put it in my mouth. When the soft flesh burst, what spread over the tip of my tongue wasn’t just simple sweetness. A deep, clear sweetness as if it had soaked up sunlight, and an acidity that stimulated the corners of my mouth spread at the same time. I could imagine how rich a flavor it would produce when made into wine.

Once all the crates had been moved into the winery, and while Dad was signing the truck driver’s invoice, I walked over to Chloe.

“Good work. Now that we’ve carried all the cherries in, go back.”

“Already?”

"No, because it's done..."

I was about to ask if she wanted to stay longer, but Mom stepped in.

“A guest came, so we should treat her to a meal.”

“... Well, do as you like.”

Then Chloe opened her eyes wide and asked,

"Can't I... watch you make the wine for a bit? I brought these cherries, so I'm curious how it turns out."

“You can’t.”

“Why?”

“Making wine is a secret. It’s our farm’s know-how.”

Chloe pouted as if she felt hurt, but I didn’t care.

“This is business, business...”

Unable to watch anymore, Mom started saying how our son is usually like this and that, and dragged Chloe to the house. Dad also looked at me, as if it was something new, and said,

“You’re cold even to women?”

“Dad, this is business. Business has to be cold, razor-sharp...”

When I made a gesture of cutting something off with a hand-knife motion, Dad snickered.

“All right, now that everything’s been carried in, we’ll sort them! Each of you take charge of one box, and put the sorted cherries into this big tub here! Remove leaves and foreign matter, and you must take out anything badly bruised or rotten!”

When I shouted, the workers who had carried all the crates sat down in a long line along the setup I had prepared in advance and started sorting the fruit. If it were before my regression, we would have used an optical sorter, but in 2004 there was no such equipment.

It was while Dad and Armando were also sitting and sorting the fruit together.

“Hello! Is anyone here?”

At the sound from outside, I went out and saw a group of people coming up from the farm entrance. And among them, I saw a few familiar faces.

“Ah, Brian! We meet again. The vinegar you gave me last time, I enjoyed it. My wife really liked it, you know?”

The man walking at the very front of the group was Pierce Morgan from the Agricultural Extension Office. When I turned my gaze to the smiling man behind him, he said,

“The government selected your farm as a demonstration site for the Regional Organic Transition Demonstration Program. So we decided you’d show nearby farm owners how you’re doing organic farming.”

“Ah...”

As I spoke, I glanced at Elowen, the owner of Silver Oak Farm, visible farther back. Perhaps he noticed my look, because Pierce Morgan added kindly,

“It should include farms reapplying for organic certification, too, right?”

“I see. All right. Come on up.”

Other than the future knowledge buried in the ground, everything I used was made up of techniques still used in the present, so I had nothing to hesitate about. Then Dad also came out to see what was going on, listened to the explanation, told them to look around comfortably, and went back to sorting fruit. I, too, said to Pierce Morgan,

“I’m a bit busy right now because I’m making cherry wine? Feel free to look around on your own.”

“Cherry wine? That’s unusual.”

It wasn’t strange for him to say it was unusual, because originally around this time there was a strong perception that wine meant grapes. Therefore, cherry wine was considered separately as fruit wine, and most people evaluated it as nothing more than a sweet, light dessert alcohol.

Even before my regression, it was true that it was categorized as fruit wine, but natural wine became popular and gained traction in the gourmet market as a refined, trendy drink, appealing to the younger generation, so perceptions then and now were very different.

This difference in perception was partly because the times had changed, but in the first place, a big reason was that in 2004, proper cherry wine couldn’t really be produced.

In that regard, it was actually unusual that Chloe's father Frederick didn't have a negative perception of cherry wine. Most wine enthusiasts valued tradition and viewed deviations negatively.

Rather, the fact that he accepted my words about lowering sugar content and raising acidity at face value and thought of wine, without any negative comments, was a sight not easily seen among wine enthusiasts of this era.

If not that, maybe he approached it purely commercially, solely to find a large-scale cherry supplier.

“The alcohol we’re making won’t be just a sweet dessert drink. Once it’s finished, you’ll probably find out what proper cherry wine really is.”

At my words, from behind, I suddenly heard a scoffing sound. It was obvious who it was, probably Elowen from Silveroak.

He noticed his mistake and quickly turned his head away, but I didn’t care.

“Proper cherry wine? I’m curious about that. Later, I can taste it too, right?”

“Of course, absolutely. Ah, but could I ask you just one thing?”

“What is it?”

“Since you must know the owners of high-end restaurants that want organic ingredients well, once the wine is finished, I want to gather them and hold a tasting.”

“Oh ho, you want me to arrange it?”

“You won’t be disappointed.”

“... I’ll think about it.”

Pierce Morgan grinned, and I also smiled as I scratched the bridge of my nose, then went back inside.

*****

Note:

Image of a 53-foot refrigerated trailer that holds 10 tons.