By Wednesday, most of the tanks are in full ferment mode, the first Valmaggiore has been taken off the skins to finish fermenting in the smaller cantina off the main tank room, and I am constantly and completely out of breath after five minutes in the fermentation room. The beastly little yeasties are using up all the oxygen in the room – and if I thought it was bad during the Dolcetto harvest, I was misinformed … Barbera and Nebbiolo are worse. The CO2 levels are just short of becoming dangerous. Really, it’s like being at 25,000 feet in the Himalayas somewhere. We have to keep the doors open some of the time just so we can breathe. At times, the sense of being out of breath all the time is completely disorienting. Watching the winery staff, I’ve learned to conserve energy, an especially useful thing as we move into 11-13 hour days. When you’re out of breath just sitting down or standing next to a tank pumping-over, the occasional unconscious panic raises its head, very subtly – you’ve forgotten why you’re out of breath – as in, I haven’t just run a mile, so ….? Whoah! Is something capital-double-u Wrong? Oh, right, right, calm down, the fermentation room is always like this. Just go outside for a breath of fresh air …
Barbara tells me that she thinks the CO2 is beginning to affect my judgment, as I still profess, after almost 5 weeks, to enjoy the experience.
Luciano jokes that the best rodent control is harvest. All the CO2 is heavier than air and just creeps down the mouse and rat holes, where they simply fall asleep and asphyxiate.
Still, I am feeling my age. Aging is something I both enjoy immensely and am becoming more aware of each passing year. Here, my hands hurt all the time and I am always sore. Cuts and bruises don’t heal quickly, and the constant immersion in water doesn’t help. My knees hurt. I do my best to never complain about it. Sometimes I fail. I like the clarity and purposefulness that comes from experience and age. I don’t like the way my body doesn’t bounce back like it used to. So far, though, 44 is good. It’s the same age my grandfather was when he died. For me, the double-four feels like a midpoint. I hope it is. There’s a sense of symmetry and balance to the number. I want to hold onto that balance, gently.
Monday we racked and cleaned the 8 tanks of Dolcetto. As the solids fall out of the wine that’s finished fermenting, they can add off aromas – generally called “reduction” – that can be cleaned up with a bit of air contact and racking. Once the wine has been separated from the solids – called “lees” – you have to climb in the tank and scrub it out. The big huge fermentation vats are no problem to climb into – it’s the smaller ones that suck mightily. Lees smell kinda like yucky composting stinky vegetables, and licorice mixed with a healthy dose of fermenting cow patties. Not something, aroma-wise, you want to keep in wine. I’m learning that managing the oxygen contact after the completion of fermentation is critical in this process.
Parts of winemaking are unexpectedly undignified. For example, cleaning tanks is not as much fun as it sounds – not that it sounded fun to begin with - the tanks have openings fit for skinny Italians, not big Americans. You get your torso inside the opening, then another person picks up your legs and you walk your hands forward in the tank. Still – I’m here to learn everything, so onwards and upwards … Luciano helps me into one of the tanks.
Wednesday is the day of soaking. First, I am holding the hose while pumping over a dolcetto tank to give it some air … Andrea leaves the pump on too long and sends a jet of CO2 through the tubes that splatters the wine in the tank back up four feet right over my head. There is Dolcetto all over my face and shirt and in my hair. Hey, shit happens. At least I smell good!
Later, while cleaning up the fermentation room, I am attacking a gigantic pile of buckets, basins, connectors and pipes with the cold-water hose. I slip a bit on the wet floor, and step back to keep my balance … right on to the hose that connects the water faucet to the hose reel, which promptly and unexpectedly unattaches itself. One second, I am hosing down the equipment … the next second, there is an icy cold jet of water going straight up my shorts. May I just say that this, happening so suddenly, is rather disorienting? One second, minding my business, just doing my job, the next, an icy blast of water soaking my nuts and ass.
The hose whips around from the pressure and water hits the ceiling. Luciano and Andrea look around and see immediately what is happening and almost fall over laughing. Later, at home, I record the state of my shorts for posterity. (no pun intended).
Wednesday night I go to Dogliani with Silvia, who I haven’t seen in a week. She’s been busy with the grapes coming into their winery as well. We go to a place called “the Sound of the Glutton,” which sounds much, much better in Italian: Il Verso del Ghiottone. They prepare us an excellent degustation dal mare – the linguine with sliced squid is out-of-this world. A main course of delicately fried seafood is also excellent. Naturally, we have a Barolo with it … Silvia is always great dinner company: vibrant, funny as hell, fast-thinking and right-back-atcha with the repartee, and we spend the evening laughing and talking. Plus, she gives me all the gossip on the Barolisti. Apparently, yours truly has a reputation here as well. Hmmmm.
Comments