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Right now, I have SIX different wines and a beer fermenting, with the ingredients for another wine in the fridge and yet another on a truck on its way here from Lodi. Oh, and Lauren got me a gift certificate for Culver City Home Brewing Supply, so I'm headed out there later today to pick up more beer kits, with an eye on a beer tasting party for the holidays. Seriously, you guys.
It's not like I even drink that much to begin with. Lauren and I rarely have wine with dinner, and even less often have ambassadors over for fancy dinner parties. "What's that you say, Count Du Rainier? Of course you can have another glass of Pinot. Why yes, that is a hint of burned ammonia on the nose."
I took a couple of days off last week to celebrate my 31st annual gestation cessation celebration, and devoted a goodly amount of time to the creation of some new wines. The kitchen counter tops ran red with the juice of blueberries, strawberries, pumpkin, and blood orange. I'll be posting more when I press the fruit this weekend, for those of you awaiting news with baited breath.
But that's not the point. One year ago, I had ONE wine, the little Pinot that could, sitting in a plastic bucket. How then, I query, did Huevos Caballos have a 700% increase in wine production in one year?
It all started in 1929, when my grandfather, Bernard Schneider, made moonshine. At least that's what he told me when I was younger. My mom claims that he bought it at the state fair, but I choose to believe he was a bootlegger criminal mastermind, secretly running Windthorst Texas during prohibition.
As he snuck off into the cold North Texas night air, Ben scanned the fields around the family farm carefully for anyone watching. Once he felt secure in his solitude, he checked again.
His was an operation with no room for error. Elliot Ness was after him, and the slightest misstep could spell doom for him and his men.
As he crept down the rows of corn and sorghum he grew as a cover (Grandpa hated sorghum passionately. "Goddamn sorghum," I often heard him muttering around the hearth) he felt at peace. He had fooled everyone, including his own beloved family, into thinking that he was a simple dairy farmer. He smiled to himself confidently as he saw the first glimmer of light from his massive distilling operation.
As he crested the hillock down into the ravine that hosted his "little operation" as he called it, he heard the unmistakable click of a revolver.
"Freeze!" he heard someone say in a voice barely above a whisper.
He turned around slowly to see the surprised face of Armando, one of his trusted guards.
"Oh, Mister Ben, I am so sorry. I did not realize-"
"It's all right, old friend. How are we doing tonight?"
"Good, good. Esteban has stabilized the bourbon. I think you will find it most excellent."
"Very well," he said, as they descended into the hub of the production.
Copper tanks lined the banks of the ravine, spewing out an obsidian smoke. (Most bootleggers in those days operated with coal-powered stills) A small one-armed boy ran up and handed Ben a blue speckled granite cup, brimming with a corn whiskey that doubled as an engine de-greaser and hobo poison. Ben took a small sip.
Most men buckled at even a whiff of the undiluted product, but he was no ordinary man. At his funeral, a family friend told me in confidence that he once drank a bottle of Drano and chased it with a jug of 230 proof horse whiskey, and still made it to church in time to play the procession on the organ. The Knights of Columbus of Windthorst still regard that day as the finest procession ever played in their small town.
"Good work, son." The boy, whose name no one was sure of, smiled meekly. Someone had left him at the door of Ben and Mary Agnes, and Ben told her that he'd shipped the boy off to the service back in '22. The boy rarely spoke, and did little but make spirits. His blood alcohol level, tests would later reveal, had a standard baseline of 0.30.
Ben and Armando continued their walking tour of the operation, watching as the hooch was filtered, bottled, and boxed up for shipping all over the country. They smiled in contentment, their empire humming along like the mythical perpetual motion machine.
They heard a cry coming from the back of camp, and rushed over. Luke, the night foreman, had a worker by the shirt collar. He was red in the face with anger.
"What's the matter here?" grandpa said, in his stern, managerial tone.
"I found this man stealing a slice of corn pone from one of the others. He must be punished," Lucas hissed.
Ben took Lucas' hand off of the man, and comforted the shaking worker. Ben gingerly checked inside the man's lower lip.
"This man has a tapeworm," Ben said, patting him on the back. "No wonder he's still hungry."
Grandpa laughed and smacked Lucas on the back playfully. The laugh grew and grew, crescendoing until Lucas couldn't do anything but laugh himself.
WHAP. The back of Ben's hand caught Lucas' unexpectant cheek.
"Don't ever treat one of the men like that again, no matter their transgression."
"Y...yes, Mr. Schneider. I'm sorry, sir."
"Now see this man fed and mix up a cup of the rye and two of the malted corn. That'll take care of the worm and any other critters that might've taken residence in his lowers."
"Yes sir."
"You take care, friend. You're a good man, and we need you healthy," Ben said to the afflicted man. A caring look washed away the sternness Ben had exhibited to Lucas. The man smiled.
"Thank you, Mister Schneider. I will not let you down."
"There's a bright future for you in our little operation, son."
The man smiled as Ben walked away, but then felt uneasy as he noticed the glare Lucas directed at Ben.
TO BE CONTINUED.
So you can see how I got into home wine and beer making.
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