Time

Spring is pregnant with expectation. At the winery time waits.

The winemaker surveys the vineyard and exhales, hoping the winter pruning will result in a great vintage.

Barren cane (amputated by the lopper’s blade) litters the ground under the farming wire, but the cordons shoot out more each day. The rows of Merlot and Zinfandel reanimate with fat green leaves.

Back in the cellar, he racks the Cabernet, pumping wine from barrel to tank, taking care not to suck up the dregs from the bilge. He hopes it will garner gold, or maybe this year, win Best of Show.

He lets the Chardonnay rest on its lees; the yeast blooms settled in French oak. It can wait. It is still early he tells himself.

The Crush is a fresh memory, but there is time to plan for harvest. There is time.

And plenty of work to do, the White Zinfandel must be bottled. After all, it’s the biggest seller, a money maker, even though the winemaker detests it.

“A little residual sugar in the Chenin Blanc is one thing,” he says, “but 3% is for people who really don’t like wine.”

Cold stabilized, the tartrates left clinging like ice crystals to the sides of the tank, he sends it chilled through a tight filter to extract any dawdling yeast cells. Can’t have them eating all that lingering sugar. The desperate housewives want sweet wine not Cold Duck.

He would rather use his talent on the Cabernet or Chardonnay, but this is his livelihood not his art studio. Trade-offs for following his passion, he tells himself.

There will be time to blend the Meritage, time to add a little Cab Franc to soften it just a bit, time to relax with a glass of accomplishment, but not right now.

The bottling crew has arrived.

Time is money.

TMD

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