An article from the UK’s Telegraph about France’s Cork Federation and their recent campaign to boost cork appreciation got me thinking. For one, about how little I still know about corks, and for two, about how much I do know. For again and again I have been hearing about the two camps, to cork or not to cork, because of the fear of what’s being labeled cork taint. Supposedly cork taint can affect up to 15% of all wine bottles, no laughing matter. But how much is really cork taint from corks, and how much is it from other sources that rarely get referenced?
Tags: cork, cork taint, France, James Laube
So get this. Driving around in the Midwest last week, in a bedroom-like community of Kansas City (a be-YU-tiful city – need to spend more time there), saw a housing development going up named “Napa Valley.” I was SHOCKED. And then amused. And then SHOCKED again. Why? No, it’s not because it was a small tract of land that was flatter than flat with just a hint of the many more identical McMansions that would be slapped up there blaring out at us from the distance. And for sure it’s not because of its Midwest locale. Nor because it was lacking any atmosphere of ANY kind. (Disclaimer required: I’ve never been to Napa Valley, I’ve just seen pictures, but this development wuhddn’t [sic] no Napa Valley!) Here’s why I was miffed: Read the rest of this entry »
Tags: grapes, Jackson Hole, James Laube, Kansas City, Napa Valley, vineyard, Wine Spectator, Wyoming
Figured it was time to show a little about what I’ve been either hinting at or outright saying about our little vineyard on the frontier. The video says we went yesterday, but we didn’t — it was last week. Just takes me some time to edit all my “uhs” and “ahs” and, of course, the blather. And so what if I whisper at the end something that indirectly gives nod to what I think about our wine. Someone’s gotta say it someday. And hopefully soon it won’t be just me.
And for another one day soon…I’ll give our whole sordid story in video form, since so many of you have been asking, but for now, enjoy the wide open spaces that surround our place.
Tags: vineyard
Yesterday was the 30th anniversary of the eruption of Mt. St. Helens. I was 11 at the time, so no, I don’t remember where I was when it blew. But I have heard accounts since moving here to Oregon in 1991–the hot, tarry ash that ruined umbrellas people here in Portland used for the fallout, as well as any other thing the heated material landed on; the ominous, dark cloud people saw and then wondering, “Is this the end?”–and I remember all the “authentic Mt. St. Helens ash” blown glass holiday ornaments that were still being sold years after the 1980 eruption, I myself buying one in the late ’80s for my then step-mother at a little gift shop on Lark Street in Albany, New York, where I attended University.
I’ve been up and around Mt. St. Helens mountain biking, and the landscape is surreal, even today. Lunar, lunar, lunar. One day I’ll make it to the the top of the old gal, but for now I think about the tremendous energy hovering still in our back yard, not just in Mt. St. Helens, but in Mt. Hood, too.
Mt. Hood stands only 30-some miles as the crow flies to the WSW of our vineyard, and I have to admit, I worry. There are fumaroles pumping sulfuric gases out towards the summit of Mt. Hood, nauseating the hiker on the way to the top; not a lovely experience when you’ve been hiking all night, and then in the early dawn you get that up your nose. So Mt. Hood is another one that can go. It’s not the pyroclastic flows I’m worried about, it’s the ash and fallout — with the right wind, our vineyard, and 1000s of acres around it could become, well, toast. Or at least ruined. Which is still toast to me.
So for now, we’ll just enjoy that view from our hilltop, and hope for no wind that day. Right.
Peep my next video post for a peek at Mt. Hood in relation to our vineyard site, if you want.
Tags: Albany, authentic Mt. St. Helens ash, mountain biking, Mt. Hood, Mt. St. Helens, New York, Oregon, pyroclastic flow
It’s been a busy morning. Busy weekend, really, that seems to continue into the work week. This morning we had a house inspection; put an offer on a much bigger house not too far from where we currently live – we love the neighborhood so, North Portland, the last outpost of the city where you can find affordable housing in a spot that feels at times like a small mountain town. Views of Mt. Hood and Mt. St. Helens are the norm, as well as the running backdrop of Forest Park, the largest urban woodland park in the contiguous US. Would rather that we were putting an offer on a house in The Dalles, or better yet, building our own out there next to the vineyard, or at least down the hill aways – because NOTHING compares to that view, in my opinion (stay tuned for video post to see what I’m talking about).
Tags: Austria, backyard BBQ, Forest Park, Memorial Day canoe race, Mt. Hood, Mt. St. Helens, The Dalles, The Grande Dalles, The Little House On the HIlltop, vineyard, vineyard manager
But for how long? Hmmm.
Post deux from the secret office files of Stephanie….
1000 ships? I doubt it. Although at times I do feel this wine thing has NOT been of my own accord…[cue nervous laughter].
Let’s see, however, what this face of mine DOES launch. It’s something I quietly started a couple of weeks ago, but what the hell. There’s no better time than the present to send ‘er out to sea.
Enjoy.
Tags: Oregon, wine, wine startup
For me, if I don’t hear a meadowlark out at the vineyard, it’s not complete. I don’t know why that song has come to signify the “being” of me there, but it has. Thankfully I hear one every time. And then I wonder, is it the same one? Do we have a resident meadowlark like our resident kestrels?
We were at the farm just the other day, Wednesday. Scott was showing around a city-slicker NYC friend, to whom I had loaned a fleece and hat because she had left NY in balmy weather, only to find a spring Oregon chill. Sam and I were checking for owl poop, I mean, pellets, under the owl houses that stand some 10? 12? feet above the trellis poles, attached to them by long screws and bolts. Sam carefully grabbing onto the vines as he hauled his growing little legs over the lower wire. Scott noticed and called out, “Make sure he doesn’t knock off any buds,” which I was already doing, of course, imagining where next year’s fruit canes might come from.
We headed toward the boxy house, white markings along its face, dropped by birds surveying from its roof. I really wanted to find a pellet. Wanted to find the little mass and pull it open with a vine’s cut spear that still dotted the rows from this year’s pruning, and see the bones and detritus that it might contain, stuff you learn in 10th grade biology, or from your crazy bird-mother… But there were none to be found. Only a quick rustling of feathers as we approached, and then a blur of wings as it left its hole. Was it an owl? (It would have to be a small one.) Was it a kestrel taking over a larger home? (The kestrel homes are more an rectangular upright, this was a horizontal positioning.) I don’t which bird it was, but I only knew it was there, and it left in a hurry, with Sam trying his best to keep upright, his face all rosy from the cold, and wind, stepping over the wire, and not far away atop another pole, the meadowlark let loose.
Tags: biology, kestrels, meadowlark, Oregon, vineyard
Woke up this morning to the Times Square bomb scare. How thankful I am for the people there, of NY, of this country that a terrible tragedy was avoided. I was just thinking of bombs and explosives yesterday. We had just finished The Hurt Locker, and well, if you’ve seen it, or have first-hand experiences with such madness, how can it not leave a mark on you?
Out walking Jack we were in our usual park, one in north Portland I don’t think many people care much about. It’s almost always empty, save for errant underwear or condom wrappers or fried chicken bones. But it is a beautiful park, tall, majestic cedars, soft, full grass, forget-me-nots dotting out in the sun-kissed areas. This park backs up to an armory, kept separate by a chain fence with barbed wire at the top. Samuel likes to go close to it and look at the desert transport vehicles lined up next to olive drab trucks and other machinery uncategorizable to a civilian eye.
So there I was, out running around with Jack, and I came across a golf ball just lying there. I’ve stopped picking up errant objects out of fear, I hate to say, from all the news of middle east bombs disguised as toys from years back. Even though if I were to pick it up, I would most likely not lose my hand or arm or life doing so. But I think about it, and more importantly, I think about others who face real crap like that every day. And how much we take for granted. And then I think about my own whining, “Oh, this small house! Oh, all the naysayers! Oh, all sacrifices for this vineyard and wine!” Oh, woe is me, little, poor Stephanie. Tcha. I gotta shut up and buck up. I’ll try. I really will.
Tags: Portland, The Hurt Locker, Times Square bomb scare, vineyard, wine
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