Welcome, but you're in the wrong place!

The istfraustblaug and its blaugger have moved on and moved up in the world. He's found himself a lady farmer, a farm and a new farm blog––with the slightly more mature o. If you would still like to keep up with him, his farming and his wine ranting, feel free to follow him over at ROUGHDRAFTFARMSTEAD.BLOGSPOT.COM. It'll be a hoot. 

holla,
Fraust in Third Person

That How I Came to Live in a Barn Series

Pawpaw wine, tomato wine... It's been a lively season, and for two more weeks I still live in a barn but there are big movements to follow. Read or refresh yourself on How I Came to Live in a Barn (scroll to bottom), so you are prepared to find out what's next. Hint: it rhymes with "officially starting the farm." Too cryptic? No worries, it will all be revealed in due time.

Always sucked at ryhming,
Fraust

Indeed.

How I Came to Live in a Barn: Postscript Edition

"My impulse to write books originates in the urge to find out what I don't know."

-Michael Ruhlman, Ratio

When I awoke in the barn one uncharacteristically chilly July morning, I had the thought, how the hell DID I come to live in a barn? The curiosity became such that I obsessed over it. I could understand on a basic level how it happened––tracing my steps from skateboarding to farming in my head––but that was ultimately unsatisfying. Thoughts, however clarifying, are inherently fleeting. It's easier for me to reason and understand things when I explore them, study them, and especially, write them down. So it wasn't hard to decide to do a series like this––it was selfish. I wanted to know the answer just as much as I wanted to share it. As the author, I felt at times I did a good job, at times I mighta dropped the ball a little, and at times I might not have captured the sheer impact of a subject on my most excellent journey. Books for example, but a writer should never be expected to do justice to the importance of books in their lives. September? Natural Wines, though? I owe so much to these things, and I did my best to offer them credit, but no matter what, it will always feel impossible to properly thank the one's who raised you. All in all, through typos, hangovers, basketball and existential meanderings, I'm extremely pleased with the results, excited about the findings, and thrilled with the opportunity to share them.

In conclusion of the series, I would like to thank you all for the kind, encouraging notes. I hope to keep posting occasionally throughout the season, but mainly I hope to work, read, ferment and learn a lot, while washing the sweat off in the swimming hole. So if you don't hear from me for a while, you know where I am.

Farm stories: The moving in edition

Our first intern moved onto the farm this week, and I'll be joining the festivities on April 6th. I'm excited for her! It was exciting for me. Those first two weeks are amazing, but have the potential to be the longest, hardest and most challenging two weeks of the entire season. At least, that was my experience.

For me, I'd moved straight from New York City where the most physical thing I did in a week was play my best friend at basketball, which was only physical at a squint. I arrived at the farm on April 7th. Eric emphatically tells his interns to take it easy and adjust to the farm life those first few days. I can attest, my friends, this is both necessary and damn near impossible. I'd spent a year planning this adventure––I didn't want to adjust to it, I wanted to get dirty! And dirty I did.

I put my things in the barn, threw my sleeping bag on the mattress, laced up my embarrassingly new boots, and headed straight up the hill to join the family in the garden. We were transplanting strawberry plants. Eric dug a furrow and we set each transplant into the rows a couple feet apart. I became immediately aware of how long a farm project lasts that week, and immediately aware of the pathetic shape my body was in. I was knelt down in the dirt, cursing the softness of my knees exposed by every rock or stick, back bent, burying each plant carefully for a couple of hours that afternoon. After moving the livestock and finishing our chores, I headed back down for dinner, then over to my barn, and immediately passed out.

I wasn't sore that first morning, but I was definitely sore every subsequent morning for the first month. There was a lot of preparation to be done: cutting and stacking firewood, making soil blocks, cultivating and transplanting––most all of it physical. April was a fickle lady, too. We'd have a freeze, then a week of 80 degree days, then another freeze and a shit-load of rain. I found myself adjusting to a lot of things all at once: to bugs, to labor, to animals, to silence, to mornings, to sun, to the outdoors, to the whims of nature, and to bathing in a creek or showering in a greenhouse. There are no easy foods on the farm either. If you want to have a snack, you have to make it. The first thing I missed about New York was grabbing a slice. (It was also the second, third and forth thing I missed about New York.). It should never be assumed that this is easy. It should also never be assumed that just because it's not easy, that it's not the most rewarding strain you can put yourself through.

In a few weeks the strawberry patch will be fruiting wildly. I'll be eating raw asparagus from the garden and cooking the rest in cast iron. I'll be hunting morels ("dry land fish") and picking sour cherries. The work will be hard and food will be our salvation. I'll be back into that creek the second I can be, and that, too, will save me. My knees will be sore, my back will be sore, and we'll be working like hell to stay ahead of the prolificness of nature. (I've always loved the spring, but never as much as nature does.). One thing I told myself when I left New York was that I might have to work through some pretty shitty weather, but I'll never have to lose another nice day to work again. This was not an exaggeration, it turns out, your entire world is outside. In retrospect, surviving those first two weeks isn't really the hard part. It's leaving in November when your time is up that's truly difficult.

How I Came to Live in a Barn: Part 7

Ladies and gentlemen, you've made it––or you've cheated, respectfully––but either way, you've arrived! This marks the seventh and final installment of "How I Came to Live in a Barn," the series that strives to connect drinking to farming as relevantly as humanly possible.

If you're just tuning in, as a quick preface to this series, from April to December of 2010 I lived in a barn. No electricity, running water, losses to Morehead State in the first round of the tournament (Sorry, Cards fans), or losses to West Virginia in the second (Let's go, Jorts!). During that time I worked on a legitimately (though proudly uncertified) organic farm in Southern Kentucky. This series is about the many whims, fascinations and revelations that eventually inspired me to drop everything and go farming. This preface appeared at the beginning of the entire series, so I guess this marks the end of that, too. sad-face emoticon. Anywho, y'ready? Wunderbar

How I came to Live in a Barn: The Barn edition

You know how they say, "Don't put all your eggs in one basket?" Well, anyone who says that simply isn't romantic enough for me to listen to. I liked what I'd read about the place and confidently, I put all of my eggs in the their basket, never once looking back.


I learn best by experience, so immediately I ruled out going to farm school. I'd found Bugtussle on the internet, wishfully searching for biodynamic farms in and around Kentucky. Luckily, being the lush-ass area it is, natural farms abound in this part of the country. One word in particular appeared regularly in my searches––"Bugtussle"–– and the more I read about the place, the more it appealed to me. I wanted a farm either close to Louisville or close to Nashville; I wanted it to be diverse including both animals and vegetables; and I wanted to learn from someone doing something similar to what I wanted, and time and time again, my search results rendered the same farm.

Hoping for the best, I filled out the application, sent it off, crossed my fingers, and waited anxiously. I was in the book store when the phone rang and it was Bugtussle. Running out onto the busy streets that surround Union Square I nervously chatted with Eric over the sirens and horns. I couldn't believe how nervous I was, but I was also happy to be so; it meant I wanted this gig bad enough to know I could screw it up. We got along well, and he said that they required a farm visit before they could take anyone on, which I suspected, was fine with, and prepared for. After we got off the phone I booked myself a trip to Nashville, and this was that farm visit.

The driveway is a solid quarter mile of rocky dirt road, distinguished in the forest by a single, hand-made cedar mailbox. It looks nothing like any farm I'd ever entered. Guided by a thick tunnel of trees, you cross two low water fords––low most of the time. About halfway in, you pass a high tunnel on the left now, however at the time I passed its skeleton. There was a cow in my path that moved along unconcerned and leaped back into the neighbor's pasture when it saw me. As I pulled down the driveway, I could see smoke billowing out from the cabin's chimney, an outdoor kitchen and a stack of shiitake logs that told me I had chosen the right driveway in the middle of nowhere. Whew.

It didn't take long for me to warm up to the family. Eric and Cher are welcoming, intelligent, and curious, as are their 3 children. Eric and I had already spoke on the phone many times, and I had read most of what he'd recommended, including Joel Salatin's "Everything I Want to do is Illegal," and Gene Logsdon's "The Contrary Farmer" among others. We had some lunch, then set out to do chores––moving the livestock and such––then headed back down the hill to the house to warm up. It was January, and it was cold. That night it was supposed to get down to 20 degrees, and I can attest to the fact that it definitely did so.

He started me a fire in the wood-stove in the barn, where I'd be staying. My space is two rooms––one up, one down––a desk (down) and a bed (up). That's about it, besides the cookstove which was what I had to rely on for heat, that, and my ability to keep a fire going, or lack there of. At first, it was raging hot, then it was raging cold, and it stayed that way until 5:00am when Eric came over to the barn to get me. We had to move the chickens before sun-up, I was a solid block of ice. Despite my sleeping bag, layers and long-johns, it was still the coldest night of my life. I had failed at bundling, or keeping the fire going, two things I could do proficiently in New York (where the landlord keeps the fire going by law). Needless to say, when Eric came to get me, I was excited to get the blood flowing.

After we moved the chickens, we headed down to breakfast. Eric always says that you feed the animals before you feed yourself, and we never strayed from that. After some oats and fresh maple syrup, we tackled a few things on the farm––there was a snow storm coming and though he never feeds his livestock hay, he didn't want to starve them if the grass was inaccessible. So I tossed him bales for the first time in my life, and it was truly (and and little sadly) difficult. I lacked any and all form of farm muscle, the baling twine slicing through my soft, wine-shop-reared hands, and the simple act of tossing a bale off of a stack from about twenty feet up was just about enough motion to send me with it. Farming, he would tell me, is the materials handling business. I learned on the farm that you move a bunch of stuff around all day long and somehow, at the end of the week, food pops out. It's physical, then it's a miracle.


For lunch that day we had roasted pork with sweet potatoes and kimchi––all from the farm. I sat there at the table quiet, admittedly more exhausted than I wanted to admit. Eric ran out of the house and returned with a bottle from the cellar and sat it next to me. "Persimmon wine" he said, and smiled. This, I have to say, was the proverbial moment I moved into the barn. I made the kids a plate, then Cher, then Eric, then myself. Eric poured the wine. They wanted to know what I thought, and I, being a nerdy wine nerd, couldn't wait to taste it. It was unctuous, slightly oxidized and a little funky: like riesling, sherry and pears all had a feral son and it was called Persimmon Wine. And it was great. Alongside the pork roast, it was perfect even. I was elated, and (way too) excited that they drank––a legitimate fear I had going into this farming world. After lunch, they offered me the internship and they offered me that room in the barn if I wanted it. I said yes to both, then the six-year-old introduced me to all 200 hundred of his fish paintings and we spent the rest of the evening hanging out. 

When I left, I took with me both soreness and enthusiasm as a souvenir. I also took with me the fact that this was going to be harder than it was in my dreams. The gravity of moving away from New York City was compounded by the gravity of how incredibly different this lifestyle would be. And how incredibly difficult. And not just for a few days like this farm visit was, but nearly 8 months to a lifetime. Between the food, and the wine, and the return to my homeland, however, it all spoke to me. I had no idea if I was going to survive it, but I was sure as hell going to give myself a chance to die trying. That April, after nearly four years at September, three and a half years after my obsession with natural wine, and a year and a half after Hervé and Éric, I was moving into my barn. I passed 8 hard fought months in that barn, through the heat, the cold, the bugs and the bites, and come April 6th of this year, I'll be fighting 8 more, eating like a king daily. When Eric offered me a second year internship, I couldn't resist. The first year I dedicated to the experience, but I still have a long way to go. The second year will be dedicated to the education, which I'll do my best to apply to the rest of my life.

I like to think that my family––generations from now––will look back fondly on the story of how crazy ol' Grandpa Fraust decided to go farming all those years ago. Hopefully they will be reminiscing over a glass of persimmon wine, or paw paw wine, or blueberry wine from the farm I willed them, and hopefully they will still be farming it. Even if I didn't really have a damn clue how to farm when I moved into the barn, and it wasn't in my family to do so, I knew it had to start somewhere, right?

So that, my friends, is how crazy ol' Grandpa Fraust came to be, came to Kentucky and came to live in a barn. In a weird little nutshell.

I want to thank you all for reading, and to say go Cats (sorry, it's March, but seriously, go Cats!)! Thank you, and happy growing.

-Fraust

A Prayer for Death in Passivity, Apathy and Abuse

"There are not enough rich and powerful people to consume the whole world; for that, the rich and powerful need the help of countless ordinary people." - Wendell Berry.


Articles like this from the Huffington Post infuriate me and millions like me, but the worst part is that that's even possible. If they start jailing people for recording the abuse of animals, it's our fault. It's because we (as a whole) haven't learned a god damn thing from the thousands and thousands of hours they've already recorded! Who hasn't seen the inhumane conditions their food comes from? Very few. But who hasn't ignored it? Not enough. If we simply ate better, none of this would be an issue, and we'd have all the power, not to mention sweet bods, healthy hearts, and clear consciences.


Nothing is more powerful than food. As Michael Pollan - among countless other brilliant food writers - has pointed out, you vote with your mouth 3 times a day. If you seriously want things to change in this country, you have way more control than you think. Corporations like Monsanto and big agriculture play a huge role in our government, because the government governs the people, and people gots to eat. What the people eat is up to the people however. Support a small farmer, stop eating shitty meat, stop eating fast food, get your food from the farmer's market, change gonna come.


Happy Tuesday.

Pigs vs. Cows and the Origins of Fermentation

I've read far too many things about the origin of wine not to wonder why you guys still hang out with me. The theories are amazing, though! The most classic coming from good ol' Mesopotamia, where some fortunate tribe stumbled upon a berry bush, filled their baskets heavily, then discovered over the week that the juice at the bottom of the baskets had become delightfully fizzy. After experimenting with the magic of this, they found that if they crushed the berries, gathered the juice, covered it and let it sit, they would have a safe beverage to drink that rewarded them with a buzz––but that's not why they knew it was important. Between beer and wine (beer being discovered in a similar fashion––neither was "invented"), they almost single-handedly caused the agricultural revolution. However, as my oft-quoted fermentation guru Sandor Katz once told us, animals were well-aware of fermentation before they started walking upright, and those people who discovered how to intentionally make wine, were well of aware of it, too.

I have some theories, and they lie in the difference between pigs and cows.

Fermentation is a necessary part of our digestion. Like pigs and dogs, humans are monogastrics, or single-stomached creatures. Cows and lamb for example (called ruminants), have four stomach compartments, mostly for fermentation. That is to say, they do their own fermentation inside of their stomachs, whereas humans do their fermentation before or while they consume. However, both creatures require it to digest their food, and draw out all the microbial life (the enzymes, vitamins, etc.) that contribute to your immune system and digestion, as well as microbial diversity. It's why we salivate, and why we put vinegar on our salads, and why we like yogurt: fermentation helps to break down the food and provide the nutrients we cannot obtain through food alone. Although pigs are great foragers, there is a reason they like their food disgusting.

++++

We had a great deal of bruised tomatoes and squash last year that we couldn't give to our shareholders, so we put them in our slop for the pigs. However, put a raw butternut squash on my plate and I'll laugh at you. so will pigs. I discovered that if I packed them in a bucket, covered it with water, and let it sit for a few days, all of the sudden I was feeding the pigs lobster! They loved the freshly fermented squash, fought over them, and devoured them. They love things to be cooked, fermented or rotting, because they, like humans, require a balance of fermented and raw food in their diets.

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Sally Fallon, author of Nourishing Traditions writes that, “The enzymes in raw food, particularly raw fermented food, help to start the process of digestion and reduce the body’s need to produce digestive enzymes.” then goes on to say, “A diet composed exclusively of cooked food puts a severe strain on the pancreas, drawing down its reserves, so to speak. If the pancreas is consistently over-stimulated to produce enzymes that ought to be in foods, the result over time will be inhibited function.”

These ancient tribes were well aware of this "inhibited function" and fermented out of necessity. Things like kimchi, kefir, yogurt, pickles, coffee (yep, fermented), and chocolate (fermentation's getting cooler, right?) all have ancient origins, preservative, and biological practicality.

So when I talk about wanting to come to Kentucky and make wine, I don't mean some gimmicky grape wine, I mean anything I can ferment––my motivation is health; my motivation is the same thing that motivated Mesopotamians to start fermenting their own beverages: necessity. It should be mentioned that although most of what you find in the grocery store is legally allowed to call itself wine, it's negligibly related to it. A lot of those wines (non-natural wines) are made more like soda than wine (or "pop" depending on where you're from), and albeit tasty, they lack the beneficial qualities of fermentation. (Sally Fallon also has one of my favorite quotes about mass-produced fruits and vegetables, "Some commercially raised oranges have been found to contain no Vitamin-C," which you can apply to anything commercially raised or produced. Especially wine). My advice is make your own fermented anything. If you eat a lot of cooked food, drink more fermented fruit, eat more fermented food––even pickles!––but make them yourself for best results, or buy them locally.

How I Came to Live in a Barn: Part 6

Welcome to Friday and another edition of "How I Came to Live in a Barn," the series that strives to connect drinking to farming as relevantly as humanly possible.

If you're just tuning in, as a quick preface to this series, from April to December of 2010 I lived in a barn. No electricity or running water, but all the paw paws, persimmons and passion fruit you could eat. During that time I worked on a legitimately (though proudly uncertified) organic farm in Southern Kentucky. This series is about the many whims, fascinations and revelations that eventually inspired me to drop everything and go farming. Once we catch up to the present, I'll use the occasion to explain what I'm up to now, beyond the blaug. Is this preface going to appear at the beginning of the entire series? You Betcha. Ready? Wunderbar.

How I Came to Live in a Barn: The New York, Tony Coturri, and one fateful year edition

By facilitating this whole fiasco, New York City became the unsung hero of my barn life. It introduced me to the shop, that introduced me to the wines, that introduced me to the people, who introduced me to the idea that I might one day want to be a farmer. New York is quite possibly the only entity inspiring enough to inspire someone to move out of New York City. I remember when I returned there, after my adventures with Éric and Hervé, I had a theretofore inconceivable thought: in one year, I'm gonna jet.

My goal was to commence a winemaking education by April of 2010, but I would be forced to define what that meant, and how and where to go about it––New York City not really an option. Every move up until then had been a simple, semi-logical reaction to something else––like meeting winemakers because I liked their wines––whereas this decision, I feared, required actual decision making. To make it worse, there was an offensive array of options: France? California? School? Winging it? I would spend the following year chewing on numerous ideas and spitting out the unreasonable, until I eventually landed upon the one with the most resonance. But said resolution did not come easily, until I tackled all the of the existential challenges of what do I want out of this? 

I was relatively sure of two things: 1) I wanted to end up in Kentucky, my homeland, and 2) I wanted to make wine. My worries mostly fell to whether or not there would have to be concessions made to have both. Could one make good wine in Kentucky?––I feared not. Or at least that's how I felt at first, but one unexpected consequence of having to make these decisions was that I had inadvertently became obsessed with all things fermentation over that year––kombucha, kimchi, wine, cider, beer, etc.––for its social as well as medicinal attributes. I had inundated myself with nerdy wine books, leading to an obsession with microbiology––one I'll kindly spare you––but which proved to be invaluable in aiding my eventual decision. When I redefined wine, I redefined my possibilities.

An idea began growing in my head, mid-way through that year, that I could see myself simply on a farm––it didn't strictly have to be a vineyard. When we were talking to Hervé Souhaut he had said something interesting: "Wine people are almost always food people, but food people aren't necessarily wine people." Cooks aren't obliged to like wine, whereas most wine people––like myself––find the two inseparable, and I didn't really want to pursue one without the other.

Wine-making is simple––grapes, crush, ferment, right?––at least in theory. Perhaps I could teach myself, I thought, because what really intimidated me, was that I hadn't a clue about how grapes or vegetables grew, save for what I read in books. If I couldn't produce the fruit, I couldn't produce the wine. I began casually researching farms in Kentucky at the same time I was talking to winemakers in France. Food, I decided, was to remain central in my plans, no matter what I chose. Weighing the ease with which I could start my training in Kentucky (where I spoke the language and didn't require a visa) against the bureaucracy and foreignness of France––staying in the states seemed rather appealing. I remained incredulous however until one fateful night when I met biodynamic winemaker Tony Coturri in Brooklyn, and unprompted, he validated the idea.

Tony is a calm and intelligent personality, garnished with an impressive beard and an incomparable knowledge of natural winemaking. Coturri's wines of California are among some of the most pure in all the land, and I greatly respect and seek his opinion. That night, Tony suggested that he didn't think they should focus so intensely on growing grapes in the south, that it's not a grape growing climate. He added, "There's so much good fruit there––you can ferment anything," and boom. Here was one of my favorite winemakers in the world telling me that it was possible to have my cake (Kentucky) and eat it, too (fermented). That was all I needed, his words confirmed it for me. I was sold on staying in the states, on going to a farm, and teaching myself to make wine... once I learned to grow the raw materials. Now I just had to choose a farm, but luckily I had one in mind; one in Kentucky; one I'd been eying with more than just passing curiosity. So the next day, my correspondences with France stopped and I printed the application, filled it out and sent it off. A few days later, I got a call from the farmer, and next week, we'll conclude the series with a trip to Bugtussle and the glass of wine that changed it all.

Until next week, friends, cheers.

How I came to Live in a Barn: Part 5

Welcome to Friday and another edition of "How I Came to Live in a Barn," the series that strives to connect drinking to farming as relevantly as humanly possible.

If you're just tuning in, as a quick preface to this series, from April to December of 2010 I lived in a barn. No electricity, no running water––no way! Yes way. Anyway, during that time I worked on a legitimately (though proudly uncertified) organic farm in Southern Kentucky. This series is about the many whims, fascinations and revelations that eventually inspired me to drop everything and go farming. Once we catch up to the present, I'll use the occasion to explain what I'm up to now, you know, beyond pushing the limits of the blaugosphere. Is this preface going to appear at the beginning of the entire series? Damn skippy. Ready? Wunderbar.

How I came to Live in a Barn: The Éric Texier and Hervé Souhaut Edition

 Eric Texier tasting

January of 2009

When we finally found Éric's place, and introduced ourselves, he promptly led my friend Josh and I into his cellar and began telling us about his life. Éric is a reserved man, but excitable, and he never seems to lack for interesting musings. Being a nuclear scientist turned winemaker, this is not shocking. Around 30 years old he returned to his homeland of Bordeaux and went to school for winemaking then eventually found himself in a small town outside of Lyon called Charnay where Josh and I were about to taste his wines. 

The wines he poured for us were perfect, all of them. This came as no surprise to either of us, as we've always enjoyed his wines, but what did come as a surprise was what he told us next: he was "moving away from biodynamics...."

Wait, what? This was the first (albeit modest) hint of negativity about biodynamics from a biodynamic producer I'd ever heard. He said that he didn't need them anymore, that his goal from the beginning was to become sustainable and he couldn't by simply practicing biodynamics. Biodynamics is about healing the earth, so what does one do once it's healed? All the gas he wasted driving back and forth to the vineyards, plus the numerous times he had to spray copper sulfate had turned him off. His vines, he told us, would die without him. Three years prior, he'd begun farming one vineyard under the tutelage of Fukuoka's writings (see last week's post), using clover cover crops and moving towards a no-till system of viticulture. These Fukuoka vines, he assured us, "don't care about Éric Texier," and he laughed.

He eventually led us into an entirely separate part of his facilities where a lone barrel of wine awaited. He kept it apart from his biodynamic barrels, uninfluenced. Using his wine thief, he thieved us all a small taste and we stepped out into the light. Vibrant. Textural. Wild––this was his first vintage of Fukuoka, and we, he told us, were the first people to taste it besides himself.

Hervé Souhaut Sainte Epine Vineyards

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Later that week Josh and I, along with our friend Anca, were shaking hands with Hervé Souhaut in Ardèche––a couple hours south of Éric. He invited us to climb the steep Sainte Epine vineyards behind his house where his St Joseph grapes were grown, and he lamented the fallen parts of the stone trellis––victims of a rainy '08 vintage. He pointed to other famous vineyards on the massive, rolling hillsides as we carefully stepped through his 100-year-old syrah vines. Then he and his lovely wife, Beatrice took us about 30 minutes into an ancient, winding, aqueduct-laden paradise where his 1400's era cellar/castle houses his barrels. Then we tasted through a number of wines at different levels of bubbly fermentationess and slowly and reluctantly crept back towards his house.

After the general tour, we sat at his kitchen table and chatted––a sentence that does nothing to express how much of an honor it was being invited to do so. We talked wine philosophies, and the industrial revolution and the bourgeois of old Lyon and tasted numerous ingenious concoctions. His wife brought us some local cheese and sausage, and I attempted my best not to overindulge, by conveniently changing my standards of what it meant to indulge in the first place. As we were leaving that night, I realized that we'd just spent 8 hours hanging out with one of my favorite producers, in his home, drinking his wines and eating the cheese and sausage of his region. I'd flown halfway across the world, nearly killed Josh and I driving in Beaujolais, and spent absurd amounts of money, all for the opportunity to hang out with a few artisan farmers. All in the name of wine. wow.

 Vineyards of the Ardèche

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Although on the surface, it might not seem obvious how tasting the first vintage of Fukuoka wines with Éric Texier or sitting down at Hervé Souhaut's house and kickin-it for eight straight hours might inspire someone to want to move to a barn, but it absolutely did. Almost more than any other factor. As I was driving back to Lyon that night, Josh said something about becoming a winemaker, and it lingered cruelly in my thoughts. I realized I loved wine, and talking wine, and tasting wine, but that's as close to it as I'd ever get. I'd never have to make a decision to switch from biodynamics to Fukuoka, or to bemoan the hardships of a vintage even. Wine is far more than just tastes, collections and experiences, but being a wine clerk, I was only allowing myself those few sensory qualities. I would always just be a tourist of these artisan farmers like Philippe Faury, or Mathieu Lapierre, or Jean-Paul Brun, who we'd also visited on this trip and who were also off enriching their communities, culture, selves and land while making extraordinary tipple. There are plenty of tourists, I decided, but not enough communities, and especially not in the United States. I wanted to be on their side of the dinner table, inspiring people like myself, who'd came halfway across the world to meet me in my homeland, where I was busy trying to make my own champagne––OUR own champagne––while getting to know the substance that'd inspired me to do so: good ol' nature.

 Josh and Philippe Faury in the Northern Rhone

Next week's post will be about the subsequent year and the decisions that had to be made––an intermezzo before the finale––and then we'll conclude the series. Ready for that bomb? mega. Until next week––cheers!

 Jean-Paul Brun

Dipping corks at Marcel Lapierre




 (Note: My spell check hates France and the word Blaugosphere. HATES.)

Technical Difficulties

Due to events beyond my control, I'm unable to post this week's "How I Came to Live in a Barn." I apologize, scrutinize and fantasize about any and all inconveniences this has caused. We'll return to your regularly scheduled program as soon as possible. Probably when I return from NYC. Probably with gusto.

Fraust.

Farm Stories: Shelter from the Storm

“In actual fact, people seldom remember things they have no use for.”
- Daniel Quinn

Two massive floods hit the farm last year, and right now the moon is in roughly the same position and constellation that it was for both floods. But the third storm in three days is passing over head right now, and I'm watching it from the safety of my house and I hate how little it's going to affect me.

I notice nature more since the farm––storms and temperatures and such. It means more to me than it used to. A storm doesn't just pass, and it's gone. A storm is an event on the farm and it lingers. You have to sprint up to the shade-house at three in the morning to save the new transplants from being demolished by pounding rain; or kayak out onto the creek to rescue bags of peat moss that floated away in the flooding; you have to clean up any fallen trees blocking the road; then a few days later you have to cultivate all the germinated weed seed. Storms are what nature lives by, and yet we fortify ourselves against them.

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One week we went for it. We planted a bunch of things that needed fertility and a lot of water, even though it had been dry and hot, but we needed to. It was a gamble. We were exhausted from the rough, long harvest that Friday and none of us had much energy for transplanting but knew it needed to be done and persevered. Then, that afternoon, as I was lying on my bed in a sore heap of fatigue, I heard the rumble of thunder, then the sound of rain drops across the tin roof of the barn and I cheered. I'd never cheered for nature before, it felt good, and god dammit, we needed that rain.

+++

And now here I sit, like most of the country, sheltered from the storm. If we're out in it, we're bitching about it. If we're inside, we're ignoring it, waiting for tomorrow when the storm will be gone and we can talk about how nice it is to see the sunshine. Most of us (writer not excluded) will never think of this storm again. While for others, it might have been the rain they were waiting for, or possibly the rain that washed away some topsoil. Either way they're rarely ruined by it, as they're always in a position to reap the benefits of storms, not just the catastrophes.

How I Came to Live in a Barn: Part 4

Welcome to Friday and another edition of "How I Came to Live in a Barn," the series that strives to connect drinking to farming as relevantly as humanly possible.

As a quick preface to this series, from April to December of 2010 I lived in a barn. No electricity, no running water, no kidding. During that time I worked on a legitimately (though proudly uncertified) organic farm in Southern Kentucky. This series is about the many whims, fascinations and revelations that eventually inspired me to drop everything and go farming. Once we catch up to the present, I'll use the occasion to explain what I'm up to now, beyond the blaug. Is this preface going to appear at the beginning of the entire series? Damn straight. Ready? Wunderbar.

How I Came to Live in a Barn: Books

A great book begets great curiosity. You find yourself in places like restaurants cooking; in New York City drinking; in the vineyards of France tasting dirt; and living in a barn because books exist, and because they beget such powerful curiosity. A bartender friend of mine once suggested that a good book should change you––this is an homage to a few of those books.

As I sat in the garden that fall in Burgundy, minding my own business, I was suddenly accosted by Michael Pollan's genius. Sometimes a good book is just well-written and I've experienced many of those, but sometimes a good book is both well-written and well-timed, and those books can become something more than just books, but revelations. "The Omnivore's Dilemma" was precisely that.

The book had been exhaustingly recommended to me, I just hadn't got to it yet. Finally a good friend shoved it in my hands and demanded I read it while in France. When I opened the book, I had just come from tasting dirt at Bertrand Gautherot's house (see last week's post), and was more-than-a-little vulnerable. I was familiar with the issues Pollan focuses on––conventional agriculture, big-organic, localvorism, etc.––but I'd never paid any real attention to them. Having gained the perspective of Bertrand's methods versus those of his neighbor's, the subject was suddenly tangible. Also, Pollan has this way of writing that makes it seem like your super-logical buddy Mike is just saying "Hey dude, this conventional farming shit is kinda messed up," and then proceeds to detail why––masterfully and without pretension. After this book, I became annoyingly fastidious in my food choices. I read labels intensely, went to the farmer's market often, and began to read more about food––not just wine. In a lot of ways, this book was the beginning of my road to the farm, and as I heard time and time again last year, I was not alone in this.

Kermit Lynch did a number on me as well. The first time I read "Adventures on the Wine Route" I was way too impressionable. Not only did the sentiment of the book speak to my convictions, but the style with which it was written spoke to my sensibilities as a reader. At the time I first read it, I was progressively drinking more French and Italian wines, mostly organic, and wasn't sure exactly what made them so different––so much better. Kermit helped me to understand.

Like all great works, it's timeless. It was first published in 1988 but reads like it could've been published yesterday. I devour it once a year, and take something new from it each time. If you ask me what my favorite book is, I'd be hard pressed to say another. It's a book about wine, but it's also about everything. To me, it's about wine in the way "The Sun Also Rises" is about bullfighting, and I write, sell, think and drink the way I do with many nods to Kermit.

Lastly (I say lastly because I'm limiting myself to three here) is Masanobu Fukuoka's "One Straw Revolution" which I mention just as much for the book as for how I was introduced to it. A man by the name of Eric Texier recommended I read it, and afterward I realized something I'd never realized before: I know nothing about nature. It's a wonderfully poetic read, endlessly quotable and never overly technical, but it's mainly about nature. I loved the book but knew I'd love it more if I could understand it's subject, and felt compelled to follow Fukuoka's example.

Fukuoka was an everyday man turned farmer who developed a style of no-till natural farming that works with nature's example, rather than trying to control it. It's another timeless classic and a word you will increasinly begin to hear in reference to farming practices: Fukuoka-style. More and more farmers are moving towards no-till, non-intervention, permaculture-like methods and Fukuoka is among the most widely-known voices. Texier was inspired by his writings and next week, we'll talk about the role he and another natural winemaker played in my future... as if introducing me to Fukuoka wasn't enough.

But there are so many books that belong here, so many writers. If you were to traverse the route from my living in a barn to my childhood, you could simply follow the trail of books (as well as breadcrumbs, respectfully) until you arrived at a skateboarding young Fraust rocking a Wu-Tang t-shirt and baggy-ass jeans quoting "Ishmael" wildly, because that's more or less where it all began.

Postscript: The best part about writing this was that the only book I mentioned that I don't have a copy lent out, is Kermit's. It's the only one I never lend.

Eating Animals II: eating vegetables

In preperation for Friday's post, I got to thinking about animals...

This summer along with lambs, cows, and pigs, we raised turkeys. We decided not to raise the heritage breed, but to raise the conventional, broad-breasted turkeys, and to raise them unconventionally. They lived their entire lives outside, protected from predation by solar-electrified fencing, with constant visits from your's truly. I loved those turkeys. I loved Tomahawk, and I loved Iceberg. I loved Galliopo, Chaos, Gunnison, Gravner and Beardo. I named them, too, because I was a fool in love. Then November came and we had to process them.

As Michael Pollan has pointed out, "process" is a kind term for killing, cleaning and packaging, but that's what it is: killing. The night before, we loaded them all in the truck, and as the truck pulled away with all of my buddies staring at me, my heart sank, and the next day we killed them. I helped. I can't be more honest when I say it was the hardest day of my life, and I still haven't reconciled it completely. Killing is not easy, and truthfully, I'm glad it's not easy. I'm glad it was hard on me. It shouldn't be easy.

Having raised food in this manner I look at food I didn't raise very differently. And this doesn't just apply to meat, but to vegetables as well.

It's hard in the winter to get fresh, local, organic vegetables. Hard, but not impossible. It's important to do so however, as an animal lover, vegetarian, or what have you, because the chemicals, preservatives, clear-cutting and soil depletion involved in conventional vegetable production (not to mention genetic modifications, poisoning of ground water, encouragement of monocultures, etc. after etc. after etc.) is massively detrimental to wildlife and humans alike. Get your veggies from organic, local farmers when you can. The devastation caused by conventional vegetable farming is less spectacular than feedlots obviously, but it's not necessarily less harmful in the long run. I didn't intend on this being some brand of public service announcement, but that's sorta what it's become. A vegetarian is equally as responsible for making responsible food choices as an omnivore. And, as a shameless natural wine plug, both are equally as responsible for making good beverage choices to go with their diets. Drink wisely, eat wisely, still party, but do it responsibly. After last season on the farm, I can't see it any other way.

Now enjoy the lamby lambs. I call her Boogie.

Wine Glass Music - Jamey Turner

Just feeling a little patriotic after Friday's post.

Happy President's Day, that is, if you're not among the many making up a snow day...

Army in Repose

I love the farm right now. In the height of the season, nature will gladly consume you if you loiter in the wrong place for too long, but right now the gardens seem quiet, almost pensive. The forest is naked and you can see deep into what will be nearly impenetrable in a couple months. Everything appears so innocent, so vulnerable, and I feel honored to bear witness to it. The parsnips are the only thing still growing in the garden, and on Thursday I went to the farm to harvest them.

One at a time, you loosen the root, pull the beautiful, unearthly creature out of the ground and bang off the excess mud before grading them. When one breaks you take the opportunity to smell the sweet flesh, and savor its freshness amongst all the grey and apathetic surroundings. Madusa-like, they often resemble something Jim Henson might have used as a muse, but flavor-wise, they've no doubt been the inspiration for innumerable legendary creations. That afternoon we roasted some and ate them like corn, then we had blueberry pie with fresh raw cream, because on the farm you work like a peasent and eat like a king, and eat dessert for dinner because without the excessive sugar, a blueberry pie is simply a blueberry roast with crust. And when you grow your own food, you eat whatever the hell you want for dinner because you know it's good.

Then there's the high tunnel. When the rest of the farm is stoic, life in the high tunnel is vigorously pulsating. When you step in, you're instantly transported to the forthcoming explosion, and the forthcoming workload. You see weeds covering the floor like napalm; you see all the incomplete projects and the signs of an upcoming battle; you see hours of cultivation in the hot sun, the heavy lifting, the long days, the sunburn, and the soreness. But then you see green, and it's everywhere, and you're reminded of the sheer beauty of where all this labor takes place, and then you laugh, because this is the last time the high tunnel will look this calm.

How I Came to Live in a Barn: part 3

Welcome to Friday and another edition of "How I Came to Live in a Barn," the series that strives to connect drinking to farming as relevantly as humanly possible.

As a quick preface to this series, from April to December of 2010 I lived in a barn. No electricity, running water, MTA strikes or lollygagging. During that time I worked on a legitimately (though proudly uncertified) organic farm in Southern Kentucky. This series is about the many whims, fascinations and revelations that eventually inspired me to kick the kicks, buy some boots and go farming. Once we catch up to the present, I'll use the occasion to explain what I'm up to now, you know, beyond the blaug. Is this preface going to appear at the beginning of the entire serious? Almost definitely. Ready? Wunderbar.

How I Came to Live in a Barn: The Bertrand Gautherot Edition

Champagne. September of 2008.

After letting me babble at him in French for a few minutes, Bertrand kindly suggested we speak in English. I liked Bertrand Gautherot Immediately. He was genial, friendly, excited and honest. He grabbed a garden fork and we hopped in his van with his dog Chops (pronounced "shops" in French) and headed down the road to see his cows.

Vouette et Sorbée is located in the southern part of Champagne in Buxières sur Arce, not far from the city of Troyes (pronounced "Twa"). Bertrand, the farmer and winemaker, farms 5 hectares of vines, both pinot noir and chardonnay. An hectare is approximately 2.47105381 acre (thereabouts) and the only compost he uses for everything (including his personal garden) comes from these cows. He's emphatic about how important they are to the farm and how they are the best indication for how things are going. Needless to say, as a very involved winemaker, he checks in with them daily.

We stood and talked about biodynamics while the cattle regarded me impassively, then he brought me to his vines. Vouette et Sorbée has been Demeter certified biodynamic since 1998. His neighbors do not farm organically, however. If I remember correctly, they sell most of their grapes to the bigger houses in Reims and Épernay including Veuve and Moet, both well-over an hour's drive. Making that type of farming a lucrative option, one must boost the yields of their vines exponentially through the use of chemical fertilizers and the like, forming a veritable "wall of grape clusters" as Bertrand puts it. It was a bit freakish-looking, even to a neophyte like myself.

I was there in September, so I got to taste a grape from each kind of vineyard; I got to witness the vitality of his vines in comparison to their's while they were still alive; I got touch the leaves and examine the clusters. It was all wonderfully educational to someone simply trying to understand what the hell biodynamics did, and what made them so different. The answer was far more tangible than anticipated. Bertrand ran to his van and brought back the garden fork. He scooped a chunk of soil from his neighbor's vineyards, and set it gently on the ground. Then he took a chunk of his own (below, left) and sat it right next to his neighbor's (below, right).

Unsurprisingly the differences were remarkable. Barely could you call these two things kin. On the one hand you had somewhat oily and flaccid mud, and on the other you had a fluffy, mossy pillow of soil with an earthworm for punctuation. Bertrand's soil smelled sweet and tasted even sweeter, while his neighbor's smelled like nothing at all so I decided not to taste it. In that moment, organic farming completely made sense to me.

We finished off the tour and went to his house where he opened a bottle of "Fidèle" (his 100% pinot noir), and chatted at his table. He said something that I've never forgotten as I was leaving that afternoon. When I wished him luck on his new importation into the US, he said graciously, "Thank you, but I hope that one day I wont have to import my wines to the US. You can make wine there, maybe one day you'll make your own champagne..." then I left. I'm not even sure if I responded.

Later that evening as I was sitting in a garden in Burgundy, drinking my glass of aligoté, I couldn't shake what he'd said. It was both mind-bendingly ludicrous and completely logical. If one is to view wine as a what it is––a necessary, but simple fermented beverage––then we don't need it to come from anywhere in particular: there's plenty of fruit in the United States from which to make "wine." All that's required is fresh fruit and time, which I'm pretty sure we still have here. It wont be champagne, but who's to say it couldn't be comparable. Or even better––better?

I pondered it for a while, feeling the occasional twinge of patriotism, then returned to my book. I was half-way through "The Omnivore's Dilemma" and completely unaware of how it, and a number of other books, would come to shape my future. Bertrand had planted quite a seed, it was about to receive some cultivation.

Alors, á la semaine prochaine, as they say in French––till next week.

Tony Coturri Talks About Biodynamics

Why listen to me, when you can listen to Tony Coturri? I love these videos and this man makes some of my favorite tipple in all the land. Also, is it ironic that most of the videos you can find on biodynamics are about wine and Rudolf Steiner was a teetotaller? Anyway, enjoy these - Tony Coturri is definitely a good source for information as well as inspiration (foreshadowing?).

Biodynamically Flavored Books

Yesterday, in observance of Valentine's day, I booked myself a flight to New York for Natural Wine Week and I'm now taking dance-card reservations, happy hour reservations, coffee reservations and dinner reservations that preferably need no reservations because homeboy (moi) is poooooooor-or. So hit me on the hip and we'll drink something funky.

In continuation of our biodynamically-themed week, I came across some books worth sharing. When I was first introduced to biodynamics I immediately tried to read some Rudolf Steiner but was rendered completely and utterly confused. Steiner makes for a fascinating read, and I've just recently been able to truly enjoy the lectures, but a preface to the philosophies is extremely helpful. I've still got a lot to learn about the subject, but these are the books that got me started.


Monty Waldin's "Biodynamic Wines" (pictured)
Monty has accomplished a wonderfully approachable read here, kicked-off by a mesmerizing introduction. The meat of the first half thoroughly outlines both the philosophies and preparations involved in biodynamics. The latter half of the book is dedicated to biodynamic winemakers across the world, and makes for invaluable reference material. I highly recommend this book for anybody even remotely curious in the practices.


Nicolas Joly's "What is Biodynamic Wines?"
Anyone familiar with Joly, knows he is decidedly dedicated to the philosophies of Steiner, and it helps to make his writing entertaining, engaging and exciting. Joly is among the more well-known proponents for biodynamics in winemaking and makes a very special set of wines in the Savennières region of the Loire Valley. This book is a bit more esoteric than Monty's but nonetheless an instant classic, covering a wider range of the spiritual aspects behind biodynamics. Also, the stuff about crystallization is pretty rad.

Gunther Hauk's "Toward Saving the Honeybee"
Without a doubt, one of my favorite books I read last year. It's depressingly short, however. I think I could happily read about Gunther Hauk's take on the world everyday and be happy. The book is technically about beekeeping, but limiting it to that would be incorrect and a mistake: this book is somehow about everything. Gunther does a superb job of demonstrating the personality behind biodynamics without being fancy, placating, or pretentious. He's just a delightful and honest dude. This is a book for everyone, curious about biodynamics or not. If beekeeping further interests you, there exists a book written by Steiner about the subject, which I've yet to read.

Also, pick up the Stella Natura Calendar. There are always some interesting articles by people like Jeff Poppen and Gunther Hauk, and then the calendar itself is fascinating, akin to the Farmer's Almanac, with a list of the best times to plant, to prune, etc.

That's where I started, and I'm admittedly still a newb to the subject, but the beauty of these practices is that the literature is so dense, there's always something new to learn from Steiner or his followers.

Biodynamic Preperations

I reckon I should probably at least touch on the subject of biodynamics going into Friday's post, yes? I don't want my blog to become so esoteric that it will lose that HBO-like, suspenseful, edge-of-your-seat feel I've been creating. It feels like that, right? Just let me know if it gets too... Soprano's-ish.

There are a lot of things that go into biodynamics, but I'm not going to go nuts here: knowing the basic principles, or the theories behind them––which I admit is a hard thing to pin down––is a good start. Historically, the man credited with the creation of biodynamics is a man by the name of Rudolf Steiner (also known for his work in Theosophy and Anthroposphy). In the 1920's he gave a series of lectures which formed the foundation of the agricultural practice we call biodynamics. He was considered by some to be a "seer" and he believed in a very special relationship between the cosmos and life on earth. He saw the effects of the moon and the constellations as more than just gravity, but forces; he saw the earth as a living organism; and he saw the earth as in need of healing and humans to be the stewards of it. The lectures can be hard to read, but if you ever get a chance to hear someone talk about the subject, go. Leave behind any pretense though, understanding biodynamics takes an open mind.

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Bugtussle 2010

One warm April evening, Eric and I were reflecting on the day near the upper garden, as we were want to do at the end of most days. Soon we would be planting it with our main-season tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, etc., and he suggested we spread some barrel compost, a biodynamic preparation developed by Maria Thun.

Out of a little box he pulled a slightly measured handful of dirt and put it into a five gallon bucket full of water. Now, this garden measures about an acre. Five gallons of water, I asked, are supposed to fertilize this whole acre? He explained that biodynamics isn't about substance, it's about forces. It's about intention. Then we stirred the water/compost mix with our arms for twenty minutes (though people will go for upwards of an hour), 30 seconds in one direction, creating a vortex, then stopping the water and going the other way, creating chaos. The Vortex brings the forces in. The chaos helps oxygenate and enliven the preparation. When twenty minutes had elapsed we grabbed a couple handfuls of rye grass, our own buckets and went out into the garden, dipping our rye switches into the water and gently slinging the mixture into the air. The reason you do this at night is because nighttime is when the earth is "breathing in," pulling moisture towards itself (dew) and we utilize this natural rhythm to "impregnate" the dew with our compost preparation.

Eric laughed and added, "Anything you can do to make your neighbors think you're crazy is probably good, too."

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Hopefully this story illustrates the idea that there is definitely something different about biodynamic agriculture than, say, conventional, or even just organic. And I'll be dammed if those tomatoes weren't amazing and if those peppers and eggplants didn't produce well into November. Literally. Extraordinary vitality. Not to mention how relaxing it was to stir and apply the compost. I have no idea if what Steiner preached is correct, but I have nothing to refute how effective these practices are, or how enjoyable they are to practice.

More later.

Easy

In lieu of doing a Valentine's day post tomorrow, I'm planning some post's on biodynamics... which is sorta like giving Valentine's to plants, so I suppose it's relevant. However, if you'd like some tips on buying Champagne, here's what I wrote for The Breedings' Blog for New Year's, and the same basic rules apply, but you don't have to stay up until midnight.

If you're needing to get even nerdier however, Brooklyn Guy just got back from Champagne and he's doing a pretty amazing series of posts about champagne that I recommend you read.

Happy Valentine's day, just don't take your date to yesterday's Vanderbilt game. Take her to last year's instead, she'll like that––time tarvel is romantic, as is winning

Take it away, LIONEL RICHIE!

Wine glass resonance in slow motion

How I Came to Live in a Barn: part 2

Welcome to Friday and another edition of "How I Came to Live in a Barn," the series that strives to connect drinking to farming as relevantly as humanly possible.

As a quick preface to this series, from April to December of 2010 I lived in a barn. No electricity, running water, twitter or bagels. During that time I worked on a legitimately (though proudly uncertified) organic farm in Southern Kentucky. This series is about the many whims, fascinations and revelations that eventually inspired me to drop everything and go farming. Once we catch up to the present, I'll use the occasion to explain what I'm up to now––beyond the blaug. Is this preface going to appear at the beginning of the entire series? Almost definitely. Ready? Wunderbar.

Part 2: Natural Wines

In last week's post I gave a shout-out to September Wines, the shop I helped manage for nearly 4 years. Their selection is made up of small-production, organic, biodynamic, and sustainably produced wines and it's where I was introduced to the subject of this week's posting: natural wines. Isn't all wine natural? Well, the most concise answer is... sorta. A lot can be done to remove wine from its natural state. In the same way that root beer was originally made from the fermented roots of Sassafras; the vast majority of wine these days is made more like Barq's than actual root beer. Make root beer someday, it's a very different monster, with health and medicinal qualities I doubt A&W strives to exploit. 

So defining natural wine is simply defining wine itself. Wine, in its essence, is fermented grape juice. It's the combination of grape sugars being consumed by yeast, the byproduct of which is alcoholic fermentation. Under the right circumstances, this results in the fermented beverage we call wine. Famed fermentation enthusiast Sandor Katz once said that fermentation is simply choosing what we want to happen to something. All living things will either rot or ferment––from our perspective, become either compost or preserved nutrients––we're just choosing their destiny. Natural wines are as close to that natural process as possible, without excessive filtration, use of industrial yeasts, sulfides or chemicals. This applies to both growing and vinification. Back then however, I had no idea what natural wines were, or why they tasted better than other wines, I just appreciated that they did.

I had booked a trip to France for the upcoming fall and a friend at Domaine Select had suggested I visit their new champagne producer. He was biodynamic, "right up my alley," he said, and made the appointment.

No wines taste quite like natural wines, and I was rendered endlessly curious because of it. When the opportunity arose to visit one of these biodynamic producers, I leapt at it, hoping to get to the bottom of what made these wines tick. That autumn I met a dude who offered me a more tangible understanding of biodynamics, and a better understanding of how sensitive of an agricultural product wine is. Unexpectedly, like my first experiences with natural wine, this compounded my curiosity infinitely. Next week, we'll tell the story of Bertrand Gautherot's many effects on my world, and how he helped perpetuate my growing love-affair with natural wines; a love-affair that started innocently enough, until one day I found myself living in a barn, more sober than I'd ever been. Ironically, all thanks to wine.

Happy Friday!