My feet are purple. Just kidding, I have a turn-crank grape crusher.
I decided I want to make wine this year. When we lived near my Nana, we would press a little here or bottle a little there, but we had never carried out the entire process start-to-finish. Now, we live a few hours away from her, so if we want to make wine, we have to do it ourselves. Unsupervised. I had pieced together the process in my head, and I was ready to give it a try.
I was actually ready to give it a try last year, but I had a very tiny, high-need baby and I was lucky to get my teeth brushed. I somehow just couldn’t make wine a priority.
But this year, my kids were a little older. And sleeping, kind of. Sleeping enough to make wine.
So, I call Nana.
Me: Nana, we’re making wine this year. How many gallons will I get out of 8 crates of grapes?
Nana: Just-a tell me whadda you want. Too much-a work. I do for you.
(Says the woman whose kids have no clue how to make wine.) I ignore her dismissal and persist. Persistence is a requirement of carrying southern Italian genes. Well, some call it persistence. Others call it capa tosta.
Tomayto, tomahto. Anyway…
Me: How many gallons I will get out of 8 crates?
Nana: Don’t make wine. Too much-a work. You go crazy. You don’t know what you’re doing. You break-a you back. You tell me how much you want, I do for you. [20 more minutes of pleading…]
Me: Okay, I’ll get 8 crates. Thanks for your help.
After about 12 more phone calls just like this one, she gets the idea that I’m not backing down and we go through the process while I take notes.
It took me nearly two decades to learn how to jackhammer Nana’s firm ground. Not many people can do it.
Coming soon…how to make wine, the old-school Southern Italian way. Yep, we’re revealing secrets up in here.