Arise, ye prisoners of
fermentation!
Arise, ye bunches of the earth!
For justice thunders
vinification:
A better drink's in birth!
You read elsewhere how we spent last Saturday, Christine and I.
When the final whistle blew, and when the final glass was empty, we toddled off to a threesome of exception. It is indeed a whistle's job to blow, and a glasses' job to be left standing dry. It was then quite logically my job to try and follow Marcel Bühler's "bétaillère" (= livestock transporter) down the road from Trilla to the very bottom level of the Fenouillèdes. Gosh, this flying Appenzeller scorches trough corners and straight lines alike.
"Hit the road, Luc!", Christine kept saying to me, by way of encouragement. But I, for one, feared I wouldn't come back no more, no more, no more.
We finally made it to the home of Carrie, Marcel and Jordi.
The first time they were with us, juntos, was somewhere between the celebration day of Saint-Nicolas and the US Santa, in the year 2013. But not everybody knew. Jordi still needed another 6 months to make his presence fully felt. But I kind of guessed ...
His parents are "Heimat grosser Weine", as the Austrians would have it. And they also produced this little sweetie.
Dad used to be a banker of a kind, in far away Switzerland. The details of his occupation there are ... a secret, as you well imagine.
Mum was a tailor then, and she sewed his first blue jeans, way down in Oregon.
They then met in the House of the Rising Juice, le Domaine des Enfants,
(NB: not to be confused with Domaine des Enfants Sauvages, another type of german-speaking winery in adjacent Aude area).
And the juice indeed did rise, giving birth to Jordi in the merry month of June 2014.
We see "not enough" of each other, as small size wineries are quite a handful to tackle, but we now and again run into one another and "cyber-communicate" regularly. My exaggerated freedom of speech somehow bothers Carrie's mother - so I've been told - but some of her close friends approve of my wickedness. Therefore, the couple still tolerates my presence and pretends to remain blind to my politically incorrect insolence.
Oculos habent et non videbunt. You do like psalms, don't you?
To edulcorate my overpresent silly mind, they had invited a youth friend of Carrie, and an American writer. This made for a pleasant evening, where small talk very frequently made way for chewing, gulping, swallowing ... our host is an excellent cook.
We paid tribute to New-Zealand chardonnay, to Austrian Zweigelt, to "Saar-Gold" (Scharzhofberg Riesling) and to so many other liquid masterpieces.
Then, à contrecoeur (grudgingly), I signalled Christine it was time to leave and,
as my very own corneas are at odds with the obscurity of night-time,
she took hold of the wheel and accompanied her companion on the decline, homewards.
Thanks to all of you, folks, for a smashing* evening.
* The pumpkins were left behind.
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