CIDER REVOLUTION

21 October -- Crystie Kisler was still in her PJs when we arrived (admittedly early) at Finnriver Cidery, to drop off our wild apples. In truth, Susan and I had been hurried that morning too, pulling over on Washington’s Route 104 at the last minute to pick the small feral apples that grow along the roadside: scrabbling up and down mud-slicked embankments, peeling away brambles that clung to our legs like whiney toddlers. With our bounty overflowing Susan’s colorful Zulu baskets came the promise of a free bottle of hooch made from this harvest of apples gleaned throughout Jefferson County; dropped off by us and others who were unpredictably eager to taste apple wine and hard cider in the early Sunday hours.

Too early. Crystie fluttered back and forth like a nervous sparrow, putting out flyers and snacks between pours of cider. At one point a gangly bed-headed boy walked in with a delivery of serving trays: Crystie’s eldest son, River. On completing his chores he asked for a piece of the chocolate Crystie was putting out. ‘After you bring me my wool skirt,’ she replied, and continued to set up the tasting room, doling out sips of elegant and rustic ciders. When he returned with the skirt, she immodestly pulled it on over her leggings; a swing of wool beneath the heavy sweater that hung rather limply on her twiggy frame. (Littlest son Coulter – about 4 – milled around silently in a large tri-cornered pirate hat and shimmery coat.)

Today, on World Apple Day, Finnriver Cidery was collecting natural heirloom apples (those not bio-engineered or bred for sweet-toothed American tastes) to create a ‘Backyard Blend’ of hard cider. Apple donors will get a share commensurate with their tonnage (or poundage, as is more accurate) and the balance of proceeds will go to support the local food bank.

Finnriver is cultivating more than just apples and berries on their 33-acre farm: a strong sense of community exists on the compound (I want to call it a commune) reached by a windy dirt road in Chimacum, past clever signs asking, in rhyme, for visitors to drive slowly, keep the dust down, and mind kids and critters.

There is a wind turbine (we don’t see) and several small houses and even smaller (frightfully so, for a claustrophobic like me) cabins that house workers and interns, set off from the large pavilion, where random chairs and bales of hay provide community seating around a generous oven suitable for firing pizzas and breads, and to take the chill off the numbing cold of the Pacific Northwest.

As she pours, a tangle of hair jutting out from beneath her wool beanie, Crystie tells us, “We think the more complex apples will make a more complex cider.” Small or large; the size doesn’t matter, “it’s the tannins and character we’re after.” Most Americans prefer sweet apples, but these don’t make the best cider she says. Referring often to ‘old world’ taste, she serves up hearty sips of ciders that are tart, clean, mineral.

While Crystie describes each sample, more donors arrive with apples: from Dungeness, and Port Angeles. One of the patrons offers to go out and help a newly arrived woman, Ellen, lug her boxes of apples to the bin.

“We are just three years into this,” Crystie explains, “’Let’s try this. Let’s try that.’ Sometimes it’s dangerous.” One such case could be the fir infused botanical cider. She calls it a ‘culinary adventure’ – I liken it to a fizzy Christmas tree. But the small company is unrestrained by corporate dictates, so there is indeed a new-world sense of exploration – even euphoria – in their endeavors. Open-mindedly they experiment, bound along the way to hit some snags, but presumably more successes.

Other samplings:

Artisan Sparkling Cider: won a double gold in the 2011 Seattle Wine Awards. “We thought they didn’t realize it was from apples,” she exclaims. It’s fermented with champagne yeast, crisp, dry, sophisticated, with a neat finish.

Farmstead Sparkling Cider: she prefaces with a ‘warning’. Aged on the lees, it’s much more rustic than the earlier sample. Earthy, mineral, with a hint of citrus or lemongrass.

Sparkling Pear Cider: notable perfume and a hint of sweetness – a blend of organic apples and pears. Delicious.

Dry Hopped Sparkling Cider: attempt to ‘address the plethora of beer drinkers’ in the Jefferson County market, she explains, “It’s like drinking a meadow.”  I found it tart and soapy: perhaps beer is something best left to the breweries.

Sparkling Black Currant Cider: Susan liked this one, but it reminded me too much of cough syrup I took as a child. Still, I could see it with holiday toasts, or game dinners. Rabbit, venison, boar (If anyone knows where to shop for boar these days …)

Seasonal Botanical Ciders: with their Wells Fargo Wagon elixir type labels. Lavender, Fir, Cranberry, Rhubarb. Novelty ciders in small releases. (Thankfully - in the case of the fir ... )

Apple & Pear Sweet Wines: “The sexy, sophisticated side of the apple” Crystie says. Cider fortified with brandy, intense fruit flavors. I want to shove the wine aside and indulge on the rich, heady brandy.

Fruit Brandy Wines: I try the blueberry. It’s absolutely delicious and intense, without being cloying. It slides down easily, and at 18.5% alcohol content, is welcomingly warming on a frisky day.

Crystie refers to a 9/15/2012 article in the WSJ on the cider renaissance, calling it ‘historical’ and part of the ‘locavore movement.’ So over the next week we go on to explore every winery and cidery we can find, within an hours perimeter – with much success and mirth. But that report (and the image upload) will have to wait for another time …

Northwest comments

10/20

I can see how you could get depressed up here. The dismal sky pressing down, crushing the tree tops, smothering everything with the same dull gloom. Asphyxiating.

And I can see how at some point in life, there is more past than future. And if you are on that (unstoppable) treadmill – the past receding to shadowy memories astern; the threshold ahead loomimg larger every day – it could be depressing as well. 

But that is not me. I have my past. But I have my future too.

A birthday, uncelebrated

The inlet, slick black like marble, reflects the stars in its stillness.

Few lights betray this tender slip of land. The embers of my little cigar. The flash of headlights through distant woods. The blue flicker of tv next door, like a thunderstorm encapsulated within the boxy walls.

Across the way the great blue has roosted in a lofty pine. The stream, where the otters live, untiringly flows.

The big dipper nests perfectly, like a saucepan, over the silhouette of the forest. I have seen it – on end, upended, topsy turvy, around the globe. This world is a beautiful place. What a gift to have seen so much of it. 

                                                                                                                   

Oh Brooke, you left us much too soon. Do you watch this from above, and delight?

Washington. The state.

You’ve probably never seen the movie FLESH GORDON. But if you have, you know what I mean when I say the First Class seats on Virgin America have these ridiculous penisaurus-like phalli sprouting out from between the headrests, all cockeyed (haw haw haw! i am hysterical over this pun!) and curious with big-one-eyed stupor. If were a man – a real man – there is no way in hell I would fly First Class with one of those things sticking out by my head.

Yes. Another flight. This time: Seattle. But what does it matter. I am tired of moving around and tired of staying put. So this trip is part work, part respite. A touch of cool, of relaxed; a change-of-scenery; a visit; an unzip-the-skull-mind-opening-brain-draining-reset between the pages (to be written: mine).

I arrived eight hours ago – a pleasant blur of tall pine trees from the conspicuous red Jeep simmering oil as it bounced down the road; bridges, harbors, fjords and mountains pointed out; a fabulous dinner; and magic water. Of all the things on my mind as I sink into my second story bed beneath the timbers, as the wind whistles and rattles the blinds; it’s the water. Susan has me started on the magic water and already it’s having an anticipated (not eagerly) effect. The sleepy ginger cat lifts his head as my tummy rumbles; it brings to mind the  giardia episode. But I won’t get into that here and now. Time for rest.

WRITING PROMPT

“At first I didn’t know it was fire.”

I’m in a writer’s workshop led by Mary Sojourner, with several other eager disciples. We are by no means novices – the group (OWAC) is not for wannabes; but established, credentialed writers, editors, and even a scruffy publisher who looks like he just rolled in on the “3:10 to Yuma” – greasy hair slicked away from his leathered face, conspicuously sporting a tall felt bowler and long duster, despite the heat.

We’re in the back dining area at Tamarack Lodge, a boxy room lined with knotty pine paneling and old black and white photos, and crowded with tables and chairs. Orange glass lamps are hung too low from the ceiling. We are seated in uncomfortable straight-backed chairs at a cluster of plywood tables (clearly meant for linens) drinking too-strong coffee.

Mary is seated in front of a picture window, through which I can see leaves dancing in the wind like jingling bells. But she’s back lit, so I can’t see her face or expressions. I merely see the silhouette of her round head bob as she doles out anecdotes, wit and suggestions. She’s wise and irreverent. Candid. A little inappropriate. Citing the works of Kerouac and London, she remarks, ‘And that was before hallucinogens,’ (drawing out the word into a seven-syllable, five second utterance), ‘in the days of alcohol, peyote and very bad dope.’

She tells us to slow down. She doesn’t have the answers, she says. She provides a writing prompt, forbids us from stopping, sits demurely (she will bristle at that suggestion, no doubt) keeps track of our 20 minute time allowance, and then we read.

“At first I didn’t know it was fire.

I was at the tail end of the trail ride, eating the dirt of the preceding horses: 20 clip-clopping hooves stirring up the chalky loam on the track to Rainbow Falls in the Eastern Sierra. I rubbed my tongue over the grit covering my teeth, as the rolling, tumbling clouds of dust blocked the guide from my view.

I elected to bring up the rear, I said, because I wanted to trail Lindsey, who had never ridden a horse before; and her mount – a fat-assed mule named Hillbilly – was indeed taking advantage of that; routinely veering off course, going right when the rest went left, and stopping and starting at will. So I stayed behind to marshal her …But in truth, I wanted some solitude. I am a sailor and the ocean is my first love. So I desired a little time alone – an ‘affair’ if you will – with the land.

I was out of earshot of Bobby, the trail guide, and missed his snippets of information about the trail, the Sierras, the falls, the fire. So when we bent around the granite outcropping, and surveyed the mountainside covered with scorched tinder – so many sticks poking up into the bluebird sky; so many logs laying catawampus on the ground – I was aghast. The hills had looked so peaceful and green.  But these stumps looked like legions of tombstones. Like death.

Eventually the word worked its way back. It had been a fire, 20 years ago, that had devastated this sweep of mountains, rushed through the valley, and left these skeletons in its wake. And here – two decades later – was the most nominal regrowth. The slightest hint of regeneration. I never knew a fire could cause such devastation for so long.

So I suppose I am to be writing something fictitious.                         

And how it would be clever to segue into some tale of trial and tribulation … about how the forest fires of our lives can leave decades of devastation, and how hard it is for something new to take hold in the charred soil. And yet, how a plush carpet of green is pushing up between the remains …”

We sit in somewhat humility and awe, presenting our work with apologies and disclaimers, and even though her criticisms are meager (she says nothing about either of the pieces I read. I am either very, very good, or very, very bad) I walk away feeling inspired.

Mary gives me a lift back to the hotel, moving the two stuffed toy ‘guardians’ from the passenger seat to the debris field in the back. We talk easily (‘You’re poor?’ she asks. ‘I’m a writer,’ I emphasize. She nods.) and I notice more than one similarity between us (which I will not reveal, to preserve our dignity).  She gives me a book (“Delicate”) which she refuses to sign (‘W don’t sign for friends, only customers.’) and I feel as if I want to run back to my room and write. I don’t ... but I know I can.

PRACTICE MAKES ...

PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT

Today’s ‘practice day’ was a day of chaos, and the skippers arrived on stage for their ‘meet the public’ stage show still weary and wearing their PFDs beneath their team shirts. What a pity: these buff sailor boys looking all pudgy and Pillsbury Doughboy-like

I was impressed (and consoled) by their admittance of how challenging the boats and venues are; having felt the new AC has left the rest of us sailors behind. Today’s quotes are very telling:

Terry Hutchinson:         “Every day of match racing is sudden death.”
 Yann Guichard:           “It’s my first time racing in San Francisco – a really challenging place. The conditions were really tweaky.”

Dean Barker:               “We had a little incident” (they flipped) “It’s part of the game now: you make a mistake, and you pay for it.”           

Ben Ainslie:                  “This was a great initiation to the AC45s … I would have enjoyed a gentler introduction.”

“Maxx” Sirena:             (when asked about their ‘spectacular capsize’ last week) “Maybe it was spectacular to you, but not us … obviously we chose the San Francisco venue to do that the first time. And the conditions are tough, it could happen again.”

Russell Coutts:             “It’s a challenging venue.”

Nathan Outteridge:    “We had a bit of a swim the other day … still working out where the limits are.”

Phil Robertson:            (late for the press conference: ‘picking seaweed out of his teeth’) “We went down pretty hard. It was like the first hill of a rollercoaster: I just held on and closed my eyes.”

J.R. Hildebrand – AKA “Captain America” Indy 500 Race Car star and Rookie of the Year – who went on a ride along on one of the boats.

“You don’t have to be going 200 miles an hour to feel like you’re hauling ass … I was very impressed to see how sensitive the boats are, the teamwork, how streamlined (the interactions) are … My job was to stay out of the way and hold on!”

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Marina Green was amok with the noises and commotion of set-up. Fork lifts unloading (and sometimes dropping) crates from trucks, quads of burly men (one trailing a dog on a leash, which worries me he’ll trip) carting and positioning panels and displays; cables being laid; tents set up; banners unfurled … for someone (me) who has termed the America’s Cup “over-privileged adults enjoying a costly recess…” I defer to the building excitement. 

Several boats slide by the waterfront park, their mainsails towering visibly over the detritus. Fast. “Did you see that?!” Sharon asked as one zipped closely by. But I had turned my head for just a second, and missed it completely: they were that fast. And they weren’t even trying … yet.

Today is the official practice race. We leave the hotel in an hour to walk to the green for the official media meet-and-greet-the-skippers. Later Sharon will head out on a photo boat, where she’ll be positioned to shoot the AC45s as they approach the windward mark; while I head back to the hotel -- to finish up some work so I’m freed up to watch the races the rest of the week (and potentially shoot: both Sharon and Leslie want crowd & color scenes; our M.O. being that they pre-set the buttons on the cameras, tape them over, then I can just snap – LOL).

The fog horns have been bellowing all night – a promise of wind on the race course. Getting a bit excited … 

San Francisco, CA 21 Aug 2012

PHOTO: Sharon & AC book cohorts (L-R) John Owen, co-publisher; Bob Fisher, co-author; Insight Editions Director Michael Madden