Today, we crushed half a ton of Cabernet Sauvignon grapes.
What does this have to do with writing?
Nothing, except that I was able to do a little writing beforehand, and then (after a quick trip to the gym) devote the rest of the day to crush.
What a mess!
There we were in a parking lot in Georgetown bent way down into bins and picking leaves (and bugs!) off the grapes or, after they went through the crusher and mostly destemmer, picking out the rest of the stems. For hours. (We did take a quick break for chicken, provolone, and prosciutto sandwiches with, naturally, wine.)
I was going to take pictures, but I became immediately much too sticky to touch anything. (Imagine your hands in a swamp of grape berries and juice.)
And everyone got to take a turn at pushing the button on the crusher-destemmer. (No feet were involved in the making of this wine.)
Merlot is in the barrel, Cabernet Sauvignon is cold soaking, and Cabernet Franc is still on the vine. More fun to come, and then two years to wait.
All this creativity, and the mess and the must and anticipation of fermentation surely is a metaphor for poetry—but right now, I'm too tired to dip into the details.