It was as I’d anticipated. Jerusalem, with its unique energy. Cool night air, lots of happy people milling around with wine glasses in their hands, gravel crunching underfoot, a good band, and the aroma of wine everywhere.

But…nobody walked up to me and asked, “Are you Mimi?” I had to give all my chocolates away to total strangers instead of to readers. I gave some to Baroness Tapuzina and Mr. B.T. too. We’d all driven up together and parked under the same friendly olive tree as last year.

And did I drink as much as last year? I hate to be a party pooper, but I had sips of this and that, amounting only to one glassful. I guess it’s because unlike last year, there was no full moon. Or I’m one year older and wiser.

But the music was fine, and the wine mighty fine, and altogether, we had a pretty good time.

We warbled along with the singer’s  slow, jazzy “Guantanamera.”

There was an artist drawing caricatures.

And sushi, although not being fond of it, I didn’t check its kashrut (or lack of).

There was a big stand with delicious cheeses for sale by the platter (you chose how many of each you wanted) or by weight.

And wine, wine, lovely wine. All the good kosher wineries were well represented, plus a few that aren’t kosher and some that will be by next year. Guess the religious crowd has caught on to the taste of good wine, and the merchants have caught on to a profitable new market. There were noticeably more religious folks present this year than last.

The crowd was happy and peaceful. Most folks came with friends and circulated around in sociable clumps. At no time were there friction, loud voices, or anything resembling unpleasantness. Maybe the NIS60 entrance fee filters out aggressive types, or the cultured location spooks them.

By 11:00, the event closed and we regretfully left Jerusalem, clutching our big new wineglasses. I washed and put mine away next to last year’s. I hope there will be a third and a fourth and more, in peaceful years to come.

He said, “How’re ya doing?” and extracted a bottle of wine from a backpack. “Brought some Merlot from two years ago.”

Tuvya and I get together about twice a year: once at the grape crush, and then once again sometime later at his house or mine. We compare our wines from the previous year and talk shop. He’s unusually relaxed about socializing with me, a woman not his wife. Partly because he knew my parents – we also have friends in common – but partly, I think, because my interest in homebrewing  sort of makes me one of the guys. I had entered the co-op on his introduction.

“Great, welcome to the new apartment,” I said. “I’ll bring a corkscrew and some glasses.”

The two others were Yechezkiel, an American baal-teshuva of many year’s standing, and his son Brumy (Avraham). They came to return the grape press they’d borrowed earlier – again, through Tuvya. Because of moving house, I didn’t make wine this year so my equipment was free.

I could tell the father and son felt uncomfortable in my house, which must not look at all like the homes they’re used to. They didn’t remove their big black hats and sat at a modest distance. Although well-mannered and pleasant, they didn’t  address me directly at first. They talked  to Tuvya instead. That was fine. Everyone has a set of mores to live by, and I don’t judge. I thought it quite forthcoming of them to bring the press back themselves.

Maybe a glass of this good Merlot  will put them a bit more at ease, I thought (it was fruity, with mellow oaky tannins, just soft enough).

I have to admit, I do get a kick out of being the only woman in this group. At the crush, some of the men don’t know what to make of me. Religious women don’t drink wine, right? Much less make it. Most, though, are just busy getting the work done. Weighing out the grapes, loading them into the crusher, sealing the big plastic barrels full of crushed grapes and juice. I’m the one that brings the scales, the hydrometer to measure the alcohol, the sanitizing materials.  The guys provide the muscle and call me “Rebbetzin.”

Two years ago at the crush, Yechezkiel and I had chatted briefly about making soap, his eyes never meeting mine out of modesty. It turns out that he buys a ton of olives every year and gets them crushed for oil. That intrigued me. I love olive oil. We discussed, not very seriously, making soap from his excess oil, then forgot about it in the business of the grape crush. Now he and his son were drinking wine at my table, talking about olives and olive oil.

“I’m not optimistic about the quality of the olives this year,” Yechezkiel said. “We’ve had early rainfall, and that’s not so good. The olives fill up with water instead of oil.”

“Same problem with grapes,” I said. “But there’s a kibbutz in the Negev that irrigates their olive groves with salt water, and their olive oil is delicious.

“I love the olive tree,” I went on, risking becoming personal. “Everything about the olive is noble. The tree itself is beautiful, the wood hard and good for carving, the leaves are medicinal, and the fruit makes the best oil.”

Behind their round glasses, Yechezkiel’s eyes lit up with understanding. “I’m planting a small grove on my property,” he said. “To please my wife, I’ve already put in lemons, figs, and pomegranates – a small grapevine too – but I really want to grow at least a quarter of a ton of olives.”

“Where do you crush your olives?”

“I buy them at a moshav up north and get them crushed there in a modern mill. I’m looking for somewhere else to crush them, though. I want it done the old-fashioned way, between two mill-stones. That way I can see everything that’s going on, and I can be 100% sure that the oil will be kosher all year round and for Passover.”

We have something in common, I thought. I’m another who loves to handle raw materials, make everything from the most basic scratch. Possibly because I find ancient, historical methods romantic. But that’s not a word I would use to this black-clad man with his distinction and his air of having just stepped out of the yeshivah.

Brumy, who had remained silent till now, gently said, “A drop of wine is rolling down the bottle – it’ll stain your white tablecloth.”

“This boy has a good mother,” I said, wiping the bottle, and everyone chuckled.

The magic of wine and of olives! The strangers had become, in a strange way, friends.

The Anjou pears of The Colors of November were pretty, but rather dry and not very sweet. Looking around the kitchen, I saw a bottle of summer fruit wine that was half-full. To use everything up, I made a wine syrup and made Poires au Vin, and everyone was glad I did.

Pears in Wine

6 servings

Ingredients:

Ingredients:

6 large, firm pears

3 cups dry or semi-dry wine

1 1/2 cup white sugar

1 stick of cinnamon

Method:

Choose a pan into which the pears will fit with a little room to spare. In it, pour the wine and the sugar. Add the cinnamon. Simmer the wine and sugar for 10 minutes, uncovered.

Meanwhile, peel the pears, leaving the stem on. It just looks pretty that way.

Gently place the pears in the wine syrup. Cover the pot and tilt the lid to let the steam escape. Cook the pears over a low fire for 30 minutes or till tender, turning them over 15 minutes into the cooking so that they absorb the syrup all over and come out colored evenly. If you use a red wine, they will be almost burgundy.

Chill the pears and serve each one in a small bowl with some of the syrup.

Even small children like this simple fruit dessert.

Readers of this blog know that I make my own wine at home. I buy the grapes in a co-op purchase;

watch them go through a crusher set up in someone’s parking lot or backyard;

and take them home to my apartment. The other co-op winemakers do the same. I wrote a poem about it a while ago. Of course, my family has to tolerate two big barrels in the living room for several days.

Then there’s a holy mess in the kitchen when I press the juice out of the grapes.

And there are the carboys, taking up space around the house but providing a conversation starter when receiving guests (“And how’s the wine coming along?”).

I love traveling to visit wineries, as a recent post shows. But most are only accessible by car, which means planning a few hours to get there, do a little tour, taste some wine, choose a bottle or 6, and take it home. I easily admit that my home-made wine doesn’t nearly reach the excellence of professionally-made wine, but it’s still pretty good, and worth the effort to make. I also love to know that other people here are making wine at home.

Now if only there were more urban wineries in Israel…I hear there’s a good one in Ramat HaChayal…

The Baroness drove, and Mr. Baroness, holding the map, directed. They bickered gently up front, and I lolled happily around in the back seat. So good to get away from the round of shopping, cooking, and washing up that consume the holidays when Yom Tov falls in the middle of the week. Never mind all that – our picnic lunches were carefully packed, the day was sunny and mild, and we were in a mood of pleasant anticipation.

At first we talked about the things that fill our heads and keep us compelled all day – work, colleagues, travel, politics, the economy. The cities and highways fell behind. Soon we were driving through higher country, traveling on roads that ran among vineyards and plowed fields. The talk fell into an easier, relaxed mode. We retold old stories, argued about this and that, touched on the ever-absorbing topic of food, got lost and found the way again. Eventually we arrived at Kibbutz Tzora, parking near the pub.

That bale of hay amused and baffled me. Why park a bale of hay in front of your pub? Maybe someone just thought it looked cute.

Anyway, there is also a kosher winery on the pleasant grounds, with a grape arbor covering the entrance walkway. To the right there were several wooden tables, covered in attractive red tablecloths. No doubt the winery arranges evening tastings, or meals where you can sit with friends and while the time away over glasses of that good wine…

The visitor’s center was small, but well-lit, clean, and friendly. The kashrut certificates were easy to spot:

I bought my one bottle there: a full-bodied, single-vineyard Merlot called Shoresh. I’m glad I bought my wine there because it was the best winery we were able to visit that day. Apart from the Merlot, I tasted a delicious Rose and a white dessert wine that was too sweet for my palate, but which Mr. Baroness enjoyed.

The hostess was much cuter than the bale of hay, so I asked her to pose:

And then we went on our way.

The next winery on our trail was Mony. This one intrigued us because it is on the grounds of the Dir Rafat Monastery. It was bought from the monks by a private family, and the wines have, strangely enough, been kosher since 2005. It has earned 3 stars from the respected wine critic Daniel Rogov, but I found the wines, at least the kosher ones I tasted, pretty awful. Others present, tasting the pre-kosher vintages, assured me that they were better. I’ll take their word for it.

What was interesting to me was the tasting/party room. It was a cave where at one time, the monks had covered the floor with straw, and grown mushrooms.

Apart from wine, there were hand-pickled olives, jerrycans of olive oil, honey, and vinegar for sale.

Since it was chol ha mo’ed (the week of Sukkot), some of the wineries we planned to visit were closed. I was disappointed that Tepperberg was closed for renovations, and so was Katlav. In fact, we visited no more wineries. But we did see a spectacularly happy sukkah:

…and settled down for a picnic in a woods. A few picnic tables, some trees and rocks with lizards sunning themselves, and three hungry winos. Baroness Tapuzina and Her Better Half had sandwiches of Corsican Basil Bread, which looked divine. The recipe is on the Baroness’s blog. (I looked kind of measly with my few slices of cheese in a pitta.) They brought crisp potato chips. I brought vegetable soup in a thermos. Sliced cucumbers, green and black olives, and bottled water, and that was the sum of it. It wasn’t splendid, but it did the trick. The only thing really missing was some coffee. I had thought of making tehina cookies, but the holiday cooking had worn me out, so I didn’t. The funny thing was, the Baroness had also thought to make tehina cookies, but didn’t, for the same reason. It wouldn’t have been so bad if we’d both brought. More cookies for us!

This area was set up for campfires. It must be fun, on Lag B’Omer, to sit around on those stone benches and gaze into the leaping flames.

We sighed, stretched ourselves, and piled back into the car. It was time to go home.

What a relaxing day – at least for me, who didn’t drive. I am keeping my bottle of Shoresh from Tzora for a while, to get over the travel shock before I open it. Something nice to look forward to, and a pleasant souvenir of my day on the wine trail.

With a Baroness, no less.

Today I bottled a gallon of Merlot with Apple/Cranberry juice. It was a problem, refraining from empying one of those bottles by myself. But you judge how it looks:

And sitting in a spill of sunshine, it looked so pretty…

So I took these garlic chive flowers

and did this to them:

and now have this vinegar.

Leda’s book includes recipes for making your own vinegar. You go, Leda!

I enjoy exchanging a word with all of them, but Avi is my pal. We talk recipes, commiserate over each other’s health tsuris, wish each other a “Shabbat Shalom” when I’m in the supermarket on a Friday. It’s become my habit to give him a bottle of my home-made wine every year on his birthday. If I forget his birthday, he’ll remind me, no problem. I know his taste: he likes wine to be on the sweet side.

So this year I took a bottle of my Summer Fruit wine around to the supermarket. This is a wine made with peaches, apples, pears, the odd bag of cherries, apricots, or strawberries that’s been sitting in the freezer. When the wine is ready, I add a tiny bottle of rose essence and let it sit for another couple of weeks. Each batch improves as my skills improve, and this year it was very good indeed. Kind of on the strong side, though. I had been careless about gauging the alcohol by volume, but figured it was around 15%.

Well, I gave it to Avi, who thanked me and put the bottle away quickly. The following week, I stopped by the fresh meat counter, and the three of them were there, smiling at me. I looked from one to the other. Actually, they were grinning.

“What is it? Something funny about me today?”

Reuven and Serge said nothing, but got on with their chopping and wiping spaces down, smiling all the while. Avi put on a mock-solemn face and said,

“You don’t know what a bomb you dropped here, Miri.”

I was startled. “For Heaven’s sake…was it my wine?”

“It was good. And strong! It must have had 17% abv. I opened the bottle here and we all drank some – next thing, we were all standing around laughing. The customers kept asking what was so funny. We couldn’t exactly tell them we’d been drinking on the job.”

The two others smirked. I rolled my eyes.

Next year, I’m baking Avi a cake.

Highway 6 slid away under our wheels and

Night dropped down.

We drove on to Beit Shemesh;

Ahead a storm gathered.

Fat drops spattered on the windshield.

From the passenger seat I watched

Long white legs of lightning stalking the sky

Between the rising Judean hills.

Thunder clapped: Attention!

The incandescent hills replied: Behold us.

My companion said:

“My hi-tech job is killing me.

I want to sell the house,

Give up the job,

Plant a vineyard in Emek Jezreel

And grow old there with my wife.”

The windshield wipers swished.

I sat silent. I too have my dreams.

In a parking lot:

Six bearded men in kippot

Standing around a grape crusher.

Their wives in apartments upstairs

Putting the children to bed

Me, standing to one side.

“She makes wine,” someone explained.

They shrugged .

In flat boxes lie the dusty black clusters;

Succulent round berries

Packed tightly on their stems.

Heft a whole one in your hand before you

Hoist a box-full and dump them

Into the metal rectangle

Where inside, a lathe starts turning.

Crushed fruit, seeds exposed

Bleeding purple juice

Streams forth richly, spilling;

Fills our blue plastic barrels.

From out there in the Judean hills,

A gust of cool, wet wind

Carries sharp odors of wild herbs.

It makes me turn away from

The business of the crush,

Turn my eyes towards those dark hills.

The men haul more boxes forward

Tumble grapes into the crusher

Under the electric light.

The Judean hills press in a little closer.

I know that

Lightning walks their dark terraces.

Over there, great white flickers suddenly part the night,

Reveal pines and brush swaying obedient,

Impartially reveal the ancient winepress.

Two basins carved into the living white rock,

A narrow carved channel between. Gat.

Who imagines now

The joyful harvests of ancient times?

They must have walked singing

Straight from vineyard to gat

In late afternoon, in September:

Men and women with tanned arms

Bearing baskets woven of green olive twigs

Baskets full of black fruit.

In the upper basin, our fathers crushed their grapes

Trampling, they must have shouted and laughed.

The rich juice flowed down its stone channel –

Those waiting by the lower basin

Rushed to fill up clay jugs.

Later, tired and quiet,

They must have walked home in the dark;

Stashed their jugs away inside a cool cave.

Nothing but cold water pours down the stone basins tonight.

The white rock, once stained purple

Sleeps another thousand years.

All the same, we still make wine.

“There you are, Rebbetzin, your lot is done.”

We pack our barrels into the car,

Turn around in the parking lot and start heading home.

I look back. In the circle of light,

The bearded men by the crusher

Are still pouring grapes in.

Parking-lot gat.

Bold as brass