Harvest

“How can they expect a harvest of thought who have not had the seed time of character”

-Henry David Thoreau

The heat of summer has mellowed into early fall. The morning sun no longer assaults as it rises, the dew sits on the patio a little longer each day and the breeze actually has a cooling effect. The days warm to a point of pleasure instead of pain and the ocean feels colder during our afternoon swims. The long summer evenings are gone--we still eat dinner al fresco, but we eat sooner, and we need sweaters and a bright candle to enjoy our food.

The crowds that stormed Carloforte in August have all gone home and once again it is quiet and peaceful. The cacti are “flowering” with buds of cactus fruit, and the migrating flamingos have taken on a distinctly pinkish hue. The season is changing and we will soon leave this lovely place.
The other day, our landlord Rafaella invited us over to join their annual harvest of uva (grapes). Needless to say, we were excited to have something to do for a change.
Rafaella and her husband Salvatore live at the northern edge of town, while “nonno” and “nonna” Rosso (the grandparents) live on the adjacent property. The Rossos have lived in Carloforte since the village was formed—they are original Carlofortini, descendents of the original 200 settlers given land to harvest.
Both families have several acres of land--Rafaella’s is primarily devoted to their 3 horses and a large vegetable garden. The quintessential Italian mother, she’s always sending us home with delicious bounty from her garden: zucchini, potatoes, tomatoes, watermelon, mint plants, and even capperi (capers) that she picks from her own plants, coats into a salt bath, and preserves in a vinegar/water mixture. I often confuse the word “capperi” (capers) with “capelli” (hair)—a mistake that Rafaella thinks is a riot.
The grandparent’s property is primarily devoted to grapevines, from which the family wine is made. Nonno makes a rough and rustic “blush” blend combing all uve on their property regardless of variety, size, color and quality.
By the time we arrived that day, the sun had burned away the cool morning clouds and the whole family was already hard at work. As usual, everyone turned out for the event. Salvatore has two sisters, both married with children, and we’ve come to know the whole gang—aunts, uncles, cousins. Over the summer, we’ve joined them for lazy afternoons at the beach, gelato in the piazza and late evening strolls on the lungomare. We’ve been invited to family dinners, and met for pizza at their favorite restaurant (La Conca, on the other side of the island.) In a sense, they’ve taken us under their warm Italian wing.
The instructions we were given for harvesting the grapes was simple: “tutte le uve”—all the grapes. Jenna and I were given clippers, while Jeff was ushered back to help out with the “crushing” of the grapes in a huge manual masher.
The vines were heavy with clusters of varying color and size that, to our untrained eyes, appeared to represent several different varieties – small, light green round grapes with a tinge of red, greenish-yellow grapes, larger dark green oval grapes and even deep blue ones. I popped a few into my mouth, and they tasted sour-sweet, warm and soft and seedy.
We expressed some concern with sorting protocol, but were reminded with a smile “tutte le uve”, all the grapes were to be cut and mixed together. With clippers in hand, we worked our way down the orderly rows, cutting the clusters and filling up the buckets. Bending, squatting, reaching, breathing in the smell of grapes and sun-baked earth, it felt so good to get hot and sweaty and tired from actually working.
Harvest is immediately satisfying work. Whether it’s a grape or a tomato, a pumpkin or peach, it’s that point in time a plant strives for, the whole point of its existence, that peak zenith moment when it so readily lets go of the thing it’s been nurturing, its creation. We cut and cut and cut, and as each bucket filled, we lugged it back to the “crushing” area. No selective process, no sorting, no de-stemming, we unceremoniously dumped the whole kit-and-caboodle into the masher and cranked away, slowly turning the mixture in the large fermenting vat.
An impressive assortment of insects buzzed around the top of the vat, drawn to the smell of the fruity broth.
It was no-nonsense wine making, taken down to the basic elements: cut grapes, squish grapes, save juice. Tomorrow, the mixture would be pressed to separate juice from skins and stems.
Without filtration, yeast or sulfates, the juice was bound for barrel sometime next week where it would remain until approximately next November when it would be “bottled” into reused (and pretty clean) gallon jugs. Certainly, the ancient art of winemaking can get much more complicated, but nonno Rosso’s technique was about as simple as it gets.
The kids helped by taking turns at the crank wheel, but soon became bored with the effort of work and darted inside the cool house to sit on the floor and dress up Barbies (girls) or hang Barbies by their necks (boys). Much teasing and taunting was had by both.
After a few hours, we’d picked all the grapes, and I imagined I could hear the vines breathe a collective sigh of relief, basking in a job well done, their mission complete, purpose fulfilled, time now to finally rest and relax.
Afterward, we all sat around the long dining table for a hearty midday meal, feasting on pesto lasagna, marinated vegetables, stuffed tiny peppers and wine (the product of last year’s harvest). After the meal was finished and the dishes were taken away, I was so tired my eyes could barely stay open.
I was grateful when, minutes later, Rafaella walked over to me and said, “Now, we sleep” and I nodded in agreement and said, “Si, anche noi” (yes, us too).
For the first time in months, we actually had a REASON for an afternoon siesta, and it was good.


NEXT UP: Arrivederci Carloforte