So we finished up the picking on a Thursday afternoon--the last two hours of which in a torrential rain--and I delivered my final load of the harvest (#117) to the winery at approximately 5:20pm. Two days before, I had bet Ned we'd have 120 total loads for the harvest. He bet 115. His guess was one closer than mine, so yet another pie is coming Ned's way, and my 0-fer record on the prop bets is still perfect.
After my last load had been delivered, the entire crew came up to the winery to celebrate the end of harvest by sampling the first two jugs (approx. 5 liters each) of Bret's legendary Harvest Ale, the balance of the two kegs to be enjoyed two days later at the official Harvest Party.
The party was to start at noon on Saturday and last until the last person left--which could be sunrise the next day for all anyone cared. I had to come in at nine to do some work in the winery before hand. The first thing Nick says to me (after the obligatory "good morning" of course) was "Okay, get your kit off?" You know you're in for an interesting day when the first thing your boss tells you to do is take off your pants. Easy folks. No, I do not have a sexual harassment case now pending against my employer. They had pumped the juice from one of the fermentors, and into a settling tank, before my arrival, and it was my job to "dig out" the skins from the fermentor to be loaded into the press. The only way to do this is to jump into the fermentor--which you can't very well do in socks, shoes, and pants. I had a pair of athletic shorts (that I now keep at the winery for just such occasions) to change into, having learned from my first experience in a fermentor (doing pigeage a couple weeks prior) when I had nothing but my Under Amour boxer-briefs to guard my modesty. Should you find yourself someday enjoying a bottle of 2009 Rippon Pinot Noir, keep in mind that it can't be said that this product has been untouched by human feet. In fact, it may interest (or repulse) you to know that most (if not all) quality boutique red wines have at some stage in their production been touched by human feet.
What to wear?
It had been decided on Thursday evening that the Harvest Party should have a silly dress-up theme. I had, however, been unable to procure an outfit between Thursday evening and Saturday morning so I was in a quandary. No worries. After digging out the fermentor, Nick took me up to Lois' house to raid the party closet. Fancy dress parties are apparently not uncommon in this little hamlet, and the Mills family has accumulated quite an assortment of dress-up wear. I chose a nice little lederhosen/sweater/pageboy-hat combo for my ensemble. It was a bit chilly out so I opted to keep on my polypropylene long johns rather than sport the traditional knee-high socks that normally accompany lederhosen. No matter, it was still a well-received outfit--some might say, the best at the party. I mean, someone could've topped me with a pair of fuzzy britches, a la Raquel Welch, but noone did.
Party supplies
Turns out the Harvest Party is not only for the harvest crew. Other invitees included: anyone who'd done any work for the vineyard over the last year, family friends, neighbors, suppliers, other winemakers in town, and local restaurateurs who sell Rippon wines in their establishments. It was quite a crowd--I'd say close to eighty. Even with all those folks, we were want of very little. There was probably enough food to feed twice the number in attendance (a common practice at NZ parties I've attended). The fare included a spit-roasted lamb, tomato basil soup, couscous with beetroot, New Zealand green mussels, roasted pumpkin, butternut, and acorn squash wedges, and fresh bread with real Kiwi butter. And as far as liquid refreshment was concerned? The party was at a flippin' vineyard/winery. Trust me, we had no worries on that front!
Some see the glass as half empty. Some see the glass as half full. If I see your glass half full, I fill it up! During all the post-lunch toasts (of which there were many) it was my duty to keep everyone that was drinking Harvest Ale all topped up--a job at which I excelled by the way. You see, Bret taught us the proper pouring method on Thursday night to audition us for the post. And it seems I was rather adept at the task--which isn't inherently easy given that a full five-liter jug is not light. The way you do it is hook your right index finger into one of the loops at the neck of the jug, raise your arm so that your palm is facing away from you and the jug runs along the back of your hand down to the outside of your elbow. When you're ready to pour, simply lower your hand and raise your elbow. A true pro can do this with his left thumb tucked into his suspender with his left elbow pointing straight out to his side, his chest puffed out like a peacock, and his head back and proud. It took me a couple jugs, because one's initial instinct is to lower one's shoulder when pouring, but I got it down and attained my "pro" status by the end of the toasts. It was a great job to have too because the guy with the beer is much beloved; and I rather like being much beloved--it's nice. Plus, my duty gave me a built in excuse to approach and visit with everybody at the party--including a couple of cuties I might not have otherwise approached. It's good to be the king...of beer.
Barrel Racing
After virtually everyone at the party had been toasted three or four times each, the next item on the agenda was the barrel races. This was an absolute highlight. The four relay teams were determined as follows: those with hats and ties, those with hats but not ties, those without hats but with ties, and those with neither hats nor ties. I was a hat/no tie. The way the race works is two teams square off at a time, with one racer from each team poised over his/her barrel waiting for the signal from Charlie to begin. Once the gun (Charlie's two-year old son, Fred, saying "bang") goes off, the racers roll away. Each racer has to roll his/her barrel past the midpoint barrel, down to, and around, the far barrel and come back, stopping at the midpoint barrel, where Ned and Bones are waiting with full glasses of beer to be downed be each racer before crossing over the start/finish line and passing the barrel off to the next member of the relay. The race featured a few unorthodox rolling techniques, some good collisions, a close call or two for Ned and Bones, our faithful beer pourers, and more than a few great laughs. We lost our semifinal round to the hats/ties, but we took the consolation, third-place race over the other semifinal losers: the no hats/no ties. The no hats/ties took the overall crown by just edging out the hats/ties in a thrilling photo finish. And there was much rejoicing!
After sunset
By the time the barrel races wrapped up, the sun had gone down and the DJ had arrived--it was time to turn this mutha' into a dance party! Well lubricated with beer and wine, we dancing machines lasted long into the night. But we also worked up a bit of an appetite as a result. Luckily for us, the lamb, which hadn't yet been carved up completely, had been stashed away for just such an eventuality. Nick (the big boss man) and I were on the job. We shovelled out some coals from the fire and set the spit back up. Then Nick, armed with knife and tongs, and I, armed with a torch (flashlight) proceeded to find, and carve up, all those yummy good bits still hanging on the bone in order to feed the hungry, dancing masses. Being the carvers, it was our prerogative to invoke carver's privilege (which we did a number of times) to tax all the best bits! After getting every last morsel that could be gotten from the lamb, it was back to the dance floor (read, picnic tables) for a couple more hours.
Sleepy time
I came to the party knowing full well I would be in no shape to drive home by the time it was over. So, I came fully prepared to sleep in my car--having that morning folded down the back seats of the Chariot, laid my foam mattress in the back, and spread out my sleeping bag, my wool blanket, and my duvet. Thankfully, however, it never came to that, because even with all those covers, I reckon I still would've frozen my buns off had I camped out in the Chariot for the night. My friend Brent, who doesn't drink, was able to give me a lift home, and I was able to crawl into my bed at about 4:00am. It was a grand party (all sixteen hours of it), and I think good times were had by all.
Needless to say, mine was an incredibly lazy Sunday. Actually, come to think of it, I was still moving pretty slowly come Tuesday. I've learned that you might still be able (from time to time) to party like you're 21 when you are, in fact, 31; but you sure can't recover the next day like you're 21! Headaches hurt!
Cheers!
