In Vino Veritas III.

Stewart racking the merlot/cabernet into a temporary bucket. 

Two months in and the wine is coming along nicely. The pinot gris, which we picked out at McMennamins Edgefield back in October (In Vino Veritas I.) is done fermenting, but it's still pretty cloudy and looks more like pulpy grapefruit juice than a light golden wine. No worries, as that's normal for this stage in the process. We tasted it — it's fruity like a pinot gris should be, with pears and apples, an effervescent mouth feel, and a little lingering yeast up front — racked it, and then added a bentonite slurry that will help in clarifying.

The reds we have going are a 50-50 cabernet/merlot blend and another blend that's roughly 90-10 in favor of merlot. Both come from juices Stewart collected at Edgefield during their winemaking and which otherwise would have gone down the drain. The 90-10, Merlot no. 1, was still bubbling just a bit and was still cloudy and almost chalky. Its nose was yeasty and a bit eggy, which Stewart says could mean that it's lacking oxygen. The flavor was better than the nose, not too sweet though there was a metallic hint near the end. Again, it could be oxygen. So we racked it and will check it again in a month when we rack the pinot again.

Merlot no. 2 is all done fermenting and has a big, fruity nose — think overripe blackberries — but a flavor that's more earthy than sweet. And the finish is nice and long, complex even, with a nice touch of tannin. We racked it as well and will tend to it again next month.

So far, so good. 

An Eye for an Eye

I knew right away when I'd returned to my desk after lunch recently that something was amiss. 

Where once sat my laptop, full of all of my words, my photos from the entire year, my music and contacts and documents and notes and so very much more, sat only empty space. Next to the void, another empty space once occupied by a briefcase that had contained little more than some papers, a few business cards, a pair of headphones, and a stash of mints. Oh, and a hefty check that I'd planned to deposit later that day. 

Gone. All of it simply not there.

While I'd been just upstairs at a company luncheon, some daring and desperate thief had strolled right into the office, swiped my goods and someone else's wallet, and disappeared into the gray of a December afternoon. We walked the nearby blocks in vain hope of finding some sign of the transgressor, dug into the surveillance camera that had unfortunately decided not to snap any photos that day, and even invited one of Portland's finest in to file a report. But we all knew, even the cop, that the odds were not in our favor. They never are in these circumstances. 

My greatest worry was not over the computer itself; that kind of material mass is always replaceable. But what of everything on there? My pictures of Madeline on her first backpack, her first real dip in Crystal Lake, a clamming trip on the coast on an unlikely sunny day last February? What of my work projects, the stories and notes and sources that help put bread on my table and in my pocket? How do you replace things of such an intangible but incredibly valuable nature? (I joked with one colleague that I would have gladly handed over the computer if the thief had just let me back up the hard drive first.)

Lucky for me, I had indeed backed up most of my information — through mid-November — on an external hard drive at home. But what if I hadn't? 

That's what boils my blood when I think about the people who steal. They must think only of their immediate reward and not the residual heartache and complication they leave in their wake. If they knew the mess they left for their victims, if they someday felt it themselves, then maybe, just maybe, they'd think twice before swiping that next laptop or smashing that next car window. 

I have a new computer already — I couldn't be without one — and while I'm still getting back to where I was, I am intact. It could have been worse. 

And while I am not a vengeful person, deep down inside I do harbor thoughts of payback. Like what if there was ever some way I could meet the perpetrator of this crime and find out just what it is that's important to him, what to him has meaning and value? And then what if I just happened to swipe it and make off without a trace, just so he could see what it feels like?

Deep down, I think I'd like that. 

A Good Read

                       theheroindiaries.net

I'm not going to deny that part of my early, formative years included heavy doses of heavy metal. (6th grade, 1986, small-town Ohio. Need I say more?) I was — and deep down, still am — a huge fan of all the hair bands, from Poison and Ratt to Cinderella, Tesla, Dokken and, of course, Motley Crue.

The genre has not exactly been taken seriously or held up to critical acclaim over the years, so I was a bit surprised when I recently came across one of the rocker's memoirs  at No. 7 on the New York Times best-seller list. 

Nikki Sixx, longtime bassist and songwriter for Motley Crue, has compiled a year of his personal diary entries from 1986-87 into an incredibly engaging and fascinating new book called The Heroin Diaries: A Year in the Life of a Shattered Rock Star. Interspersed with present-day commentary from people like Slash, Vince Neil, Tommy Lee and others who were involved with Sixx at the time, the book is a frank, graphic, sometimes funny and thoroughly engrossing look at the life of a drug-addled musician at the height of success.

I know, it sounds cliche, but the way this book is laid out, with its truncated diary entries and biting ex post facto critiques, its lost lyrics and its bloody, bizarre illustrations, its revelations about a bottomless heroin addiction and its glimpse into the world of superstardom, The Heroin Diaries completely works. It ain't easy at all to put it down. 

Though its messages of addiction and recovery and childhood neglect seem like pretty universal themes, the book is probably not for everyone. It's blunt and pulls no punches about the world of sex, drugs, drugs, drugs — oh, and rock and roll — that Nikki Sixx was a part of in 1986. But if you're looking for a unique and captivating read — and especially if you've ever sung the first lines of "Home Sweet Home" or know just who Dr. Feelgood is — then score yourself a copy of The Heroin Diaries.

An Ohio Wedding

Jeff and Kristen, November 3, 2007.

And so, my very best friend — the guy I've known for nearly 30 years, the guy I met during an apple fight on a fall Ohio day so many years ago, the guy who got the left side while I took the right, the guy who is always right where I think he'll be — has gotten married and found happiness. 'Tis a beautiful thing to see someone so near and dear find someone who makes him shine as he should.

We flew back to Ohio on Halloween, spent two nights in Mansfield with my family and then headed down to Columbus to meet up with my aforementioned friend, Jeff Castle, and his bride-to-be, Kristen. What a beautiful weekend for a wedding. If you're not familiar with the Midwest in autumn, then you've never seen true fall colors. The hillsides of Central Ohio were veritable palettes of orange and yellow as far as the eyes could go; maples and oaks, beech and birches were alight with the brightness that peaks just before the gray of winter settles in.

Not only was it a great weekend for a wedding, but a great one for reunions as well. Almost all my other best friends from home — Scott Redman and his wife, Bernie, Tom Zellner, and Zach Proffitt and his wife, Regina — converged for the celebration, as did some old familar faces, Kevin and Sarah Moore, Jeff's brother Chris, his mom and stepdad, and his cousin, Mike.

The reception at the Smith Brothers warehouse near downtown Columbus.

What more to say? The rehearsal was a festive evening of food, great beers and family exchanges at Barley's and then a few more brews at the Grandview Cafe. The wedding day was gorgeous, the ceremony short but sweet — and thank God the Buckeyes were victorious that weekend or who knows what the mood might have been. (That town's obsession with Ohio State is borderline neurotic.) And that night, the reception at the Smith Brothers Warehouse near Short North, with its downtown skyline backdrop, was as fun as they come. Rock and Roll All Nite.

And just like that, the wedding was over and my best friend was on his way into a new and better life. It's long overdue, and we all wish him only the very best, always.

In Vino Veritas II.

So, maybe a little later than we should have, we racked the Pinot Gris yesterday, i.e. transferred it from one five-gallon glass carboy to another, leaving two inches of sediment behind. The juice right now is incredibly sugary and sweet without, Stewart thought, a whole lot of depth of flavor. Hopefully that will come as we tend to it and age it. We also added the yeast, which will kick in the fermentation and get the real show on the road. Now, we wait.

A side note to the home winemaking: I stopped in at Bridgeview Beer & Wine Supply, 624 Main Street, Oregon City, to get a few supplies for the evening's work. Packed with seemingly everything the homebrewer or winemaker could possibly need — malt, hops, presses, crushers, yeasts, buckets, bottles, caps, corks, huge pots and books and grain mills and hundreds of different kinds of bottled beer and wine from around the world and on and on and on — the store is a fantastic resource for supplies and knowledge. One of the owners shared valuable advice on our winemaking progress to date, and they had everything I needed for this next stage.

Perusing the aisles of Bridgeview, checking out the cans of malt, taking in the aromas that permeate the homebrewer's kitchen, I may well have caught the homebrew bug again. A few years ago I tried my hand at it, brewing up several batches of mediocre pale ale that never quite tasted like anything other than mediocre homebrewed pale ale. It was hard to justify the time and effort with such a cornucopia of stellar beers on just about any store shelf across the metro region.

But I was younger then, and maybe not so attentive to sanitation or sobriety during the brewing process. Perhaps another go at it is in order this winter. If nothing else, at least my kitchen will take on that heavenly aroma again, but after that trip to Bridgeview yesterday, I'm hoping for more . . .

In Vino Veritas I.

Over the past maybe five years or so, my wife, Amy, and I have really gotten into wine. Not only do we live in one of the richest wine regions in the world, but I've had some great experiences that have opened my eyes to how truly incredible wine can be. The most memorable of all was an informal wine class given to me by my sister- and brother-in-law for my 29th birthday. That December night in Atlanta five years ago, their friend and a true oenophile John opened my eyes to the joy of great wine: the appreciation, the pairing, the gratification. Since then, I've looked at all kinds of vino with an entirely new set of eyes; one that longs to learn, to expand, to take in and experience.

This fall, a couple friends — Stewart and Steve — have invited me along to make some homemade wine with them. In the interest of learning more and trying out something completely new, I've gladly accepted.

Through Stewart's connection at McMenamins Edgefield in Troutdale, we were able to pick about 30 gallons of Pinot Gris grapes on Tuesday night. Though Pinot Gris is a white wine, the grapes are purplish-gray on the vine. (Gris is French for gray; Pinot is roughly pinecone or pine, in this case a reference to the grape clusters' pinecone shape.) Last night we had a crush party, where we pressed the grapes into about 6-and-a-half gallons of juice. Now we'll let it settle for a few days and then it's on to the next step: adding yeast and such to kick in the fermentation.

More to come on this one for sure. Looking forward to it. Cheers.

Steve picking Pinot Gris grapes just before trespassing into a nest of bees — and getting stung in the eye.

Welcome

The Enchantment Lakes Basin of Washington's Alpine Lakes Wilderness.

Welcome to Reflections in Ink, a.k.a. the Ink Blog, my first stab at adding a blog to my writing repertoire. For more than eight years now, I have been writing for a living: for newspapers and magazines, web sites and newsletters, companies and clients, and, most of all, for myself. And for 20 years I have been writing in journals, penning hand-written notes to my closest friends and family, and writing songs and stories, some of which see the light, others which may never find their way in front of any other eyes but my own.

Now I'm adding a blog, and while this first step is exciting, I can't say that I know exactly what I hope it will achieve. I don't expect crowds, but certainly I'd love to attract more readers — and, secondarily, maybe even some prospective clients — to my words. It's something that I'm sure will evolve and grow on its own as it matures. I want it to be a place where I can put down the thoughts in my head that I want to share with other people; those thoughts that I'd love to be able to say out loud eloquently but, because I am a writer and not an orator, never can. To be honest, this will also serve as a place for me to publish the writing of mine that for one reason or another doesn't catch the attention of whatever publications I've pitched it to. It happens to all writers, but that doesn't mean the stories aren't deserving of a bigger stage. This will be mine.

And finally, I also envision the Ink Blog as a resource of sorts for anyone looking for thoughts on the written word, the great outdoors, music and literature and wine and travel and home improvement and Oregon, the Northwest, the Midwest, and life with a beautiful wife, a cherished daughter and a black lab unlike any other. And that — and this — is just the beginning . . .