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.