"Hey, farmer!" I yell with what's left of my voice after six days on the road doing public speaking.
Frank waves. "I thought you were coming to help me weed," he says as we close. I buy two of his museum-quality mixed pots. Hummingbirds dart in and out. Frank shows me quietly the ground sparrow nesting in his annuals. There are the herringbone chicks, huddled. The mother is off harvesting cut worms for din-din.
In a greenhouse, Frank eases out his belt knife and slices me off three heads of fresh lettuce. I snap three ripe tomatoes from the vine, under his instruction. He's also selling pickling cukes from his hut. Little, tender pickling cukes are all Simone will eat.
Climax: Frank hurries up to his ranch house to grab for me an 8th-month-old bottle of his St. Croix wine, a red, to shove it into a wrinkled bag.
His wine never gets any older than eight months. "We keep drinking it," Frank admits. For his first career, he was a social worker. Now he's a good farmer. He wants to be a good vintner, too.
There aren't that many vineyards making delicious wine in the Northeast. Long Island has some red-making that can hold its own. Connecticut has its moments. Rhode Island is mostly tourist wine with few exceptions (Greenvale Chardonnay, Newport Vineyards Ice Wine). Massachusetts, too. The Puritans and Pilgrims weren't drunks. It shows.
St. Croix is a red-wine grape well adapted to the region. I'm drinking Frank's latest vintage. Sharing with a friend. We both like it. Balanced. Hints of leather. Notes of earth. Not at all fruity. Home run first time at bat, Frank.
Comments