The low-hanging clouds that had settled in a few days ago finally began to scatter a fine winter rain just before Christmas.
Tap, tap, tap...
The rain was so thin it could barely make a sound, but the chill soaking the air was quite biting. Of course, to someone like me who had gone through Korean winters, winter rain in America was nothing. Amusingly, though, there were plenty of people here who shivered even at ten degrees Celsius.
I adjusted the thick, fleece-lined waterproof work clothes I was wearing and stood in the middle of the pear orchard. Beside me, Chloe had her hat pulled down low and a waterproof outer layer on, staying close at my side.
In the distance, workers were spraying a pale liquid over each tree with sprayers. The sharp smell of sulfur filled the air in every direction.
“Ugh, the smell. It’s like rotten eggs. What are they spraying?”
Chloe wrinkled her nose as she asked. I smiled and tightened the scarf around her neck.
“Lime sulfur. It’s the core of dormant-season pest control. If we don’t spray this now, aphids, scale insects, and all kinds of fungal spores will throw a festival the moment the leaves come out next spring. If we prepare thoroughly in winter like this, we can cut down on a lot of headaches in spring.”
Lime sulfur was a natural mineral-based pest control agent that had been used long before modern chemical pesticides became widespread. It was a strongly alkaline compound made by boiling sulfur (S) and lime (CaO) in water, and unlike ordinary synthetic chemicals that left toxic residues, it was widely used in eco-friendly cultivation.
“But the smell is really strong. My eyes sting too.”
“That’s because hydrogen sulfide gas, H2S, is produced as the main components of the lime sulfur break down. Your eyes sting because it’s strongly alkaline, but you’ll be fine if you keep the wind at your back. Let’s go over there.”
I took Chloe’s hand and headed a little farther away from the workers. In each of our other hands was a large pair of pruning shears.
“But how does that control pests? Is it so poisonous it just kills everything?”
“Ah... When lime sulfur is sprayed on a tree, it reacts with oxygen and carbon dioxide in the air and breaks down. At that point, it has two effects. One is that the moment it’s sprayed, its strong alkalinity chemically corrodes and destroys the skin, or cuticle layer, of pests, the shells of eggs, fungal spores, and so on.
The other is that the tiny amount of hydrogen sulfide gas produced during decomposition suppresses the cellular respiration of microorganisms and suffocates them.”
“Wow... that’s scary.”
“It is. This has to be done in winter. Scale insects, mites, aphids—their eggs and adults hide in cracks in the bark or inside buds to survive the cold. We have to catch them with this. And it’s also to deal in advance with spores from diseases fatal to pear trees, like pear scab and pear rust.”
“I see.”
“And lime sulfur is so strongly alkaline that if you spray it after the leaves have come out, the leaves often burn. That’s another reason it has to be sprayed in winter.”
Chloe’s expression as she nodded was so cute that I stroked her head, then went straight to the tree we would be working on.
I lifted my shears and pointed to one branch of the pear tree.
“Now, look here. See how the end of this branch is especially rough and has black spots embedded in it? These are traces of pear scab. We call this a diseased branch. After the workers spray and move on, we follow with the wind at our backs and pick out all branches like this to cut them off.”
With a serious expression, Chloe stared at the branch I had pointed to, then lifted her small pruning shears and snipped it off.
“Like this?”
“Perfect. The cut surface should be as smooth as possible. That way the tree recovers from the wound faster.”
Chloe smiled bashfully at my praise, pleased, then sidled into my side and slipped her cold hand into my pocket.
“My hands are cold. So? Don’t I seem like a fitting disciple of Napa Valley’s best winemaker, understanding everything at once?”
“You’re too pretty to be called a disciple.”
“Hehe...”
At my words, Chloe rested her head on my shoulder. Perhaps because of the fine rain, the only sounds in the orchard were the two of us breathing and the distant noise of the sprayers.
After trimming branches without a break for about two hours, we stepped through the wet soil and headed toward the drainage ditch. Winter rain was the best opportunity for a farmer to check drainage conditions.
“Watch your step. Pear trees like water, but being submerged is a big problem. If water pools somewhere when it rains like this, it means there’s a problem with the drainage layer. If the roots rot, it won’t matter how good the fertilizer is.”
Wearing rubber boots, I checked whether the water pooled at the end of the drainage ditch was flowing out properly. Chloe, about to lose her balance in the muddy ground, cried, “Oh!” and grabbed my arm. I naturally caught her around the waist as if snatching her up.
“Be careful.”
“I did that on purpose, you know?”
I lightly flicked her forehead as she teased me, then looked over the drainage ditch once more. Chloe brushed the raindrops from the collar of my work clothes with her gloved hand and said,
“Do you think there’ll be a lot of winter rain?”
“The climate keeps changing unpredictably. At times like that, what matters isn’t trying to predict the weather, but preparing for everything and responding quickly.”
“To be honest, I’ve been feeling a little anxious lately.”
“Why?”
“I am working hard, but... it’s still a long way off before the pear trees bear fruit... I’m worried about whether the Shingo pears will really become outstanding fruit.”
“You’ve been doing well so far. Just keep doing what you’ve been doing. Once you grow proper Shingo pears, you’ll probably be shocked. They’ll be bigger than your face.”
“Huh? That much?”
“I’m telling you. They’re huge.”
“You know, Brian. I do think Ceracia made from our farm’s cherries is amazing, but this pear orchard is truly precious to me. The cherry orchard was grown by Dad, and I’m just running it now.”
“That’s true. You planted and raised these from saplings, so they must feel like your children.”
“I’m going to raise them well like you taught me and sell a lot of them as fruit, but later, I think the brandy and wine you’ll make from these pears will be really wonderful too. You’ll make them that way, right?”
“Of course. Anything that goes out under the Harris Farm name will be the best.”
We walked around the orchard hand in hand in the cold air mixed with rainwater. It was cold, and the rain was drizzling down, but not a moment of walking together felt difficult.
That was when it happened. From far away, an old pickup truck came in, splashing through the mud with a blaring horn. The logo of the Brentwood Cherry Association was clear on the side of the truck.
The man who got out was Jim, William Hartford’s subordinate and the association’s office manager. He approached through the rain and said,
“So you were here. I’ve been looking for you for quite a while. I went to the farm management office, and even they didn’t know exactly where Miss Chloe was, so I spent more than ten minutes searching.”
“Ah, yes... But what brings you here?”
He took a wet document envelope from inside his coat and held it out. His usual friendliness was nowhere to be found; his expression was businesslike and cold.
“I am delivering this to Miss Chloe, the formal owner of the farm. It is a decision by the association board of directors. As the withdrawal procedure for Harris Farm has been completed, use of the irrigation channel owned by the association will be restricted starting January 1 of next year. In addition, please return the remaining jointly purchased agricultural materials in full as of today.”
Chloe’s eyes, which had been acting affectionate in my arms just moments ago, cooled in an instant. She stepped forward and snatched the document Jim held out.
“Restrict the irrigation channel? That channel is a public waterway that has passed through our farm property for decades. It’s not some private ditch the association president bought.”
“The legal review has already been completed. Pursuant to Article 14 of the association’s operating regulations, non-members are prohibited from using association assets. You do not have the right to pay the maintenance costs for the channel managed by the association. We cannot provide water to those who do not pay the costs. If you feel wronged, you can apply for membership again. Though of course, whether Chairman Hartford will accept you is another question.”
Jim gave a fishy smile and started to return to his vehicle. Chloe clenched the documents tightly and called out behind him in an icy voice.
“Go tell him. We don’t need such a pathetic Christmas present. We’ve already finished a contract with Japan’s Zen-Noh without your help, and we’ve secured a dedicated cargo flight route too. That old channel Mr. Hartford is holding over us? Tell him to block it if he wants. We’re not afraid in the slightest.”
Jim’s shoulders flinched. Without answering, he climbed into the truck and left the farm as if fleeing.
Chloe breathed heavily and looked down at the wet documents, and I wrapped an arm around her damp shoulders.
“You did well, Chloe.”
At my words, Chloe looked up at me, her eyes returning to their usual softness. But unlike before, there was determination in them.
“They don’t know that we’re using water while minimizing it with drip irrigation. That’s why they think restricting the water will be fatal.”
“Still, we’ll have to drill a new well.”
“Yeah. I’m not worried about that either. We have the Rainmaker, after all.”
“Ah... right, there was him.”
She made a small fist and spoke with venom in her eyes.
“Brian, I’m going to learn with everything I have. So those people can never look down on our farm again. Next May, when Hartford sends his cherries off on a ship, I’m going to make sure he sees our boxes flying through the sky.”
I smiled and lightly kissed her forehead.
The winery at Laguna Creek Farm in Sonoma’s Alexander Valley was filled not with dazzling Christmas tree decorations, but with damp humidity and the sour scent of fermentation. The sound of the fine winter rain tapping against the roof was waking the silence of the winery.
“Daniel, tomorrow is already Christmas Eve. Shouldn’t something be decided by now?”
Armando came in grumbling, dressed in a thick jumper. In his hand were a rough dropper used at a vinegar factory and a tasting glass.
Instead of answering, Daniel had his ear pressed against the wall of a stainless steel tank. Like a doctor listening to a patient’s heartbeat... he felt the faint vibration of the tank.
“Malolactic fermentation, MLF, is finished.”
“Oh! Then can we drink it now?”
When Armando’s face lit up and he tried to open the valve, Daniel firmly stopped his hand.
“No, don’t rush. Slowly...”
“Slowly...?”
“You have to think of wine as a sensitive newborn baby. Wine doesn’t speak to you like a newborn baby. Instead, it expresses itself in its own way.”
“You can understand that?”
“Yes. Brian probably can too.”
Armando had not understood, but at the mention that Brian could probably do it too, he nodded and immediately accepted it.
Daniel carefully opened the lower valve of the tank and filled a small glass with liquid. What entered the glass was not clear, refined wine. The liquid that had just finished fermenting was thick and cloudy, as if dark amethyst had been ground into it.
Armando took the glass, brought it to his nose, and narrowed his eyes.
“Hmm, the aroma... It’s completely different from ordinary wine. There’s something heavy and muddy mixed in, but behind that, the fruit aroma bursts out incredibly strong.”
“That is the trace of fermentation left behind by wild yeast.”
Holding the glass carefully, Daniel held it up to the light. The liquid was opaque, but within it, tiny bubbles were embedded like jewels, moving as though alive.
Then, as he took a sip, a storm-like stimulation swept through his entire mouth. It did not have the smoothness of finished wine, but instead, there was an overwhelming sense of volume that filled the mouth.
Through secondary fermentation, MLF, the sharp acidity had transformed into something like soft cream, and the deep flavor of Cabernet Sauvignon, which held the sunlight of Alexander Valley, combined with the savory flavor of the lees and emitted explosive energy.
“It’s good.”
“It’s good?”
“Armando, it may look cloudy now because of the yeast sediment, but inside this, a perfect structure is standing. Those rough tannins will become as soft as velvet with time, and the fishy yeast aroma you feel now will be replaced inside the oak barrels by elegant notes of vanilla and nuts. What you’re seeing now is a giant block of marble. But to my eyes, I can see Michelangelo’s David trapped within it.”
“Wow... Do all people who enjoy wine describe things like poetry? Should I learn some poetry too?”
“Haha, you’ll probably become like this if you come to like wine. And... to be honest, there’s a little intellectual vanity mixed in too.”
Daniel’s voice was full of delight. The microorganisms they had protected not long ago in a desperate struggle with cold groundwater and dry ice had succeeded in transforming within California’s hot grape must into wine that held the soul of Alexander Valley.
“Contact Brian. Tell him I’m sending a bottle of the must as a Christmas gift. And tell him it’s the answer sheet I submitted.”