The inside of the winery was bustling.
Brentwood cherries unloaded from the trucks were stacked in their crates, and the workers sat in rows sorting them. I worked through a crate of my own, selecting cherries while keeping an eye on the workers’ cases, occasionally getting up to walk around and check on things.
“Take out the badly damaged ones, and make sure you remove the stems and little twigs. If any leaves are left, they’ll make it bitter. Be careful with your hands.”
The cherries filling the crates rustled as they were moved into baskets. Tiny stems and twigs pinched between fingertips fell to the floor with crisp snaps. The fresh cherry fruits glittered inside silver stainless-steel baskets.
“Brian, what should I do with this?”
A worker held up a cherry that had split halfway open. The flesh had already discolored from exposure to the air. I shook my head.
“Take that out. If it goes into the fermentation tank, bacteria will breed.”
I set the discarded fruit aside to be sent to the compost pile, grabbed a handful of sorted cherries, and stood before the machine gleaming with silver stainless steel—the equipment I had prepared instead of a crusher. A Destoner. I was the one who had personally driven over 500 kilometers to LA yesterday to get it.
“So you’re finally using what you prepared so diligently?”
“Yes.”
I poured the cherries into the narrow inlet, and soon cheerful metallic sounds rang out as the machine came to life.
*Clack-clack-clack—!*
With a steady vibration, the cherries rolled in, and rapidly spinning rollers inside separated the flesh from the pits. The pits tumbled out with dull thuds, dropping into one container, while on the opposite side, red flesh flowed out in a thick stream.
The separated pits rolled down solidly, tapping against the walls, and the flesh was crushed along with its skin, spewing crimson juice. The cherry juice flowing through the pipe into the tank looked like a waterfall of liquid ruby.
“But when I studied up on it, they didn’t really separate cherry seeds?”
These days, Dad was immersed in studying agriculture. When he heard I was making cherry wine, he had borrowed books from the library two days ago and pointed out that none of them said to remove the seeds when making cherry wine.
“Ah, that’s probably because it’s a book on grape wine. With grapes, the seeds are just crushed and pressed during winemaking, so they don’t remove them separately like this. But cherries are different. Cherry seeds contain a cyanogenic glycoside called amygdalin, so if the seeds break, a bitter taste and unpleasant almond scent can leach out. It’s not good for the body either.”
“Really? Then why wasn’t that in the blog post about how to make cherry wine?”
“That person probably just did it that way because they’re used to making grape wine. It’s easier, too.”
The Destoner isn’t equipment commonly found in wineries. As I said, grape wine crushes the seeds along with everything else. So obtaining the equipment requires considerable effort, and since most people don’t see the need, they simply use methods that crush the seeds.
“Then it must make a big difference in taste?”
“Of course. That’s why the wine I’m making this time is completely different from existing cherry wines.”
I scooped juice with a ladle and poured it into the tank. A red wave flowed down the silver fermentation tank walls. That vivid color was as if ruby had melted into liquid, subtle shades of purple and scarlet crossing each time the light touched it.
I tilted the ladle slightly, letting a single drop fall onto the back of my hand, and tasted it. A sweet yet sour juice swirled at the tip of my tongue. It was the clean, clear taste of cherry, with no bitter taint from the seeds whatsoever.
“Good! The color is very deep.”
“Me too.”
I lightly dripped some onto the back of Dad’s hand too, which was trembling with a strong urge to eat. Dad, who slurped the cherry juice running over his hand, opened his eyes wide.
“It’s too delicious?”
“Me too, me too!”
Armando had run over at some point without me noticing, and eventually I let all the workers taste a small amount of the juice. Everyone seemed invigorated and satisfied, returning to their stations to resume work. After meticulously checking the cherries the workers had sorted one more time, I fed them into the Destoner.
Working like that for several hours until my arms felt like they’d fall off, I confirmed the tank was full of cherry juice and adjusted the tank valve with gloved hands. If the inflow speed wasn’t kept consistent, the juice could foam and mix with too much oxygen. Inside the tank, small ripples were already forming.
“Now comes the important part, right?”
Dad, who had been watching carefully the whole time, asked. Having studied up on it, he knew that wine wasn’t simply made by fermenting cherries.
“Yes. As you know now, Dad, yeast selection, the use of fermentation starters, temperature control... all of these determine the final aroma and taste of the wine.”
Saying that, I took out several small glass bottles and lined them up. On the labels were written RC212, 71B-1122, and several unfamiliar names.
“What are those?”
I held up the RC212 and said,
“Lalvin RC212, also called Burgundy. It’s a yeast excellent for enhancing red fruits and rose fragrances in red wine, especially Pinot Noir. It’s particularly good for maximizing red tones like rose and cherry.”
“Ooh—”
This time I held up the 71B-1122 and the remaining ones in turn.
“This is called Lalvin 71B-1122 Narbonne. It’s mainly used to slightly reduce high acidity to make the wine softer and to brightly express fruit fragrances like cherry. It was mentioned as a recommended strain on the WineMaker Forum, but it’s not widely used yet. And this is the kicker.”
“What’s that? There’s no name written on it.”
“Torulaspora delbrueckii. Difficult name, right?”
“Is that Russian pronunciation?”
“Ah, it’s Latin. Roughly, yeast discovered by Dr. Delbrück? Something like that.”
“Ooh—”
“This is a yeast used together with Saccharomyces cerevisiae, a commonly used yeast, and it improves wine quality, creating a soft texture and rich aroma.”
At this time, there were probably no wineries making cherry wine with the hard-to-pronounce Torula-something yeast. One of the reasons I hadn’t let anyone other than Dad properly watch the winemaking process was precisely this.
“Interesting. But do they teach this kind of thing in school?”
I flinched for a moment but shrugged and spoke as if it were nothing.
“School teaches the basics. I lived in the library.”
“As expected...”
I turned the valve of the cooling pipe set nearby. Cool chilled water flowed down the tank’s outer wall, lowering the temperature. Watching the thermometer attached to the side of the tank slowly drop, I nodded.
At that moment, small bubbles formed on the surface, as if signaling that fermentation was beginning. Soon after, a faint *bloop, bloop* sound secretly rose up. The red juice stirred as if alive, and the fragrance gradually grew thicker.
Standing above the tank, I felt the minute vibrations with my fingertips and whispered.
“Good... it’s started.”
“I’m nervous too.”
“Right?”
Dad and I looked at the tank with tense faces.
---
Time flew by in an instant, and already it was a hot summer.
August 18th.
An important day. It was UC Davis orientation.
I threw on some clothes and reminded Mom and Dad.
“Maintain the SWP up to minus twelve bars.”
Minus twelve essentially meant driving the vines to a near-thirst state; it was essential to stably secure the grapes’ anthocyanins and tannins.
“Yeah, don’t worry about it and go do well. Dad and Mom are checking every day.”
“Yes~”
UC Davis, about fifty-three kilometers from home, was an hour away by car. You had to leave early in the morning to avoid traffic and arrive comfortably before nine o’clock, but since waking at dawn was normal for me, it wasn’t difficult.
After parking in the vast lot and walking, I saw friends who had arrived early waving and waiting. They were Armando, Chloe, and Jacob, who were entering with me this time.
Entering the UC Davis campus, blue and gold balloons swayed in the wind, and orientation leaders were shouting at the top of their lungs to welcome new students.
“Welcome to UC Davis! Aggie Pride!”
“What does Aggie Pride mean?”
I answered Armando’s question.
“I read that UC Davis’s official mascot is the Aggies, a nickname derived from its agricultural tradition.”
“Ah...”
In front of the student union was packed with people. Students wearing matching black and blue T-shirts manned information booths, and students stood in long lines for identification checks and to receive their orientation packets.
“Wow, there are so many people.”
Armando muttered, fiddling with the bag slung over his shoulder, his eyes moving restlessly. At that sight, Chloe twisted her lips and spoke.
“You’d better look around at plenty of girls if you want to talk properly? You pushed so hard for Christina and couldn’t even kiss her?”
Armando flinched, deliberately ignored Chloe, and spoke to me.
“I’ve decided to find real love this time. Love met in high school isn’t true love. At least love met in college is properly mature, adult love.”
“Yeah, yeah~ work hard at it.”
Even at my cynical words, Armando didn’t care and kept rolling his eyes, while Jacob searched for something with a serious face.
“I’m going to look for agriculture-related clubs first. I heard there’s even a rice-farming club.”
“As expected of a farmer’s son.”
I played along but walked on indifferently, expressionless. Having experienced this once before, this kind of orientation atmosphere wasn’t particularly moving or exciting.
After checking in, inside the yellow envelope I received were a campus map, a course registration guide, and a notebook and pen stamped with the ‘Aggie’ logo. The orientation leader assigned to us took the lead, and dozens of new students roamed the campus in a group.
The enormous library, the gym, parking zones with endlessly lined-up bicycles... a completely different world from the quiet farms of Napa Valley was unfolding.
The afternoon program was department-specific sessions—a time for students hoping for their respective majors to gather and talk with advisors. We naturally headed toward the agriculture department.
Inside the lecture hall, students of similar age were gathered huddled together, and several were holding wine bottles, placing them on the table.
“What’s that?”
Armando opened his eyes wide.
“They say they’re Viticulture & Enology students. They say they made the wine themselves. I guess they’ll introduce it during a tasting event.”
Chloe pointed at a small sign. Viticulture & Enology was exactly my major. Since I couldn’t just pass by, I waited, and after a moment, a student opened a wine bottle and poured it into paper cups.
Everyone lined up curiously to receive some, and we each got a cup too. A deep purple liquid sloshed inside the paper cup.
I carefully lifted the cup and smelled the aroma. Though it was a paper cup, the first impression was decent. Despite the paper’s smell suppressing the wine’s aroma, the fact that it was still this good meant the original fragrance wasn’t bad. However, the moment I held a sip in my mouth, what spread throughout was a rough, astringent taste different from what I expected.
I put down the cup and muttered softly.
“Ah, I guess students made this.”
“Is it bad?”
When Chloe asked, I quietly nodded. That was when it happened.
“What department are you from? You, yes, you.”
At the sudden voice, I turned my head, and a pretty woman wearing a short skirt and a tight blouse stood with her arms crossed, glaring.
“Huh? Here...”
When I pointed at the wine in the paper cup, she smiled as if she’d caught me in the act and said,
“You seem to have tasted wine somewhere before? But you know, many kids here run wineries.”
“Ah...”
“If you’re going to act all high and mighty, why don’t you tell us? What’s the problem?”
She sneered, as if asking how a punk like me could know what was wrong after one taste. She probably would have ignored it if we were in different departments, but since we were in the same one, she couldn’t let it pass.
As it seemed unnecessary trouble had started, people here and there glanced over and focused on us. Armando thrust his face close to mine, covering his mouth with his hand, and whispered quietly.
“Go easy, easy...”
I hadn’t planned on pointing things out from the first day either. I’d just quietly stated my impression; I hadn’t known she’d hear it.
So I spoke with an apologetic face.
“No, it’s just... I think the fermentation temperature wasn’t properly controlled. Ah, but that’s a mistake beginners often make, so you don’t have to be that embarrassed. It happens.”
Her increasingly contorting face.
“I told you to go easy...”
At Armando’s muttering, I downed the remaining wine in one gulp and said.
“If I drink it again, it’s fine? If you just pay a little attention to the initial temperature... it might be better... I can see talent in you.”
As I stammered, Chloe grabbed my arm and pulled me out, and Armando and Jacob downed their wine in one gulp, spouting nonsense that it was the best wine of their lives, then cleanly disappeared.