As is the case with any business, farming knows no weekends. If there is nothing much to do or if it is raining, you can take a break, but otherwise, farming is repeating the same work every single day.
In that regard, my parents are truly amazing. Before leaving Korea, they did not know the first thing about farming. They had fled here, and farming was simply the only thing they could start right away, so that was what they did. Yet they never once complained and just worked silently in the face of it all. I really think that is incredible.
“I’m so curious.”
Mom was already excited at the thought of making vinegar starting today,
“Is there nothing I need to prepare separately?”
and Dad, too, was thoroughly prepared, holding a notebook and pen in both hands.
“Since it is your first time, learn with your eyes for now. If you really want, you can just film it instead.”
“Ah, good idea. Filming. I’ll record it with a camera.”
There were no workers today, so the farm held only the three of us. It was a shame that we would have to start growing fruit again next spring because of disease and pests, but gazing at the lush green farm made my heart feel open and clear.
“The weather is nice, too.”
California’s mild, warm climate was truly pleasant to live in. Just looking up at the blue sky brightened my mood, and I regretted how I had never thought to look at this sky in the past, instead burying myself at a desk and letting time slip by.
But I shook off those useless thoughts, and when I stood before the winemaking equipment, my heart began to race.
The equipment, thoroughly cleaned and inspected, was vivid, as if drawing breath again. The stainless steel press sparkled in the morning sun, and the fermentation tank stood waiting for my touch with a quiet yet dependable presence.
Since showing a professional demeanor would surely earn my parents’ greater trust, I deftly pulled on a pair of gloves and rolled my shoulders like a seasoned technician before speaking.
“Dad, Mom. I’m starting now. Just watch slowly and follow along.”
“Got it. Don’t worry and go ahead.”
Dad watched my fingertips with eyes full of anticipation, while Mom bit her lip slightly, seeming nervous.
I slowly moved the grapes in the box over to the press and said,
“First, the most important thing is the pressing. When you extract the grape juice, you must not apply too much pressure. Bitter and astringent flavors will seep in. The key is to press gently, like this.”
I placed the grapes into the press and turned on the machine. It began to move slowly, emitting a low, steady vibrating sound. I carefully watched the juice flowing out cleanly as I slowly adjusted the pressure. I could see the dark purple grape juice flowing through the transparent tube at the bottom of the machine.
“Look at that color. It’s far more beautiful than I expected!”
Mom gazed at the grape juice with an expression of wonder, while Dad was filming it in detail with his smartphone.
After quite some time had passed and the grape juice had filled to a certain level,
“Now we have to move the pressed juice to the fermentation tank.”
I slowly poured the cleanly extracted grape juice into a large stainless steel vat. The juice was drawn silently into the tank, and its fragrant, slightly fresh aroma enveloped the surrounding air.
Though the grapes were of low commercial quality and did not look very good on the outside, they were completely different once pressed into juice.
“Okay, this is yeast. Let me add it in.”
I took out the yeast I had prepared from a small packet and sprinkled it evenly into the tank. Tiny particles slowly spread across the surface of the grape juice and gradually disappeared.
“Now this yeast will consume the sugar in the grape juice and convert it into alcohol. From here on, the important thing is maintaining the temperature. During fermentation, you have to keep it steady at around 20 to 25 degrees. If the temperature is too high, fermentation proceeds too quickly and strongly, making the taste rough, and if it is too low, fermentation can stop entirely. This part is important. Okay?”
I spoke while looking at the filming camera, then kept my eyes on the thermometer attached to the side of the fermentation tank and made minute temperature adjustments. Once the interior of the tank was set to the proper temperature, I turned back to my parents and smiled.
“There! Up to here is the alcoholic fermentation preparation process. Nothing too difficult, right? Now you just have to consistently check its condition for a few days and wait for it to progress.”
“Then what about the acetic acid fermentation? How do we do that?”
Dad asked with a still-serious expression.
“As I said before, once alcoholic fermentation is complete, you just leave the air vent on top of the tank open. This lets the acetic acid bacteria in the air naturally enter the tank and react with the alcohol to turn it into vinegar. I’ll tell you again when the time comes, so there is no need to worry about it ahead of time.”
Mom, listening to my words, nodded and seemed to relax.
“Listening to our son, it doesn’t seem so hard?”
“Right. With Wooseok explaining everything beside us, there is nothing we can’t do. Shall we give it a try starting tomorrow?”
Dad’s voice overflowed with confidence and a spirit of challenge. I, too, smiled in satisfaction.
Starting the next day, my parents began trying their hand at the pressing and fermentation work bit by bit, recalling what I had done. At first they made mistakes and were nervous, but gradually they gained confidence and began to carry out the process skillfully.
“It’s more fun than I thought? Thinking that all of this is ours, I don’t even feel the hardship.”
“Exactly. The fact that it is all ours is what matters.”
After spending the weekend going through the initial vinegar-making process with my parents, I headed straight to school come Monday. Some might think going to school instead of working on the farm is a waste of time, but I did not think so at all. I had no doubt that properly going through this educational process would become a tremendous asset later on.
In some ways, America is a society just as—no, even more—sensitive to academic credentials than Korea. The higher up the social ladder one goes, the more academic background and exclusive networks form solid cartels. Even in agriculture, it was no different.
And today, there was a reason I had to go to school. Namely, Elaina Pike, the daughter of the Silver Oak Farm owner.
“Elaina!”
“Oh, Lucinda!”
Elaina, who was in the same math class, looked on the surface like any ordinary girl. An average student with many freckles, reddish hair, and braces on her teeth. So both before the regression and even now, I had not paid her much attention.
However, once I learned she was the daughter of the Silver Oak Farm owner, I could not help but begin taking notice of her. That was why I was even secretly paying attention to a simple morning greeting between friends.
“I said hi to Cristina today.”
I ignored Armando, who was offering useless information since the morning, and kept stealing glances toward Elaina. Of course, I moved very naturally so others would not notice.
*How should I ask?*
I could not just walk up to her and ask, “Your father has his eyes on our farm, doesn’t he?”
“Anyway, Cristina smiled at me with her eyes, you know? This is a sure sign, right?”
*Am I overthinking this? Should I just go and say hi?*
Thinking about it, I realized I might be using my head too much over a mere child. Perhaps Elaina did not have a single thought about farms or anything like that.
“Isn’t it too early to confess already? Then shouldn’t I send some kind of sign?”
Then, sensing Elaina’s gaze brushing past me in a quick glance, I realized I did not need to agonize over it any longer.
“What? What are you thinking about? Am I talking to myself?”
I got up from my seat and walked over with heavy steps, and Elaina, sensing my presence, turned her head just in time.
“Hi. Elaina.”
“Mm. Hi. What’s up?”
“I heard before that you are the daughter of the Silver Oak Farm owner? My family owns Redwood Farm. Since we are close by, I figured we could get along well.”
At that, Elaina stared blankly, as if unsure what to say.
“What are you two suddenly talking about?”
“Well, turns out Elaina is the daughter of the Silver Oak Farm owner right next to our farm. I am just trying to be friendly.”
“What? So you want to get close because she is rich?”
“...Because we are neighbors, neighbors. Do I really look like that kind of guy?”
“You never know.”
“How disappointing. To think you saw me as nothing more than that? And after I went to Cristina for you...”
“Wait! Let’s leave that story out. Is it fair to hit below the belt like that?”
Irritated that the two men were falling over themselves with pointless chatter in front of her, Elaina furrowed her brows and spoke.
“Who says you are my neighbor? You just bought a ruined farm.”
Only then did I turn my head to look at Elaina.
“It was cheap because it was ruined. But just wait until next year. Our farm’s grapes will be the best.”
Some might think it childish, but I declared this on purpose. A considerable number of the children attending this school were children of farm owners, and I thought it was important to leave a strong impression on them.
Of course, Elaina twisted her lips as if the idea was ridiculous.
“Will they really? We are entering the Table Grape competition this time, too...”
Local organizations like the California Table Grape Commission or the Washington State Table Grape Association evaluate samples harvested early in the season and award prizes such as “Best Quality Grape Variety.”
Naturally, the fruit from farms selected for these awards sold for higher prices than others, so farm owners attached considerable importance to such events.
It was comparable to selecting a Grape King at the Songsan Grape Festival in Korea. Looking at things like this, people lived the same way in Korea and America.
Anyway, just when I was about to ask the oddly competitive Elaina how she knew so much about Redwood Farm,
“But can you really win an award at the Table Grapes after dumping pesticides like that?”
Armando blurted out, blinking his eyes.
“What? W-who uses pesticides? We are organic!”
Eyes blazing, she glared at Armando and me.
“I don’t know anything about that?”
Startled that I might become the target, I hastily stepped back and pulled away, while Armando looked back and forth between me and Elaina in confusion and muttered in an uncertain voice.
“I... I was just asking... When I worked there before, I saw them using... pesticides in the warehouse... so I saw it. I was just wondering if that is allowed... It should be, right? Now that I think about it, there is no reason it would not be... It is not like there is a law saying only organic farms can win... Right? Right?”
Without giving Elaina a chance to argue back, all the children had heard what came out of Armando’s mouth, and Elaina’s face flushed as red as a ripe cherry.