Daniel's Answer Sheet (1)
The low clouds that had hung over them for days finally broke just before Christmas, releasing a fine winter rain.
Tuk-tuk-tuk...
The rain was so thin it barely made a sound, yet the chill that soaked the air was sharp enough. To someone who had lived through Korean winters, an American winter rain was nothing—but oddly enough, plenty of people here shivered even at ten degrees above freezing.
I tugged my waterproof work jacket—lined thick with fleece—into place and stood in the middle of the pear orchard. Chloe was right beside me, hat pulled low, rain shell zipped tight, pressed close against my side.
Farther out, the crew was moving tree to tree with sprayers, coating the trunks and limbs in a chalky white liquid. The sharp bite of sulfur filled the air in every direction.
"Ugh, that smell. It's like rotten eggs. What are they spraying?"
Chloe wrinkled her nose. I smiled and tightened the scarf around her neck.
"Lime sulfur. It's the backbone of dormant-season disease control. If we don't put this on now, the second the leaves push in spring the aphids, scale insects, and every mold spore you can name will throw a party. Do the hard work in winter and you spare yourself a lot of headaches later."
Lime sulfur was an old mineral fungicide and insecticide, used long before modern synthetic chemicals. You boil sulfur and lime (calcium oxide) in water to make a strongly alkaline compound. Unlike synthetic pesticides that leave toxic residues, it is widely used in organic programs.
"But the smell is brutal. My eyes are stinging too."
"That's hydrogen sulfide gas given off as the lime sulfur breaks down. The eye sting is from the alkalinity. Stand with your back to the wind and you'll be fine. Let's move over this way."
I took her hand and led her a little farther from the crew. In our free hands we each carried large pruning shears.
"How does it actually control pests? Does it just kill everything because it's so toxic?"
"Not exactly. Once lime sulfur hits the tree it reacts with oxygen and carbon dioxide in the air and starts to break down. Two things happen. First, the strong alkalinity chemically burns through insect cuticles, egg shells, and fungal spores on contact. Second, the fine hydrogen sulfide gas it releases shuts down microbial cell respiration and smothers them."
"Whoa... that's scary."
"It is. And it has to be done in winter. Scale, mites, and aphids hide their eggs and adults in bark crevices and buds to survive the cold. We hit them there. Same for the spores of black spot and red spot—both killers on pears—so we knock them down before they ever get started."
"Got it."
"Plus, lime sulfur is so alkaline that if you spray after the leaves are out, you can burn them right off the tree. So winter is the only real window."
Chloe nodded, looking so earnest it made me smile; I ruffled her hair and stepped up to the next tree that needed work.
I lifted the shears and pointed to one branch.
"Look here. See how the tip is rough and covered in black flecks? That's old black-spot damage. We call it diseased wood. After the crew sprays, we follow with our backs to the wind and cut every one of these out."
Chloe studied the branch with serious eyes, then raised her smaller shears and snipped it clean.
"Like that?"
"Perfect. Keep the cut as smooth as you can so the tree heals faster."
She beamed at the praise, then slipped her cold hand into my pocket and pressed against my side.
"My hands are freezing. Not bad for a first try, right? Pretty good for the top student of Napa Valley's best winemaker?"
"A little too pretty to be just a student."
"Hee-hee..."
She rested her head on my shoulder. The only sounds in the orchard were our quiet breathing and the distant hiss of the sprayers under the fine rain.
We pruned without a break for two hours, then walked the wet ground toward the drainage ditches. Winter rain is a farmer's best chance to check how the water moves.
"Watch your footing. Pears like water, but they hate standing in it. Any place that puddles in rain like this means the drainage layer is failing. Once the roots rot, the best fertilizer in the world won't save them."
I checked the outflow at the end of a ditch in my rubber boots. The ground was slick; Chloe lost her balance, yelped "Oh!", and grabbed my arm. I caught her around the waist without thinking.
"Be careful."
"I did that on purpose."
I gave her a light knuckle to the head for the teasing, then scanned the ditch again. Chloe brushed raindrops from my jacket collar with her gloved fingers.
"Think we'll get a lot of winter rain?"
"The climate keeps getting less predictable. When that happens, you stop trying to guess the weather and just prepare for everything—and react fast."
"Honestly... I've been getting a little impatient lately."
"Why?"
"We're working hard, but fruit on these pear trees is still a long way off. The Shingo pears have to turn out truly exceptional. What if they don't?"
"You're doing everything right so far. Keep going the same way. Once you grow a real Shingo crop you'll be shocked—they'll be bigger than your face."
"What? That big?"
"I'm serious. Enormous."
"You know, Brian... I think Ceracia, the wine we make from our cherries, is amazing. But this pear orchard feels different. The cherry blocks were Dad's; I just run them."
"True. These trees you planted as saplings. They feel like your own kids."
"I'll grow them the way you taught me and sell a lot of the fruit fresh, but later... the brandy or wine you make from these pears is going to be incredible. You'll do that for me, right?"
"Of course. Anything that leaves Harris Orchard under that name is going to be the best."
We walked the orchard hand in hand through the cold, rain-mixed air. It was wet and chilly, yet the time together never felt hard.
Then a loud horn cut through the quiet. An old pickup truck came bouncing through the mud, the logo of the Brentwood Cherry Growers Cooperative bright on its side.
The man who climbed out was Jim—William Hartford's right hand and the co-op's secretary. He came toward us through the rain.
"There you are. I've been looking for you. I went to the farm office first; they said they didn't know exactly where Ms. Chloe was, so I've been driving around more than ten minutes."
"Oh... yes. What brings you out here?"
He pulled a damp manila envelope from inside his coat. The usual friendliness was gone; his face was cold and official.
"This is for the legal owner of the farm, Miss Chloe. Board decision. With Harris Orchard's withdrawal now complete, effective January first of next year, access to cooperative irrigation canals will be restricted. Also, any remaining shared agricultural supplies purchased through the co-op are to be returned in full as of today."
The soft, playful light that had been in Chloe's eyes a moment earlier iced over. She stepped forward and snatched the papers from his hand.
"Restrict the irrigation canals? That waterway has run through our land as a public canal for decades. It is not some private ditch the co-op president bought."
"The legal review is finished. Under Article 14 of the cooperative operating rules, non-members are prohibited from using co-op assets. You no longer pay the maintenance fees for the canals we manage. We cannot supply water to people who do not pay. If you feel wronged, reapply for membership. Whether President Hartford will accept you is another question."
Jim gave a thin smile and turned back toward the truck. Chloe gripped the papers tight and called after him, her voice sharp as frost.
"Tell him we don't need this cheap Christmas present. We've already signed with Zen-Noh in Japan and secured our own dedicated freighter flights. That old canal Hartford likes to wave around? Tell him to block it if he wants. We're not afraid of him."
Jim's shoulders twitched. He climbed into the truck without answering and drove out of the orchard as if fleeing.
Chloe stood breathing hard, staring at the wet documents. I put my arm around her damp shoulders.
"You did well, Chloe."
She looked up at me again with the soft eyes I knew, but a new steel ran underneath them.
"They don't understand that we already use drip irrigation to minimize water. That's why they think cutting us off will be fatal."
"Still, we'll probably need to drill a new well."
"I'm not worried about that either. We have a rainmaker, remember?"
"Ah... right. Him."
She made a small fist and looked at me with fierce eyes.
"Brian, I'm going to learn this so hard. So hard that those people will never look down on our farm again. Next May, when Hartford is loading his cherries onto a ship, I want him to see our boxes flying through the sky."
I smiled and pressed a light kiss to her forehead.
In the winery at Laguna Creek orchard in Sonoma's Alexander Valley there were no festive trees—only damp air and the sharp, sour perfume of fermentation. The soft drumming of winter rain on the roof broke the silence of the cellar.
"Daniel, tomorrow's already Christmas Eve. Shouldn't something have been decided by now?"
Armando stomped in wearing a thick jacket, a rough vinegar-factory pipette and tasting glass in his hands.
Daniel did not answer. He had his ear pressed to the stainless-steel tank wall the way a doctor listens to a patient's heart, feeling the faint vibration through the metal.
"Malolactic fermentation is finished."
"Oh! So we can taste it now?"
Armando reached for the valve with bright eyes. Daniel firmly blocked his hand.
"No. Don't rush. Take it slow..."
"Slow...?"
"Think of wine as a newborn baby. It can't talk, but it finds its own way to tell you what it needs."
"And you can understand that?"
"Yeah. Brian probably can too."
Armando still looked confused, but the mention of Brian made him nod as if that settled it.
Daniel carefully opened the bottom valve and drew a small glass of the liquid. What filled the glass was not clear, finished wine. Fresh from fermentation, it looked thick and cloudy, like crushed amethyst.
Armando took the glass, brought it to his nose, and squinted.
"Hmm... the aroma is completely different from normal wine. There's something heavy and yeasty mixed in, but behind it the fruit is exploding—really intense."
"That's the fingerprint the wild yeast left behind."
Daniel held the glass up to the light. The liquid was opaque, yet tiny bubbles still glittered and moved inside it like living jewels.
He took a careful sip. A storm of sensation filled his mouth. There was none of the polish of a finished wine, but in its place came an overwhelming sense of volume that flooded every corner.
Through the second fermentation—MLF—the sharp acids had softened into something creamy. The deep flavor of Cabernet Sauvignon that had drunk in the Alexander Valley sun now fused with the rich, savory notes of the lees and released a burst of raw energy.
"It's good."
"It's good?"
"Armando, right now the yeast sediment makes it look muddy, but the skeleton underneath is perfect. Those rough tannins will turn velvet-soft with time, and this raw yeast note will become elegant vanilla and nut aromas once it's in oak. You're looking at a huge block of marble. In my eyes I can already see Michelangelo's David trapped inside it."
"Wow... do all wine people talk like poets? Maybe I should study some poetry."
"Haha. Once you fall in love with wine, you start talking this way. And... honestly, there's a little intellectual vanity in it too."
Pleasure filled Daniel's voice. The same microbes he had fought to save not long ago—with freezing well water and dry ice—had succeeded in transforming California's hot grape must into a wine that carried the soul of Alexander Valley.
"Call Brian. Tell him I'm sending a bottle of the raw wine as a Christmas present. And tell him it's the answer sheet I submitted."