UC Davis
The winery was a hive of activity.
Brentwood cherries, recently unloaded from the truck, were stacked in crates, and workers sat in rows, meticulously sorting through them. Even as I sat with a crate of my own, my eyes darted back and forth, checking the workers' progress and occasionally rising to pace the floor for a better look.
"Discard anything with severe bruising, and make sure to remove all the stems and twigs. If any leaves are left behind, it’ll add a bitter taste. Watch your fingers," I instructed.
The cherries, brimming in their crates, rustled as they were transferred into baskets. The tiny stems and twigs I pinched off with my fingertips hit the floor with a crisp sound. The fresh, plump cherries shimmered like jewels inside the silver stainless steel baskets.
"Brian, what should I do with this one?"
One of the workers held up a cherry that was split halfway. The flesh was already discoloring from exposure to the air. I shook my head.
"Toss it. If that gets into the fermentation tank, it’ll invite unwanted bacteria."
The discarded fruit was collected separately to be sent to the compost pile. I grabbed a handful of the sorted cherries and stood in front of the machine that gleamed with silver stainless steel. It was a Destoner, the equipment I’d prepared instead of a crusher. I had driven over 500 kilometers to Los Angeles just yesterday to get my hands on it.
"So, you're finally using the thing you worked so hard to get?"
"Yes."
As I poured the cherries into the narrow intake, the machine roared to life with a cheerful metallic hum.
"Clatter-clatter-clatter!"
With a rhythmic vibration, the cherries tumbled inside, and the rapidly rotating rollers separated the flesh from the pits. The pits were ejected with a dull thud into one bin, while the thick, red pulp flowed out the other side.
The separated pits clattered as they fell, while the pulp, crushed along with the skins, spewed forth a deep, crimson juice. The cherry nectar flowing through the pipe into the tank looked like a waterfall of liquid rubies.
"You know, when I was studying, I didn't see anything about separating the cherry pits," my father remarked. He had been burying himself in agricultural studies lately, and ever since I mentioned making cherry wine, he’d been borrowing books from the library for two days straight. He was pointing out that none of them mentioned pitting the fruit.
"Ah, that’s probably because those books were for grape wine. Grapes can be crushed and pressed with the seeds intact during fermentation, so you don't need to separate them like this. But cherries are different. Cherry pits contain amygdalin, a cyanogenic glycoside. If the pits are crushed, it releases a bitter taste and an unpleasant almond aroma. It’s not good for you, either."
"Is that so? Then why didn't the blogger who posted the cherry wine recipe mention that?"
"They were probably just used to the standard grape wine method. It’s more convenient that way, too."
The destoner isn't a standard piece of equipment in most wineries. As I said, wine made from grapes involves crushing and pressing the seeds. Because of that, getting the right equipment requires a fair bit of effort, and most people just don't think it's necessary, so they stick to the seed-crushing method.
"Then it must have a huge impact on the taste, right?"
"Absolutely. That’s why the wine I’m making this time will be completely different from any existing cherry wine."
I immediately scooped up some juice with a ladle and poured it into the tank. A red wave cascaded down the silver walls of the fermentation tank. The vivid color looked like molten rubies, and every time the light hit it, subtle shades of purple and scarlet danced across the surface.
I tilted the ladle, let a single drop fall onto the back of my hand, and tasted it. The sweet and tart juice swirled on the tip of my tongue. It was a clean, pure cherry flavor, completely free of any bitterness from the pits.
"Good! The color is incredibly deep."
"Me too."
Seeing the intense longing in my father’s eyes, I placed a drop on the back of his hand as well. He slurped up the cherry concentrate flowing down his skin, his eyes widening in surprise.
"This is delicious!"
"Me too! Me too!"
Armando, who must have been watching, rushed over, and eventually, I let all the workers have a tiny taste of the concentrate. Everyone seemed to perk up, satisfied, as they returned to their stations to resume work. I meticulously double-checked the cherries the workers had sorted before feeding them into the destoner.
After several hours of back-breaking work, I confirmed the tank was full of cherry concentrate and adjusted the valve with my gloved hand. If the inflow speed isn't kept constant, the juice can foam up, leading to excessive oxygen exposure. Small ripples were already forming inside the tank.
"This is the important part now, isn't it?" my father asked, watching intently. Having studied the subject, he knew that simply fermenting cherries didn't automatically result in wine.
"Yes. As you know now, Dad, the choice of yeast, the use of fermentation starters, temperature control... all of these determine the final aroma and taste of the wine."
I pulled out a small glass vial and set it down. The labels read RC212, 71B-1122, and a few other unfamiliar names.
"What are those?"
I held up the RC212 and said, "Lalvin RC212, also known as 'Burgundy.' It’s an excellent yeast for red wines, especially Pinot Noir, for enhancing red fruit and rose aromas. It’s perfect for maximizing those red tones like rose or cherry."
"Ohhh—"
Next, I held up the 71B-1122 and the others in turn.
"This is Lalvin 71B-1122 Narbonne. It’s mainly used to slightly reduce high acidity to create a smoother mouthfeel and to express fruity aromas like cherries more vividly. It was mentioned as a recommended strain on the WineMaker Forum, but it’s not widely used yet. And this... this is the kicker."
"What’s that? There’s no name written on it."
"Torulaspora delbrueckii. A mouthful, right?"
"Sounds like Russian."
"Ah, it’s Latin. Roughly, it means a yeast created by Dr. Delbrück? Something like that."
"Oh—"
"This is used alongside the commonly used Saccharomyces cerevisiae. It improves wine quality and creates a smooth texture and rich aroma."
At this time, there probably wasn't another winery in existence making cherry wine with this 'Torula-whatever' yeast. This was one of the reasons I didn't let anyone other than my father watch the winemaking process properly.
"Amazing. Do they even teach things like this at school?"
I flinched for a second, but shrugged it off and said casually, "School teaches the basics. I’ve been living in the library."
"As expected..."
I turned the valve on the cooling pipe nearby. Cool water flowed down the outer wall of the tank, lowering the temperature. I nodded as I watched the thermometer attached to the side of the tank slowly drop.
At that moment, tiny bubbles formed on the surface, the first sign that fermentation was beginning. Soon after, a faint 'bubble, bubble' sound rose secretly from within. The red juice seemed to come alive, churning as the aroma grew increasingly intense.
Standing over the tank, I felt the subtle vibrations with my fingertips and whispered, "Good... it’s started."
"I’m nervous, too."
"Right?"
My father and I stared at the tank with tense expressions.
Time flew by, and before I knew it, the sweltering summer had arrived.
August 18th.
It was an important day. It was the orientation day for UC Davis.
I threw on some clothes and gave my parents a final reminder: "Keep the SWP (Stem Water Potential) at minus 12 bar."
A value of minus 12 essentially meant pushing the vines to a state of thirst, which was essential for reliably securing the anthocyanins and tannins in the grapes.
"Alright, don't worry about it and just go have a good time. Your mom and I will check it every day."
"Okay~"
UC Davis was about 53 kilometers away, a one-hour drive. If I left early in the morning, I could arrive by 9:00 AM without hitting traffic, and since I was used to waking up at dawn, it wasn't difficult at all.
I parked in the vast lot and walked over to see my friends, who had already arrived, waving at me. It was Armando, Chloe, and Jacob, who were all starting their freshman year with me.
As we entered the UC Davis campus, blue and gold balloons swayed in the breeze, and orientation leaders were shouting at the top of their lungs to welcome the new students.
"Welcome to UC Davis! Aggie Pride!"
"What does 'Aggie Pride' mean?" Armando asked.
I answered, "They say the official mascot of UC Davis is the Aggies. It’s a nickname derived from their agricultural tradition."
"Ah..."
The area in front of the student union was packed with people. Students wearing matching black and blue t-shirts were manning information booths, and students stood in long lines to verify their identities and pick up their orientation packets.
"Wow, there are so many people," Armando muttered, fidgeting with the bag slung over his shoulder, his eyes darting around restlessly. Chloe curled her lip and said, "You’d have to find a girl first to even talk to her properly. You pushed so hard for Christina and couldn't even get a kiss, right?"
Armando flinched, pointedly ignored Chloe, and turned to me. "I’ve decided to find true love this time. The love you find in high school isn't real. At least the love you find in college is the love of a properly mature adult."
"Yeah, yeah~ Good luck with that."
Armando ignored my cynical remark and kept rolling his eyes, while Jacob was busy looking for something with a serious expression on his face.
"I’m going to start by looking for agricultural clubs. I heard there’s even a rice farming club."
"Typical son of a farming family."
I chimed in, but I walked on with a blank expression, barely listening. Having experienced this once before, the atmosphere of an orientation didn't feel particularly moving or exciting.
The yellow envelope I received after checking in contained a campus map, a course registration guide, and a notebook and pen stamped with the Aggie logo. As our orientation leader took the lead, dozens of new students wandered around the campus in a group.
The massive library, the gymnasium, the parking zones filled with endless rows of bicycles... it was a completely different world from the quiet, secluded farms of Napa Valley.
The afternoon program consisted of departmental sessions. It was a time for students hoping for specific majors to gather and talk to advisors. We naturally headed toward the agricultural department.
The lecture hall was filled with students of similar age, and some were even bringing wine bottles and placing them on the tables.
"What’s that?" Armando’s eyes went wide.
"They’re students from the Viticulture & Enology department," Chloe said, pointing to a small sign. "They say it’s wine they made themselves. I guess they’re introducing it with a tasting event."
Viticulture & Enology was my major. Naturally, I couldn't just walk past, so I waited. A moment later, a student opened a bottle of wine and poured it into paper cups.
Everyone lined up to receive a cup with curious expressions, and we each took one. The deep purple liquid swirled inside the paper cup.
I carefully lifted the glass and took a sniff. Even though it was a paper cup, the initial aroma wasn't bad. The fact that it was still decent despite the smell of the paper killing the wine's bouquet meant the base aroma wasn't half bad. However, the moment I took a sip, what spread through my mouth was a harsh, astringent taste I hadn't expected.
I set the cup down and muttered quietly, "Ugh, I guess the students made this."
"Is it bad?" Chloe asked. I nodded quietly. That was when—
"Which department are you from? Yeah, you."
At the sudden voice, I turned to see a pretty woman in a tight blouse and a short skirt, arms crossed, glaring at me.
"Huh? Here..."
As I pointed to the wine in my paper cup, she smirked as if she’d caught me in the act and said, "I guess you think you know a thing or two about wine? But do you know this? A significant number of the kids learning here already run their own wineries."
"Ah..."
"Since you were so quick to act all high and mighty, why don't you tell me? What’s the problem?"
She sneered, as if to say, 'How would someone like you know what’s wrong after just one sip?' Perhaps it wouldn't have mattered if I were from a different department, but since I was in the same major, she clearly couldn't let it slide.
As it seemed like a fight was brewing, people around us started glancing over, drawing attention to our group. Armando leaned in close to me, covered his mouth with his hand, and whispered, "Take it easy, take it easy..."
I hadn't intended to start criticizing people on the first day. I’d just voiced my thoughts quietly, not realizing anyone would hear.
So, with an apologetic look, I said, "No, it’s just... it seems like the fermentation temperature wasn't controlled properly. Ah, but it’s a mistake beginners often make, so you don't have to be too embarrassed. It happens."
Her face began to contort.
"I told you to take it easy..."
Ignoring Armando’s muttering, I downed the rest of the wine in one gulp and said, "Actually, now that I drink it again, it’s not bad. If you just watch the initial temperature... it might be even better. I can see the talent."
As I stammered, Chloe grabbed my arm and dragged me away, while Armando and Jacob downed their wine in one go, blathering on about how it was the best wine they’d ever had in their lives before vanishing into thin air.