The Daughter of Silveroak
Farming, like any business, doesn't recognize weekends. If there’s nothing pressing to do or if it’s raining, you might take a break, but otherwise, farming is the repetition of the same daily tasks. In that regard, my parents were truly remarkable. Before we left Korea, they knew absolutely nothing about agriculture. They were simply doing it because it was the only work they could start immediately after fleeing their old lives. Yet, they performed their duties silently, without a single complaint. It was truly impressive.
“I’m so curious,” Mom said, already excited at the thought of making vinegar starting today.
“Is there anything I need to prepare?” Dad asked, fully ready with a notebook and pen in his hands.
“Since it’s our first time, just watch and learn for now. Or, if you really want to do something, just film it.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea. Filming. I’ll record it with the camera.”
We didn’t have any hired hands today, so it was just the three of us on the farm. Even though it was a shame that we had to wait until next spring to grow fruit again due to the pest infestation, my heart felt light as I looked out over the green fields.
“The weather is nice, too.”
California’s mild, warm climate was truly a great place to live. Just looking at the blue sky made me feel better, and I found myself regretting why I had spent my past life buried in a desk instead of looking up at this sky.
But I pushed those useless thoughts aside. As I stood in front of the winemaking equipment, my heart began to race.
The equipment, having been thoroughly cleaned and inspected, looked as vibrant as if it were breathing again. The stainless steel press glittered under the morning sun, and the fermentation tank stood in a quiet, reliable posture, waiting for my touch.
I knew I had to project an air of expertise to earn my parents' trust, so I put on my gloves with the practiced ease of a veteran technician and puffed out my chest.
“Dad, Mom. I’m starting now. Just watch closely and follow along.”
“Got it. Don’t worry, just do your thing.”
Dad was watching my fingertips with eyes full of anticipation, and Mom was biting her lip slightly, looking nervous.
I slowly moved the grapes from the crate to the press and said, “The most important thing is the pressing. You shouldn’t apply too much pressure when extracting the juice. If you do, the astringent and bitter flavors will seep in. Like this—the key is to press it gently.”
As I loaded the grapes into the press and turned the machine on, it began to move slowly with a low, steady hum. I carefully adjusted the pressure, watching closely as the grape juice flowed out cleanly. I could see the deep purple juice flowing down the transparent tube at the bottom of the machine.
“Look at that color. It’s much more beautiful than I thought!” Mom exclaimed, looking at the juice with admiration, while Dad filmed the process in detail with his phone.
After a while, when the juice had filled up sufficiently, I said, “Now, we need to transfer the pressed juice into the fermentation tank.”
I slowly poured the clean grape juice into a large stainless steel vat. The juice was sucked into the tank without a sound, and its fragrant, fresh aroma filled the surrounding air.
The grapes were low-quality and hadn't looked like much on the outside, but they were different once turned into juice.
“Now, this is the yeast. I’m going to add it.”
I took the yeast I had prepared out of a small bag and sprinkled it evenly into the tank. The fine particles slowly spread over the juice and gradually disappeared.
“Now, this yeast will consume the sugar in the grape juice and turn it into alcohol. The important thing from here on is maintaining the temperature. You need to keep it steady between 20 and 25 degrees Celsius during fermentation. If the temperature is too high, the fermentation will proceed too quickly and aggressively, making the taste harsh. If it’s too low, the fermentation might stop entirely. This part is important. Okay?”
I spoke while looking at the camera Dad was holding, then focused on the thermometer attached to the side of the fermentation tank, making fine adjustments. Once the interior of the tank was set to the right temperature, I turned to my parents and smiled.
“There! That’s the preparation process for alcoholic fermentation. Nothing too difficult, right? Now we just have to wait and check the status steadily over the next few days.”
“Then what about the acetic acid fermentation? How do we do that?” Dad asked, his expression still serious.
“As I said before, once the alcoholic fermentation is finished, you just need to leave the air vent at the top of the tank open. This will allow the acetic acid bacteria in the air to naturally enter the tank and react with the alcohol to turn it into vinegar. I’ll show you how to do that when the time comes, so don’t worry about it yet.”
Mom, who had been listening, nodded, her tension seemingly melting away.
“Listening to our son, it doesn’t seem that hard, does it?”
“That’s right. Since Wooseok is here to teach us everything, there’s nothing we can’t do. Shall we try it ourselves starting tomorrow?”
Dad’s voice was overflowing with confidence and a spirit of challenge. I, too, wore a satisfied smile.
Starting the next day, my parents began to try the pressing and fermentation work themselves, remembering the steps I had taken. At first, they made mistakes and were nervous, but they gradually gained confidence and began to perform the process with skill.
“It’s more fun than I thought! Thinking that this is all ours makes me not even feel the fatigue.”
“Exactly. The fact that this is all ours is what matters.”
Having spent the weekend with my parents on the initial stages of vinegar production, I headed to school on Monday. Some might think going to school while there was work to be done on the farm was a waste of time, but I didn’t think so at all. I had no doubt that completing this educational curriculum would become a massive asset for me in the future.
In some ways, the United States is a society even more sensitive to academic background than Korea—or perhaps just as much. The higher up the social ladder you go, the more firmly the elite form a cartel based on their schools and connections. Agriculture was no different.
And today, there was a reason I had to go to school. It was Elena Pike, the daughter of the owner of Silveroak Hills Vineyards.
“Elena!”
“Oh, Lucinda!”
Elena, who was in my math class, looked no different from any other ordinary female student on the surface. A plain girl with freckles, reddish hair, and braces on her teeth. That was why I hadn’t paid much attention to her, both before my regression and until now.
However, once I learned she was the daughter of the Silveroak owner, I couldn’t help but keep an eye on her. That was why I was subtly paying attention to even the trivial morning greetings between friends.
“I greeted Christina today,” Armando said, providing useless information from the start of the morning. I ignored him and kept glancing toward Elena. Of course, I moved very naturally so that others wouldn’t notice.
‘How should I ask her?’
I couldn’t just walk up and ask, ‘Your dad is eyeing our farm, isn’t he?’
“I’m telling you, Christina smiled at me! This is for sure, right?”
‘Am I overthinking this? Should I just go and say hello?’
Thinking about it, I realized I might be over-calculating against a mere kid. Perhaps Elena had no thoughts about farms whatsoever.
“It’s too early to confess, right? Then shouldn’t I send some kind of sign?”
Just then, I felt Elena’s gaze brush past me, and I realized I didn’t need to worry for long.
“What is it? What are you thinking about? Am I talking to myself?”
I stood up from my seat and walked over, and Elena, sensing my presence, turned her head just in time.
“Hi, Elena.”
“Um. Hi. What’s up?”
“I heard you’re the daughter of the Silveroak owner? My family owns Redwood Vineyard. Since we’re close by, let’s get along well.”
Elena stared at me blankly, as if she didn’t know what to say.
“What are you two talking about all of a sudden?”
“No, I just found out Elena is the daughter of the owner of Silveroak, right next to our farm. I was just trying to be friendly.”
“What? You want to be friends because she’s rich?”
“...We’re neighbors, neighbors. Do I look like that kind of guy to you?”
“You never know.”
“I’m disappointed. You only think of me that way? I did that for you with Christina...”
“Wait! Let’s leave that story out. Is it fair to hit below the belt with my weaknesses?”
Annoyed that two men were standing in front of her talking nonsense, Elena frowned and said, “Who’s your neighbor? You just bought a failed farm.”
Only then did I turn my head to look at Elena.
“I bought it cheap because it failed. But just wait until next year. Our farm’s grapes will be the best.”
It might sound a bit childish, but I declared it on purpose. Many of the kids at this school were children of vineyard owners, and I believed it was important to leave a deep impression on them.
Of course, Elena twisted her lips as if she found it ridiculous.
“We’ll see about that. We’re entering the Table Grape competition this time, too...”
Regional organizations like the California Table Grape Commission or the Washington State Table Grape Association often judge samples harvested early in the season and award prizes for ‘Best Quality Grape Varieties.’
Naturally, fruit from a farm selected for this sells for more than others, so farms took such events quite seriously.
If you compare it to Korea, it was like picking the ‘Grape King’ at the Songsan Grape Festival. Seeing things like this, human life is the same in Korea or America.
Anyway, just as I was about to ask the strangely competitive Elena how she knew so much about Redwood Vineyard,
“But can you even win an award at the Table Grape competition after pouring all that pesticide on them?”
Armando blurted out, blinking his eyes.
“What? Wh-who uses pesticides? We’re organic!”
She glared at me and Armando with her eyes wide and angry.
“I don’t know anything about that!”
Startled that the arrow might point at me, I took a step back and distanced myself, while Armando looked back and forth between me and Elena in confusion, muttering in an unsure voice,
“I... I just asked... I saw them using pesticides in the warehouse when I worked there before... so I saw it. I just wondered if that was okay... it would be okay, right? Come to think of it, there’s no reason it wouldn’t be... there’s no law saying only organic grapes can be picked... right? Isn’t that so?”
Before Elena could even argue, all the kids had heard what came out of Armando’s mouth, and Elena’s face turned as red as a ripe cherry.