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wine, harvest and poetry

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wine, harvest and poetry
Listening Sailing by Rod Stewart played by the London Philharmonic and jotting down some words.
Home again cross the sea.
I am sailing, stormy waters,
To be near you, to be free.

We are in stormy waters, sometimes at times gloomy and full of storm. The world of wine is so full of pundits, some of them to shiver. Everyone knows everything, but this girl that feel so ignorant when it comes to wine, in this world, I was born. Obviously not my choice, but it’s my choice to remain. Wine is part of my blood and part of my being. I can not explain. It’s rooted.
I close my eyes and open my heart to remember.
Morning fresh and filled with dew, the boards of the wagon still wet to put on, the morning sun begins to warm and dry the leaves are my first thoughts. And then the games with my brothers, made to see who can finish first the plant. Arrival on the field, and as September rolls away I find different grapes that I love a little 'more and a little' less. Here is the first, Pinot that if you're not soon to vendemmiarlo, gives you gold today, tomorrow mold, Manzoni 6013 that to take him down with both hands you can never fill the tank but gives you full-bodied and in full, in follow the Prosecco grapes crowded fast-pound and one that fills the eyes of greenish yellow hues. Came Raboso, and now they are already under way for a while 'to the classroom and take up all a bit' annoys me. And then my mind wanders to the sticky legs at thigh level for having supported the wagon every time again and the pile of grapes which the indefatigable Aunt Mary stands to cut queues, never stopping.
Here comes the rest of the afternoon with the bread and salami de casada, the fresh light wine, while the hunters for a walk with the dogs stop to keep you company. And then return at dusk with the cart full and the wine, which is almost annoying with humidity of the evenings of September, Rasponi to remove with fork and cariole to wear. The sour smell of the first fermented mash, the light on in the basement late and my dad, again, with the old Torcio, I hung on the handle and allows me to give the first few rounds to torciare grapes.
For me, talking to harvest as San Martino Carducci: Poetry. And the wine is the same way.
I know we're in 2012 and it comes to keep in the cellar for 10% of Prosecco to keep the price, I know that you sell the label most beautiful or the most talked about. The quantities that are contracted and the agents running dream of making sales to the pallet. But for me to sell wine is to sell emotion. And 'selling a little' me of my roots. That feeling you have when you come home after the harvest and you take a warm shower to put away the moisture that you almost penetrated to the bone, the wood stove on and the serenity of your home that allows you to leave out the sea agitated life. At the end of the day, you're sitting at the table with your family, and you expect good food and wine to give you comfort and serenity.
Alas, I am afraid of being the ultimate romantic. I'm sorry.

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