We had started the decade with a new baby, a wild business idea, and a bare piece of land. By the end of 1979, we had three children, a mature vineyard, and a fledgling winery. What a decade it had been.
Mac & Cheese
In the 1970s, Bill was commuting to Portland for work and got home just in time for dinner, so I had all the cooking duties. One of our staples, which the kids loved, was homemade macaroni and cheese. It’s still a comfort food for them and their families today. When I told cookbook author Marie Simmons how I put the dish together in those early days of the vineyard—a quick one-pan recipe that didn’t require a separate sauce—she helped me re-create this recipe. Sokol Blosser Pinot Gris would be a great pairing.
Makes 6 to 8 servings
1 teaspoon coarse sea salt, plus salt for cooking the pasta
2 cups elbow macaroni
2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon dry mustard
3 cups whole or two-percent fat milk
2 cups shredded Monterey Jack cheese
2 cups shredded sharp cheddar cheese
Bring a large saucepan three-fourths full of salted water to a rolling boil over high heat. When the water is boiling, stir in the macaroni and cook until it’s almost tender (taste a piece), 8 to 10 minutes; the macaroni will continue to cook in the sauce. Drain the pasta through a colander and return it to the hot pan.
Immediately add the butter, flour, mustard, 1 teaspoon salt, and the milk to the pan and place over medium-high heat until the liquid begins to boil. Reduce the heat to medium-low and cook, stirring constantly, until the sauce is smooth and thick, about 5 minutes. Add the cheeses and stir until well blended.
Remove the mac & cheese from the heat and serve right from the pan. Or, for a casserole, pour the macaroni and cheese mixture into a buttered shallow baking dish and bake in a 350°F oven until the top is golden, about 20 minutes.
CHAPTER TWO
A Sense of Place
My father, who loved to say that the best fertilizer is the farmer’s footsteps on the land, had been urging Bill to devote his full attention to the vineyard and winery. In early 1980, shortly after Alison was born, we decided the winery could afford to pay its president, so Bill quit his job in Portland to be the full-time winery president. Every morning after breakfast, he walked to work, through the vineyard, down the hill to the winery. I watched him disappear among the vines, wearing jeans, and vineyard boots, and carrying his briefcase—the only vestige of his city job. His suit and tie collection hung in the back of the closet, reserved for sales trips and meetings with the banker. He no longer spent two hours commuting, and it felt as if he were closer, but really it meant he could spend more time working.
Having Bill at the winery on a daily basis changed our dynamics. I had been running the tasting room pretty much on my own. With Bill there I was less autonomous, and I didn’t want him to be my boss. He understood and we looked for an arena that could be mine. Why not running the vineyard? I kept the books and wrote the checks; I could learn to do the physical work, too. We decided I could shift my focus.
I knew this would be an adventure since my only claim to farm life is that when I was born, in 1944, my parents, Phyllis and Gus Sokol, lived at Melody Farm, in Waukesha, Wisconsin. In 1942, to counter the austerity measures of World War II, they gave up the city life they had always known and moved with their three sons to the country, where they could grow their own food. Their farm life, with its classic whitewashed brick farmhouse, orchards, and barns, bordered by a split rail fence, lasted only seven years, but it loomed large in our family lore.
Stories of my mother driving a horse and buggy to the local store during wartime gas rationing and my father keeping chickens, pigs, and horses kept the memory alive, but my personal knowledge of farm life was nil. By the time I was four, we had moved back to the city. I grew up as a middle-class urbanite. My early memories include helping my father choose which patterned silk tie to wear with his suit for his workday; hearing my parents talk about the theater and concerts they attended; falling asleep listening to the adventures of Gene Autry on the big radio next to my bed; and smelling my mother’s perfume and feeling the tickle of her fur coat on my cheek as she leaned down to kiss me after coming home from an evening out. I can’t imagine either of them harnessing a horse or mucking out a chicken coop.
But managing our orchards and grapes put me in the vineyards every day for much of the 1980s. Wayne Cook, the young man we had hired as our foreman, patiently trained me on all the equipment. Although I was his boss and twelve years his senior, he took time to show me things—little things, like where to find the grease fittings on each piece of equipment and how to refill the grease gun from the bulk grease barrel, and big things, like how to use the forklift to load totes of grapes onto our big flatbed truck, tie down the load, and start moving. I started with almost zero knowledge, so was grateful that he was never arrogant or overbearing.
Little by little, I learned what needed to be done, how to get the equipment ready, and do the work myself. I gathered a store of information about things that I had never before even wondered about. I’d never had an urge to know how to attach a piece of heavy equipment to the back of a tractor, but now I learned how to maneuver the tractor into position so I could do it without heavy lifting. I’d never imagined driving a twenty-foot flatbed truck, but now I learned how far into the intersection to go before starting to turn a corner. I absorbed the rhythm of the vineyard year and what needed to be done each season in the orchards and vineyards—pruning, fertilizing, spraying, canopy management, crop estimates, harvest procedures. I took a farm management class to get a better understanding of the business side.
I threw myself into my vineyard work, wishing I could inhale all the new information and relishing my new skills. Crouching to lubricate a piece of farm equipment, my overalls covered with dust and my hands and nails stained dark brown from the grease, I’d suddenly wonder what my high school friends would think if they could see me now. My parents proudly displayed a photo of me as a debutante in which I looked out from the sterling silver frame, elegant in my white strapless gown and elbow-length kid gloves, my hair in a French twist. It was about as far from my vineyard life as I could imagine. The image made me smile, not only at the contrast but also at the unexpected turns my life had taken. I would not have changed places with anyone.
Something happened to me when I got out into the vineyard. It both freed my spirit and tied me to the land. Being responsible for the farm focused my attention and stimulated my mind, but being in the orchards and among the vines penetrated right to my gut, giving me a sense of oneness with the land and a fulfillment I had never imagined. I could have lived my whole life in a city and never discovered those feelings. Until then, I’d participated with more fervor than I felt. After taking over the vineyards, I finally began to take emotional ownership of the project that had been swirling around me and dominating my life for a decade. My passion for our venture grew steadily from then on, until finally it surpassed Bill’s.
Even now, I can close my eyes and imagine myself walking down a row of vines early on a summer morning. My feet are wet from the dew soaking through my boots. The air is fresh, cool on my skin, and very still. The vines are bright green and lush with new growth. The sun, just touching the vines, will soon be intense. If I am lucky I will spot a nest, probably from one of the bright yellow goldfinches, hidden in the vine canopy.
Or, I imagine it is the end of a summer day, when the sun casts long shadows in the vineyard and all the colors look deeper and richer. Above me, the swallows swoop and swirl, snatching bugs out of the air. A small breeze makes