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Hey folks,

Just dropping in a quick note to say that we’ve had our hands full between the winery and the incoming grape harvest.

We’ll be a little less present here for a while, but not to worry, we’ll be back soon.

In the meantime, this month’s newsletter is about how our work in wine and agriculture is simultaneously our practice towards living a peaceful life.

I hope you enjoy it.

K

In the Vineyard

It is dusk in the vineyard.

The sky is all periwinkle birdsong and thready stratus. The black silhouettes of evening barn swallows cut across the setting sun. Above them, the occasional bat flits in and out of sight.

Andrew and I make our way down the grassy trellises to row twenty: Sabrevois. It’s the wildest of our collection. In Andrew’s words, “Sabrevois likes to grow out…” and at this, his arms gesture explosively wide. Not exactly how I would communicate a sprawling foliar growth pattern, but he does make a point. Some vines need more encouragement than others.

Our hands are in trellis wires, tucking in leaves and straightening the trunks of young vines. The low light makes the lenses of Andrew’s glasses liquid. His brown curls shine copper.

Dusk changes us. Or, maybe it unveils what’s already there.

At this hour, the day-green leaves are shot through with late, golden light. The vineyard is a Klimt, a gilded dreamscape framed by a creeping darkness.

A few hour prior, when the sun was at its zenith, the outside temperature was over 100°F. At 100% humidity, my handy little weather app said it felt like 115°F.

Neither Andrew nor I are built for the heat. It makes us slow and inefficient. Tending the vineyard at midday is a great way to waste a lot of time. So, we decided to turn today on its head. We arrived at the vineyard just after the heat broke.

I’d initially been against the idea. Our days are already too long. I was loathe to give up my evening respite. But, now that we’re here, in this crystalline space, it feels less like a chore and more like a haven.

No pinging emails, no glaring screens, no buzzing calls, vibrating my back pocket. There is no to-do list. We’re just two simple humans, doing what humans have done for thousands of years: tending their grape vines in the summer twilight.

Mid-row, Andrew turns to me. “It’s nice to work in the vineyard with you again.”

I smile. “I feel the same.”

This is why we started our business: to work in tandem against a quiet backdrop of vines and open sky. Reality would hold that running a business is more harried than either of us expected. Moments like these are rare.

Separately, I’ve been noticeably absent from the vineyard. Last year, I suffered a health crisis that damaged my capacity to sweat properly, amongst other things. We’re still not sure what happened, but something caused my immune system to become abruptly dysregulated. We mentioned it in our July 2024 newsletter. Working outside in the heat has been a challenge.

Over a year later, I’ve recovered notably. While the heat is still a concern, I can handle the slanting, late-hour sun just fine. My relief at this goes beyond any words I could write here.

Andrew and I spend a few more hours quietly working the vines. The sun sinks behind the trees. What was a duet of starlings and sparrows fades to a hush. The vines go from a burnished lattice to a threadbare filigree. Stars poke holes in the night sky. It’s hard to see now, the dusk is so deep and purple.

We find our way back to Andrew’s SUV and clamber inside. He shifts it into gear and trundles through the iron vineyard gate. I hop out, pulling the creaking, heavy doors shut and locking them with an ancient bolt (and a modern padlock). Then, we’re off, taillights streaming into the night.

Dinner is on the road tonight. Andrew pulls out a burrito wrapped in foil and proceeds to steer one-handed with the expert agility of a man practiced in the art of eating and driving.

I spring open a lunchbox full of lentil curry and dutifully ignore any concerns I have about traveling at speed in the dead of night under the guidance of a single palm.

For a long time, there’s only the hum of the engine and the distant murmur of crickets in passing hay fields.

“This is nice,” I say. “It almost feels like a road trip. Like a vacation.”

“We should have more days like these,” Andrew replies.

“I agree. I wish every day could be like this.”

He sighs. The foil wrap of his burrito crinkles as his fingers tighten. “I know, my love,” he says. “Me too. We’ll get there. It’s just taking some time…but, we’ll get there.”

The words are just as much for him as they are for me. The mantra that all small business owners know by heart: One day. One day. One day.

Moments

The rest of the drive back is long and quiet. It’s worth mentioning here that our vineyard is located almost an hour northeast of our farm. Like most small farms, continuity is a luxury we can’t afford (yet). Every trip to the vineyard costs two hours of lost time.

With no eyes on the vines and no remote monitors, we can only guess at the weather. Sometimes, we make the drive only to be drenched by an errant downpour that our combined weather apps couldn’t predict.

This is why most vignerons live on their vineyard. As my old viticulture mentor once told me in the thick of my first harvest, “the vines don’t work nine-to-five. They need someone to watch over them. They need a mommy or daddy.” He was a great mentor, both educational and inclusive, to boot.

It’s long-distance parenting for us. By the time we get back to the farm, the sky is dark as pitch.

We step inside to the soft glow of our kitchen. It feels like a warm hearth against to inky Appalachian night.

I put the kettle on and prompt some lazy Spanish guitar on our kitchen speaker. Andrew splashes water over his face and arms. We move in a close, comfortable silence, each making their evening drink choice: tea for me and a quick cocktail for Andrew.

Being the resident and professional vermouth-maker in this house, you’d think our preferences would be reversed. Not so. I get enough alcohol in my work, and I find the neutrality of warm tea to be my most preferred mental space.

As the glue holding this business together, Andrew deserves something stronger. Tonight, it’s a spritz made with a gregarious Californian vermouth. Here’s the recipe:

Summer Vermouth Spritz

* 2 oz red-wine-based vermouth, such as Les Lunes Sweet Vermouth

* 1 oz aromatic gin, we used Condesa Prickly Pear and Orange Blossom Gin

* 1 oz cantaloupe syrup (recipe below)

* 3 oz soda water

* lemon wheel, for garish

* basil sprig, for garnish

* Make the cantaloupe syrup (this recipe yields about 12 oz of syrup): Cube half a medium cantaloupe. Combine 2 cups of water and 2 cups of sugar and bring to a boil. Add the cantaloupe and simmer for 5 minutes. Remove from the heat and let cool in the fridge. Strain the syrup, removing the cantaloupe solids.

* Add the vermouth, gin, 1 oz of cantaloupe syrup, and 2 oz of soda water to a cocktail shaker with ice. Stir gently

* Strain into your glass of choice (we like a wide-mouth stemmed wine glass) over ice.

* Add the remaining 1 oz of soda water, then garnish with lemon and basil.

We nestle in, side-by-side, at the dinner table. I sip my tea and he sips his cocktail.

“What I’m about to say won’t feel accessible,” I begin, “…but I believe that moments like this don’t have to feel so far away. We chose to go to the vineyard tonight, and we’re choosing a quiet, peaceful evening now,” I say.

Andrew nods. He picks up my thread immediately. “Even when things feel chaotic, we can still choose to live peacefully. We can make peace a practice with intentional decision-making.”

I take a long sip from my mug. “You might say that we started this business as a kind of practice. A lifeway dedicated to being peaceful.” I chuckle. “Although sometimes it feels like we’re a little off the mark.”

Andrew shrugs, waving my words away. “That’s why it’s a practice. It takes doing.”

He’s right, as usual. The point is to choose the peaceful path, no matter the chaos. Easier said than done…except for today. Today, we chose to work slowly and quietly into the watercolor vineyard twilight. We chose to settle in the warmth of our cottage kitchen. We could have filled this evening with grueling office work and an American-typical stint of mindless binge-watching over crinkle-bagged snacks…but we didn’t. We returned to our practice.

There’s a quote attributed to the ancient Greek poet Archilochus that captures this succinctly: “We don't rise to the level of our expectations; we fall to the level of our training.”

I blather a butchered version of this quote to Andrew, look it up on my phone, and then correct myself. He sagely nods his agreement.

There will always be chaos. We can choose how we navigate that chaos, and with every decision, the choosing becomes easier.

This night is the first night in which Andrew and I recognize our entrepreneurial path as simultaneously being a practice of peace. The actual nature of the work, the people we do it with, is secondary to how we choose to approach it…and for good measure, how we choose to approach ourselves.

It all comes down to how we navigate the moment.

Andrew ruffles my short mop of unchecked hair. His sea foam eyes are hazel in the low light. A lilting melody of plucked guitar strings fills the air between us.

As if on cue, I ruin what possible moment there could have been between us with a huge, very vocal yawn.

Andrew chuckles. We smile at one another like two shipwrecked sailors, washed ashore. And how lucky that this particular shore comes with hot tea and artisan cocktails, no charge. As the kids say (or used to say?), clutch!

We put our dishes away and head upstairs for bed. Day closed.

Until next time,

Kelly & Andrew

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