This is a repost of a story that I found extremely entertaining. I laughed so hard because this is the way my Portuguese father in law and I make wine. By the way, the wine is usually very good, but occasionally not so good as this way is a little more risky than the popular alternative. A must read for real wine makers. It was written by Ivan Davidoff.
First off, I want to make it clear that I am no novice wine-maker. I
> have been an avid consumer of all brands of wine-making kits through the
> years, and am very proud of the clever labels I produce on my trusty
> Okidata 320. But about a year ago, something happened that inexorably
> destroyed my standing as a responsible home-wine-maker.
>
> It all began quite innocently, as these things always do. I am fortunate
> to live in a community spotted by fellow wine-making enthusiasts, and we
> often get together and swap war-stories about our craft. Or, I should
> say, *got* together, for those pleasant evenings discussing the merits
> of various brands of grape-juice concentrates, or manufacturers of
> camden tablets, of the exact number of drops of Liquid Oak to add per
> carboy, are gone forever, seeing as I am now a pariah.
>
> But, as I said, it began quite innocently. A friend of mine, an avid
> home-wine-maker, invited me to a grape picking in Temecula, not far from
> where we live in Southern California. I gave my enthusiastic consent,
> and spent a glorious day under the desert sun snipping supple clusters
> of Cabernet Sauvignon off the well-tended vines. Quite eye-opening it
> was, too, for in all my years of making wine, this was the first time I
> had ever seen the raw product, the actual grape, as it were, in its
> natural state. It was a welcome reminder that the source of my chief
> pleasure actually grows from the ground, and must be harvested.
>
> I ended up with, as my share, 45 5-gallon buckets of grapes. Riches!
> However, the promised destemming machine was not delivered to the
> harvesting site, and I was forced to transport the grapes as they were,
> still on the stem, uncrushed. I arrived home that night, tired, hungry,
> and a little disgruntled about the lack of the promised machine. And
> here is where I committed my first sin: I succumbed to my weariness, and
> went to bed without properly treating the freshly picked grapes. In
> fact, I did not treat them at all.
>
> Of course, the tradition of treating grapes is rooted in misty
> antiquity. No one really knows why it's done -- at least I don't -- but
> we do it because it's "the way". Here in our community we make a proper
> ritual of it, just like in days of old. We nominate a Sulfite Virgin
> who, dressed in a bikini, dances on tiptoe while splashing various
> sulfite solutions into the expectant maws of our 5-gallon food-grade
> macerating buckets. Old Emmy Crabtree has been our Sulfite Virgin for
> the last 7 years -- she's the only female we know who can claim
> convincingly that she's a virgin, although, at 89 years young, it's not
> really clear whether she's actually a virgin or just forgetful. In any
> case, she's great fun, and very accurate at chucking camden tablets into > buckets.
>
> I arose the next morning with the intention of properly sulfating my
> grapes, but fate, alas, intervened, and I was called away on a matter of
> utmost urgency, and did not return until the evening of the following
> day. My grapes, of course, were ruined. With a heavy heart, I purchased
> some plastic trash barrels down at the local general store, wherein I
> dumped my worthless grapes, planning to have the stalwart garbage
> collectors remove them in the ensuing weeks. I confess I exhibited some
> childish pique at this point, for, as I dumped the grapes into the
> 50-gallon bins, I punched them and crushed them, sometimes jumping up
> and down in the bins with both feet (bare, for I did not want to ruin my
> Ferragammos), taking out my rage on the innocent grapes. Thus spent, I
> covered the grape-filled trash bins, and left them in the dark recesses > of my garage.
>
> Happy to put my abject failure behind me, I promptly forgot about the
> trash bins, and, for a fortnight, pushed their memory from my mind. But
> the time came when I had to deal with them, and, one trash-day, girding
> my loins, I descended into the garage, intending to drag the first two
> bins down to the curb. My curiosity, however, got the best of me, and I
> gingerly lifted the lid of one of the bins, and peeked inside. What I
> saw horrified me. The grapes had acquired a life of their own, and were
> foaming vigorously. The heady smell of wine filled my nostrils. The
> grapes had released their juice, and it had somehow taken on the color
> of the grape skins -- deep red, jewel-like and clear. I was compelled to
> taste this juice, and plunged a plastic cup deep into the bowels of the > bin. I drank.
>
> No doubt about it. It was wine.
>
> Sure, it lacked that kerosene after-taste of my best home-wine-making
> efforts, but it was wine, nonetheless. What freak of nature made this
> happen? I pondered the question, and came to the conclusion that some
> erstwhile yeasts must have been present in the garbage bins I purchased.
> These yeasts must have interacted with the sweet grape juice, and some
> kind of freaky unnatural fermentation must have occurred. What were the
> chances of that?
>
> And here is where I committed my second sin: instead of disposing of
> this monstrous must, I treated it as though it were a perfectly
> legitimate wine, punching the cap down for several more days, then
> racking it, racking it again, and, finally, bottling it.
>
> My third sin, perhaps the greatest, came almost a year later. At one of
> our jovial wine-tastings, I produced a bottle of my monstrous
> misogynation. My fellow-wine-makers tasted it, and were seduced by its
> unnatural fruitiness and robustness. They peppered me with questions
> about acid content, sulfating method, sugar content, alcohol content,
> food-grade dyes and flavorings, brand of yeast, etc., etc., and,
> finally, I had to admit with shame that I had done nothing to the grapes
> except stuff them into garbage bins.
>
> My friends -- my former friends -- were appalled and disgusted. The next
> night, a group of angry men wearing black cowls and bearing torches
> decended upon my garage and destroyed my stash of unnatural wine. Emmy
> Crabtree won't speak to me, and the local children ring my doorbell and > run away.
>
> But there's one thing about being made a pariah -- it makes it easy to
> go on being a pariah. I mean, how much more reviled can I be? The answer
> is -- none more. So, this year, I bought a lug of Temecula Zinfandel.
> The fruit is rich, sweet, and covered with some kind of white powdery
> film. I'm hoping my trusty trash bins still have some of that magical > yeast in them.
>
> Because, you know what I did with these grapes when I brought them home
> and dumped them into the bins?
>
> Nothing.
>
> --
> ID