fruits of my labors

Ross Halleck Counting his Grapes

Car trouble kept me in the Wine Country a little longer than expected this week. So I took advantage of my auto repair’s “courtesy car” (curiously defined by Manly Honda as a car with Manly Honda printed down both sides and Courtesy Car silk screened across the back that you pay $35/day for the priveledge of driving-and perpetually advertising their business), to spent a day at Halleck Vineyards annual harvest party.

I first met the Hallecks years ago through a symposium for wine industry professionals hosted by Iron Horse Vineyards. Their impressive Pinot Noirs have kept me coming back both as a journalist and a simple chick who can appreciate a fine cup of juice.

Now, only in the Wine Country can manual labor be defined as a party, but there really is no other definition of a morning spent in paradise plucking delicious grapes from the vine (beverages are, of course, provided).

The Halleck Harvest Party was not my first experience with picking grapes. You may not have guessed it, but I was once a migrant worker. Once upon a time, I lived in Australia and worked as a picker for friends who grew grapes for Peter Lehman.

Though I was an experienced member of the cobbled-together crew, today I was no MVP. Distracted by the sunshine and my frolicking Chihuahua, I spent more of the morning lolling in the grass and taking photos than actually making my contribution to the ‘09 vintage.

Thankfully, at this party the size of your Pinot Noir pour was not measured by your contribution and I was allowed to continue from the picking portion to the drinking portion of the day without having to pull my weight.

Lunch was served on the Halleck’s Sebastopol, CA patio, overlooking the land we’d just picked. The crowd was a smart and savvy group of North Bay residents, all of whom knew good food and wine when they saw it. We ate lavishly and killed more bottles of Halleck’s Pinot Noir than I would ever care to count.

The day was best summed up by a friend who tagged along for her first grape picking experience. In the car on the way home through the rolling fields of western Sonoma County, she turned to me, sighed and pronounced, “I want to be you, Amy Reiley.”