Peel Me A Grape

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For the first time in four years..four long years..there is the potential for a substantial harvest from my grapevine.

I’m one of those poor deluded souls who thinks that if you buy a grapevine from the local garden nursery you should be able to open your own winery the following year.

The truth is that I’m not very good with ‘complicated ‘ plants.( See the Lean, Mean & Green post earlier on this blog.) Grapevines have to be pruned a certain way in order to realize their full potential and there’s more than one way to keep them trim. I suppose it’s just dumb luck that I’m now looking at a bunch of bunches or it could simply be that four years is the amount of time you have to wait.

I’ve had a grape or two over the last few seasons. It’s kind of pathetic..trying to nurture a few pieces of fruit to fruition. Meanwhile, my Italian neighbour, Frank, is out in his backyard effortlessly growing zucchinis the size of canoes. Everyone should have an Italian neighbour. It will bail you out of countless pinches with produce.

Anyway, there’s grapes at the Chateau Gerry.

Grape beginnings

They don’t look much like grapes right now and if we don’t soon get some sunshine here on the west coast they’re sure to resemble a collection of knitting needle heads come Fall.

They’re green seedless grapes..good for eating out of hand (according to the original plant tag) but not the type from which you realize the noble rot.

The Frau thinks I should go out to the garden and tag each bunch with a short strand of red yarn..just so I can do a quick inventory. Where the hell does she come up with these ideas? She never sets foot in the garden except to ask why something seems to have died. You’ve heard of Monday morning quarterbacks? Angie is a Critically Disinterested Horticulturalist.

The grapes will have to fend for themselves. I’ll trim away a few leaves that seem to be shading the bunches from the sun and make sure they’ve got water if summer ever comes but otherwise they’re on their own. I’m not going to be dashing out of the back door like a  flailing scarecrow to shoo away birds.  And if, by some miracle, I can pluck a few plump globules of sweet green flesh from that gnarly stump winding its way over the arbor I fully intend put my feet up, tilt my head back and, like a latter-day Caesar,  ask my compliant, though critical spouse, to peel me a grape.

A grape, please.


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