Bruliam Wine Blog
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Thank you Bruliam fans and enthusiasts, and happy summer to all. For those of you who have followed our journey throughout the years, you may remember the early photo contests of yore. As we’ve gathered many more fans along the way, we thought it would be fun to resurrect that tradition this summer.
During the month of August please send us your best, most creative, funny, exuberant, joyful, and delicious Bruliam Wines photographs. Snapshots must feature either a Bruliam bottle or our throw back, logo t-shirt (or both for good measure).
To help win money for your favorite charity, of course!
In early September, we will post all of the entries and enable everyone to vote online for their favorites.
The first place winner in the poll will receive $500 to the charity of their choice, and a handmade wine barrel stave cheeseboard.
The second place winner in the poll will receive a $250 donation to the charity of their choice, and a handmade wine barrel stave cheeseboard.
To enter, just email us your pictures directly to email@example.com.
Need some inspiration? Check out these shots from years past.
And Closer To Home!
And thank you to “M.Z.” and C.P,” both of Chicago for kicking off our contest. “M.Z.” showcases a classic wine pairing with this “cheesy” glamour shot. Delectable! And “C.P.” channels the natural beauty of the Chi-town shore. Go pink!
Again, make sure you get us your pictures by August 31st to be entered into the polling.
-Kerith & Brian
I spent last week in Southern California, riding alongside our brokers and working the market. Each visit is precious chance for me to showcase my wines, sharing the goofy anecdotes that make winemaking personal, unpredictable, and fun. But the wine that most lends itself to storytelling is the “art label” estate pinot noir from our own Torrey Hill Vineyard. We all know there is as much artistry in salesmanship as in winemaking. Today I offer you a privileged behind the scenes peek into the often-murky world of wine sales.
“Wow that label is awesome! Which of your kids made it?”
“Actually, all three kids collaborate. My son draws the car, and the girls do the dog and most of the handwriting.”
“Clearly, you don’t have kids of your own. Here’s a thought experiment for you: would you rather have a tooth extracted using only local anesthesia or cajole three elementary aged siblings into cooperating on a 6 inch by 6 inch scrap of paper? I’ve got more psychotherapists on retainer than popcorn kernels crushed in my seat cushions. When my future teenage children cry foul at being the least loved, as evidenced by imbalances in 10 years of wine label design, at least I’m presumptively armed.”
“Cool big rig.”
“Yeah, my son is a car nut. Every year the label features a vehicle that is not a Toyota Sienna minivan. My son is too embarrassed to draw my actual daily driver.”
“It gives me great pleasure to remind my son that the aforesaid minivan will be his when he turns 16. I’ve contemplated adding custom airbrush flames, just to draw additional attention to his personal torment. Maybe I’ll paint it lipstick pink, like an Avon incentive car. I mention this often.”
“And every label also includes our beloved pound dog, Dexter.”
“Cute. He looks the same every year.”
“That fu%&ing dog. Not since General Eisenhower invaded Normandy has a decision been more fraught than who gets to draw the dog. Tantrums, fights, and accusations of nepotism accompany this annual family ritual, validating the well-known dictum that all family traditions suck. To mitigate the parenting joy that IS twin-twin competition, we instilled a proclamation: she who draws Dexter shall not dictate design. But when Lily took design lead in 2014, she cried mutiny since Bruno’s giant big rig became the de facto design. She sulked anyway. It’s a middle child thing. And P.S. Mr. I-don’t- have-kids-wine buyer: NEVER tell twins their dog art is indistinguishable.”
“So you mean the label is different every year.”
“Every spring we submit a new design for TTB approval. I invite pain; it builds grit. Just for fun, ask me about the time our compliance officer “forgot” to upload our label art until my mid-June phone call jolted her into frantic action. That’ll tie your colon in a yoga twist. Don’t mess with the TTB. Enough said.”
“Your kids must love seeing their art on the label when it’s done.”
“What will happen when your kids get older?”
“I suppose the art will mature with the kids, maybe into some complicated black and white line drawings. Someone once suggested we stockpile a bunch of labels while the kids are still young.”
“I barely manage this once a year. You expect me to man up and repeat? I’m actually considering outsourcing the job to India, where kids would be grateful for the artistic outlet, and the work. Reference above [blank stare].”
“Thanks for taking the time to taste with me today. Just for fun, I’ll offer you a sneak peek of the 2015 label art.”
“Is Dexter floating- in a glass of wine?”
“Either we incite the wrath of the animal rights activists for featuring a drunk, trapped, legless animal or CPS after the kids attack each other with magic markers. I’d rather keep the family peace and celebrate the return of the magical, levitating dog. He’s a throwback to 2012 Dexter. Plus, the flag will play well in Texas. I’m just wondering if we ought to add a warning to the label: ‘not drawn to scale.’”
A history of the “Art Labels”
2012 – Year 1 (Dexter with no legs)
2013 – Year 2 (Dexter has very visible legs)
Year 3 – 2014 (wow – that’s a big truck!)
Year 4 – 2015 (Uh-oh, where did Dexter’s legs go??)
The last time I navigated NYC public transportation all by myself was in 1997. I am certain of this date, since I was a medical student rotating at Montefiore hospital. I was subletting a room near Mt. Sinai Medical Center, requiring daily transit from the upper east side to the Bronx. I didn’t bring my car to the city, I couldn’t afford car service, and the subway was my only option. I wasn’t happy. I gathered advice from the other Montefiore medical students and residents (none actually lived in the Bronx) and practiced walking to/from my subway station. I bought a subway pass and even completed an uneventful round trip before my first day.
This month-long rotation was a big deal. I attended the University of Rochester, in upstate New York. Now I was playing doctor in the big city. The morning of my first day I awoke extra early. I compiled my papers and my books, with time to spare. I wanted to buy a bagel and coffee from one of the street-side bodegas en route to the hospital. I put on my clean, white medical student coat with my snowflake parka on top. I marched to my subway station, checked the number, and descended. I waited for the correct train and boarded, supremely confident. Sure, it was kinda weird that the train didn’t surface to sunlight, the way I had remembered over the weekend. So I checked my subway line and confirmed I was on the right train. It was kinda weird that none of the stops sounded familiar. And it was kinda scary as hoodlum types boarded the train, but none were departing. I tried to conceal the hem of my white coat with my snowflake parka. I hugged my backpack tight on my lap, until the train stopped, still underground.
It was the last stop. Things looked different. And dank, unfamiliar, underground spaces seem more intimidating when they’re dank and unfamiliar. Frantically, I scanned the platform, seeking out fellow medical students. Where were my people, the white coats and the scrubs? I was clammy and starting to panic. I must have looked alarmed, because a kind, elderly lady offered to help.
“Um, where is the hospital?” I asked her. “Isn’t this the hospital stop?”
“Which hospital?” she inquired.
“Montefiore?” I squeaked. And she chortled a rich, hearty laugh, “Girl, you’re in Queens.”
While it was true that I took the correct subway line, I failed to grasp the whole north/south or east/west concept. Yes, I descended at the right stop, but on the wrong side of the street. I took the right train, in the wrong direction. I was over two hours late for my first day at Montefiore Hospital. And after completing my four-week rotation, I never rode public transportation again, at least not by myself.
Last week I returned to New York City to see accounts. I had planned to meet my college roommate for breakfast. She is a veteran New Yorker. She has New York City values. She loves the subway, and she sent each of my kids NYC subway t-shirts, just to mock me in my own home. The week before my trip, she sent me the following e-mail:
“To get there from your hotel, you’d take the E (blue) train to Times Square and then transfer to the 1 (red) to 86th or the 1, 2, or 3 (red) to 96th, or uber!”
Her subtext reads, “Competent human beings can identify colors, read signs, and follow directions. This is more detail than one might reasonably expect from the subway information kiosk. You are at least as bright as the myriad New Yorkers riding the subway. Or maybe not. Just use uber.”
Of course, I used uber. But then the unthinkable happened. I was asked to visit some accounts in Westchester County. My college buddy tried to intercede on my behalf. She implored my distributor, “You don’t understand. Kerith doesn’t do public transportation. She will end up in New Jersey. Or Connecticut. Or Staten Island.”
But last week I defied every expectation (granted those expectations are pretty low). I gathered all my moxie and took the train, by myself. Thanks to some help from friendly NYC police officers and transit captains, I traveled out to Westchester County, with only a slight detour through Pennsylvania (kidding). Who says New Yorkers are cold and mean? We only had to photo-shop one photo-bomber flicking me the middle finger.
“Rose is on everybody’s lips,” according to our Illinois distribution partners. But then I can’t blame the good people of Chicago’s wind-battered tundra for pining after a whiff of spring. Even our Texas distribution partners are taking pre-orders for their pink provisions from Provence. I recently read about the “Brose” phenomenon, jettisoning pink wine into the clichéd lexicon of buddy cop movies and barf gags. Dudes that swill rose together, stay together. Rose appears to be basking in a renaissance of sorts, slipping from the shadow of boxed white zinfandel into its own well-deserved limelight. When you don’t know what to pair with dinner, rose is always the correct choice. From roast chicken to pork, chacuterie, salads, pasta, and even that creamy cheese platter (or Thanksgiving dinner), rose hits all the marks. It’s light, zippy, strawberry flecked and infinitely quaffable. Rose rocks, expect for us winemakers.
Rose should be sparklingly clear. After all, it’s that fetching pink color that beckons even the fussiest wine lover. But achieving that end result isn’t always so easy. Rose’s in-between status of more tannin than white wine but less than reds can make protein stabilization challenging. We call this “heat stability.” And preventing “wine diamonds” requires cold stabilization, too.
Seasoned wine drinkers know that tartrate crystals are perfectly harmless. They are, in fact, the natural by-products of the acids already present in wine. But unsuspecting consumers may find these glass-like, crystalline shards dispiriting. To nip an obvious wine deterrent in the bud, we cold stabilize the wine before bottling. This process encourages the tartrate salt to form before we bottle, preventing their formation in your refrigerator. The finicky consumer demands it.
Wine diamonds are a salt, of the same composition of cream of tartar, an indispensible friend if you’ve ever whipped up meringue cookies. Tartaric acid is one of our two primary grape acids, and potassium ions are ubiquitous. When negatively charged tartrate ions bind to positive potassium, you get potassium bitartrate, KTa. It’s supersaturated in grape juice (i.e. mixed in), but as the juice ferments to alcohol, its saturation decreases. This means that over time the crystals can’t stay dissolved in solution anymore, and they precipitate out as wine diamonds (salts at the bottom of the barrel). If you get the wine really, really cold (3.9 °C x 2 weeks) you can force the crystals to precipitate faster and more completely. The next step involves filtering the wine away from the crystals, before the wine warms up. Otherwise the crystals will dissolve back into solution. Think of boiling water and sugar to make syrup; hot water dissolves the sugar crystals faster.
Chilling is a fine way to cold stabilize your vino, if you’re OK with near-freezing your wine. If you have big lots in big glycol-jacketed tanks, you can cool down your wine and keep it cold until you’re done. If you own solar panels, kudos, since otherwise this can be a costly proposition. As a small rose producer, cold stability eluded me. I lacked an effective way to get my little stainless steel barrels cold enough to make the process work. In fact, you may recall a blog post many years ago, where I advised consumers to avoid overheating or over-chilling my “unstable” rose. Luckily, some nifty new products now make cold stabilization possible.
Wine innovators observed that chardonnay fermented sur lies (mixed in with the dead yeast) threw fewer wine diamonds. It appeared that yeast-derived mannoproteins (components of dead yeast walls and yeast guts) inhibited tartrate crystallization. Voila. Bien sur. A French wine company (Laffort) exploited this phenomenon to the mass market. It’s such a clever trick and recent innovation that even my best-est wine mentor didn’t know about “Mannostab.” In short, Mannostab, an extraction of natural yeast mannoproteins, forces the tartrate crystals into a particular orientation and holds them there. The KTa is forced into solution and paralyzed (so to speak). In other words, the wine diamonds will never precipitate as crystals in the bottle.
Lots of wine companies make lots of products with similar riffs on mannoproteins and vegetable-derived polymers. Each has specific pros and cons. But Mannostab has worked well for me.
My 2015 rose of pinot noir smells delicious and tastes great. The color is lighter than the 2014, since this year I saigneed the juice as soon as I dumped to tank. This is in contrast to years past, when I waited 24 hours before bleeding off the juice. But given the teeny berries of the meager 2015 harvest, I knew color extraction would be sick! This year I didn’t need to wait. The 2015 is awfully pretty, and it will have my signature, sparkly wax dollop up top.
Here’s to rose, El Nino April showers, and spring tulips, too.
I didn’t expect to get so riled up. I thought I’d already endured most of the insults that might be hurled my way.
“You mean, white zin?” (cue distasteful expression).
“Too sweet” (cue a squished up, distasteful expression).
A reviewer once asked me “why bother” to make zinfandel if I already make pinot. Another time, a cadre of high and mighty taste-makers dismissed zinfandel as one big joke, right in front of me, while I was pouring zin. But the following zinger is my all time favorites. Pinot person writes, “I see your “coming out” is at World of Pinot Noir and I look forward to seeing you. Don’t bring any of that Rockpile Zin shit.” But the reality is that zinfandel can be balanced, aromatic, food-friendly, and totally delicious. You just need to find the right producer for your taste buds. Which is why upon reading the November 2 issue of The New Yorker on my recent return flight from Atlanta, I nearly lost my mind. In a restaurant review on page 25, I read the following passage, printed right below a food-porn worthy, glamour shot of succulent, golden-skinned, oven roasted chicken.
“Is there anything more eighties that having a lot of money? Maybe melon and prosciutto. And caviar blinis. Zinfandel, for sure.”
Whoa. What? For the record, my superb Rockpile grower, Mr. Chris Mauritson, recently e-mailed me the following note:
“Opened a bottle of the 2013 you gave us for dinner last night. WOW! You nailed it! It’s like I remember Zin 30 years ago. Loved it.”
Oh my God, I like totally thought that was like for sure a compliment, being an 80’s zinfandel. It’s like totally iconic, like Madonna, stirrup pants, or a bottle of Ridge. Seriously, though, I was so touched by Chris’ compliment that I asked Brian to post it on Facebook. (He refused). There was a time when luscious, balanced, beautiful zinfandels put California on the wine map. Now I’m finding zinfandel to be a tough sell in the marketplace. And it bums me out.
The magazine review goes on to laud the menu at “Jams,” noting “not all resurrections from the era are bad news.” Spiced nuts, Baked Alaska, and brown butter glazed gnocchi all get props. But that wine reference is left dangling, like Johannisberg Riesling or Riunite. Except while Johannisberg Riesling and Riunite have vanished from American retail shelves, I am still here, making zinfandel, vintage after vintage. And being the modest and demure girl that I am, I’ll still hazard that my 2013 is stellar.
So here is my modest proposal, dear readers. If anyone in the blog-o-ether-sphere knows Chef Jonathan Waxman, of Jams restaurant, 1414 6th Avenue, NYC, please ask him to call me. I will proudly partner with him and his blockbuster “revival” restaurant Jams as his sole purveyor of zinfandel. I promise that my 2013 zin pairs perfectly with gnocchi, spiced nuts, and that gorgeous roast chicken. As for Baked Alaska…not so much.