Lie a Lot and Use a Fairly Clean Two-by-Four

Probing The Mysteries of making wine is a popular pastime these days, and most wine books have been so simplified that anyone with a Ph.D. in chemistry or advanced calculus can produce a decent vintage with very little trouble. All you need to do, according to the books for that little old wine maker--you--is to fit hydrometer A-14 into fermentation lock 3-CLR, mix a yeast that would be the envy of General Mills, multiply one fourth the gravity table times the square root of the nutrient, then bottle and save for seven years. What's needed for a good wine, I noted in the last wine-making book I read, is a "reasonably well-balanced must." That sounded reasonably well balanced, but I couldn't discover from the author what a must was. I decided finally that, in my case, it meant I must keep buying and forget about bottling.

It was about this time that fate interceded and I found myself dispossessed of my big-city job and back in the cattle country of northwest Nebraska, where I was reared. This isn't exactly a wine drinker's paradise. A well-stocked liquor store in these parts has 78 brands of bourbon, three kinds of Scotch, an assortment of vodka and peppermint schnapps--and two kinds of wine, Mogen David and something a little sweeter. So it was back to the wine-making books for me, in hopes that I could convert rhubarb and currants and apples into vin ordinaire, as I think the wine books call it. My thirst for a glass of the grape was great--but my comprehension had not grown.

Then, as abruptly as any dry-voting, wet-drinking Baptist in the South, I was saved. It happened on a hot September afternoon. I was driving a herd of cattle down the Niobrara River Valley when I happened to see some wild grapes. Standing near them was an old friend, Leonard Peters, wearing a baseball cap and bib overalls. An unlikely costume for a savior, but savior he was.

"Wouldst thou care for nectar blessed by the gods?" asked Leonard, or words to that effect. (Actually, he said, "Get off your horse and have a drink, if you can strain it through your hippie mustache.")

So I dismounted and Leonard took me to his basement, where he commenced uncorking samples of his work. Nothing fancy in appearance, since the bottles had previously held vanilla extract, cranberry juice and soda pop, but plentiful, vintage stuff. Maybe the best year ever on the Niobrara River was the vine of 73.

I had a tad of currant, a swallow of chokecherry, a goodly helping of rhubarb, a taste of dandelion, a swig of apple, a mouthful of wheat and even two varieties of grape. Then I worked my way back through his stock, marveling with every sip (out of the bottle, of course; goblets aren't big in these parts). They all were potable. (I'm throwing in potable to add a little class (continued on page 172) lie a lot (continued from page 57) to this story. It means fit to drink.) "Forsooth," I cried, "this wine belongs to the gods and should be saved for the ages! Let's have another round."

We did. In fact, we had two more rounds. The next day, I got the cattle I was driving out of a neighbor's cornfield. The suit still is pending, but that's another story.

"My kingdom," I pleaded. "my kingdom for your recipe." Leonard was reluctant, knowing how cramped my kingdom had become in the past few years. But he couldn't say no when he heard of my long crusade with the simplified books put out by wine makers.

"I've never had any trouble understanding how to fit the hydrometer into the fermentation lock and mix the must with the yeast to get the right specific gravity for the nutrient," he said. "But the only problem is, after I bought all that junk and read all those books and followed all those directions, the wine tasted awful. So I found an old settler's recipe for making all kinds of wine, and that's what I use now."

"What," inquired I, "do you call your method?"

"The two-by-four recipe." he replied. "If you've been in the city so long you've forgotten what a two-by-four is, it's a board two inches thick and four inches wide. I take a two-by-four and beat the fruit to death with it, and go from there. And I don't use anything else somebody sells except sugar and maybe a couple of oranges and lemons."

And then he dictated his recipe to me, after swearing me to secrecy while my right hand was placed on an old volume of Wine Making Simplified. Fortunately, I had my fingers crossed on the book when I took the oath of secrecy.

The best thing about making homemade wine my way (you'll notice it's become my way) is that you can use it to make wine out of almost anything that grows and doesn't bite. For example, as soon as I returned from the cattle round-up to my home in the little town of Crawford, population 1824. I spotted a crab-apple tree in a neighbor's yard. I attacked that tree like Genghis Khan, put the apples in a huge wooden salad bowl, found a fairly clean two-by-four in the yard and pounded the apples to a pulp.

It was fun. Lots of them had the rosy-cheeked, self-assured appearance of bosses and other big shots I had known in the past. Then I dumped the pulp into a six-gallon plastic garbage can I had washed as soon as I borrowed it, added water and covered it with a dish towel.

Once a day I stirred the concoction with a wooden stick--all the books say never to use metal--and on the eighth day I strained it through a pillowcase, throwing away the pulp and the pillowcase, and returned the nectar to the garbage can. Then I added sugar, lemons and oranges, let it set for 24 hours, strained it through another pillowcase and poured the brew--with the help of a 39-cent plastic funnel--into gallon jugs and screwed on the lids very loosely.

I named my first batch Saddle Rock Sauterne, in honor of the towering butte west of Crawford. Then, changing the amounts of sugar, lemons and oranges. I created Sand Creek Chablis. White River Rhine and Soldier Creek Sherry.

Two months later, I bottled the wines, using green and brown bourbon and Scotch bottles saved by my favorite barmaid, Ruth, down at Mary's bar, and my son designed appropriate labels, and then we decided to throw a winetasting party. During the soiree, a lovely young thing came up to me and said, "The wine is wonderful. How do you make it?"

I started my pitch, going back to the time Saint Paul said a glass of wine was good for the tummy, and then explained, "What I do, really, is get me some apples and a two-by-four and pound the apples about a bit, and then dump them into a garbage can-------"

The lovely young thing drifted off rather suddenly, leaving her glass of "wonderful" Soldier Creek Sherry on the kitchen table.

The next time I was asked how I created such a tasty treat, I shrugged my shoulders, threw out my hands and said, "I'm sorry, it's an old family secret." That seemed to make the wine even tastier. Apparently, a lot of connoisseurs of homemade wine don't want the details, just the delights.

I'm going to share these delights with you, but before doing that, I want to point out that you can make sweet or dry wine, as you prefer, simply by adding or subtracting sugar. The apple-wine recipe that follows is for my favorite version, but you can make Saddle Rock Sauterne or White River Rhine or Soldier Creek Sherry simply by changing the amount of sugar, orange and lemon additives. And the recipe for Pine Ridge Rosé can be amended, too. My friend Leonard Peters says it also works for blackberries, currants, raspberries and other fruits and berries.

If you own a hydrometer or a fermentation lock, and know how to use it, forget my method. But if you like to drink good wine, for maybe ten cents a bottle, here we go.

Sand Creek Chablis

Gather ten pounds of apples, cut out the rotten spots, cut the apples in half, place in a wooden container, such as a large salad bowl, and pound, seeds, core and all, to a pulp with a two-by-four. Put the pulp into a five-gallon plastic, wooden or crockery container (no metal), pour in four and a half gallons of cold water, cover with a cloth and leave until the eighth day, stirring daily with a wooden stick. On the eighth day, strain through a dish towel or muslin cloth, return the liquid to the container, add eight pounds of sugar, the juice, rind (grated) and pulp of six lemons and three oranges, stir and leave for 24-hours. Strain through a cloth again, put into gallon jars or plastic containers with the lids on loosely, and do your drinking at your favorite pub for two months. Then, checking to make sure no bubbles are in the brew (if there are, let it stand for up to another month), strain again, pour into green or brown bottles, cork and pour on melted red wax to help seal the top, and rack, drink or have a party. The books say to leave it racked for a year or two, so I always make enough to drink some now and age the rest.

Pine Ridge Rosé

Gather grapes from the vines or the supermarket, mash thoroughly with a two-by-four and put the pulp and juice into a plastic container, measuring to see how much you have in quarts or gallons. Then add an equal amount of boiling water and let stand for 24 hours. Strain and measure the juice left. For each gallon of juice, add two pounds of sugar. Mix well, let stand for 24 hours, strain and put into gallon jugs with loose caps until bubbles cease. Bottle and have a blast.

If nothing else, my method cuts down on book-buying costs. And I think you'll find the end product tastes good, too. As my friend Leonard says, it's not the size of the hydrometer, it's the way you use the two-by-four that counts. And it's as ego building as hell to know that not even Aristotle Onassis, with all his millions, can drink Sand Creek Chablis unless he's at my house.