Grapes

My house smells so sweet today.

That’s because last weekend Joseph and I were standing in a clearing at Misty Mountain, his paradisical property in the southwestern Virginia Blue Ridge, when he looked up and said he smelled grapes. A minute later, I caught the scent, and we scouted around until we found them: wild vines draped all over a downed tree, heavy with sweet muscadine grapes.

We reached up and picked a few – they were perfectly ripe, plump and juicy and full of flavor – and also so tart they made my face scrunch up at the first bite. These are the kinds of grapes you eat slowly, working the seeds out with your tongue, squeezing the skins between your teeth to extract all the sweet pulp, then savoring the bitter kick of the skins themselves. That evening, I discovered they are phenomenally tasty when paired with Parma cheese, its nutty depth the perfect complement to the tang of the fruit.

I returned to our discovery the next day, feeling incredibly lucky to have stumbled on this gift from nature. There they were, still hanging from their tangle of vines, these darker-than-dark orbs that looked as though they were ready to burst out of their tight skins. I reached up and began to pick, reaching higher and higher, finally retrieving a bucket to stand on for a bit more height. I climbed up one of the vines to get to the clusters of grapes hanging higher up. I felt greedy for these little gems, and gathered as many as I could, tugging the stems and listening to the loose ones drop into the cardboard box I’d brought along to hold them all. I filled it two or three inches high with grapes, then had to give up as it was almost time to leave.

Today, I took the grapes from the refrigerator back in Takoma Park. I’d gathered enough to fill a grocery bag about three quarters full. I poured them into a colander, picked them off their stems, rinsed them and put them in the biggest pot I have. I smashed them with a potato masher, then poured boiling water over them to cover, and let them simmer about 15 minutes, until they softened – all as directed by Joy of Cooking and a couple of web sites about how to make grape juice (John, take note: cooking the grapes makes all the difference!). Then I poured the cooked grape juice and skins into a cheesecloth over another big pot, to strain the juice. The juice is straining overnight.

And the entire house smells like that afternoon in the country.

[next day note: this juice is concentrated grape-ness in a glass, fills your mouth with pure flavor, and, to risk hyperbole, it really does feel like you're swallowing the essence of the earth and sun that grew them]