Honest, Handmade Wines.
At first, when we moved here, what we noticed most was the quiet. But then slowly sound emerged. Now we have roosters at 4am, buzzing hummingbirds, red-tailed hawks in flight, and coyotes just before midnight.
The drive in from the city, if you’re coming that way, might take you up 121 and onto Old Sonoma Road, in the foothills of Los Carneros. You pass vineyards, but also cows and their calves nestled close in the shade of Eucalyptus trees, red barns, and barren fields. You come around the bend of Linda Vista Avenue as it winds towards Dry Creek Road, Mt. Veeder brooding in the distance. There is a wildness about this stretch of land, and unexpectedness. It is fertile; both untamed and carefully tended. But mostly it is the light that is divine. In the morning the hot air balloons arrive at the mercy of the wind like leaves on a current. Mid day there is intensity; every vine and house perched on the foothills stands in stark relief. Even the foggy, dense mornings are intense, how their mist clings to your skin like damp sheets.
It is at dusk, when the colors seep across the sky that you feel the fragility of every living thing. “This is what one thirsts for, I realize, after the smallness of the day, of work, of details, of intimacy—even of communication, one thirsts for the magnitude and universality of a night full of stars, pouring into one like a fresh tide.” – Gift from the Sea, Anne Morrow Lindbergh.
It’s hard to explain why this place makes us so happy. There’s a farm stand on Big Ranch Road that is one of the few places we’ve found to grow gypsy peppers, a Hungarian staple that Juliana’s father always had on hand at home for a good lunch with salami and rustic bread. The farm sits at the edge of town, a gateway between the commercial center of the valley and the vineyards. They grow everything — a field of dahlias in every color, row upon row of herbs and spices, tomatoes, corn, beets, lettuce, and strawberries — but mostly it’s about those peppers for us, their color an iridescent pale green, almost yellow, the same color as a truly fine Chardonnay.
“We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity—in freedom, in the sense that the dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same pattern.” – Lindbergh.
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