Per Pliny the Elder (and plenty of wine plied apostles) descends a dictum, in vino veritas, that might or might not tender truth. Probably depends on the vintage. Or the month of the vendange? Truth or untruth, it’s anyone’s guess, but in these days of bluster and bravado perhaps it’s wiser to cycle back to the source. To the grapes. No, before the grapes. To the grapevines.
Grapevines… offer a sweet is slightly surreal portrait of seasonality. Days ago these bursting fruit were too tart too eat. I’ve been tasting. And puckering. But cool night catalyze the sugars as if awakening deep memories of what grapes might taste like. This morning I ate dozens of grapes. The perfect play of tart and sweet. (Source: Seasonality: Septembering)
Before Rosslyn’s fruity vines my parents began growing a small wine vineyard on the Adirondack shores of Lake Champlain when I was growing up.
We planted a vineyard of wine grapes in Rock Harbor in the mid-1980’s and it’s done surprisingly well over the years. Unfortunately wine production has been limited by the incredible efficiency of the wild turkey and deer who consistently gobble the crop as each variety ripens. (Source: Reliance and Neptune Grapes)
There were some bottles of foxy red over the years, and we even count a bottles of Dry Gulch Vineyards in Rosslyn’s wine cellar. 
Today, much as it was decades ago, wildlife primarily enjoy the fruits of our grape vines. An abundance mindset that renders plentiful sweet-tart treats but no wine.
Perhaps the most spirited bounty is moments like this. Glimpses of ripening fruit vibrant and plump, glowing burgundy and claret against the setting sun.
What do you think?