I live in a typical suburban neighborhood on the northern slope of the most famous hill in Littleton: Jackass Hill. Last year I tried my hand at making the drink of gods from grapes that grow along my back yard fence line. It was challenging. I picked, crushed, and began fermentation on October 4, 2008. I bottled December 26. The bottles are currently in my basement. I’m waiting to uncork my magic in April 2009. I’m proud of what I produced and I’m looking forward to tasting the results. I labeled my wine “Jackass Wine” in honor of Jackass Hill, the terrior of my wine.

The hill got its name from an enterprising rancher. He raised mules on the mound and intended to sell them to the army for hauling goods during World War I. That endeavor failed. The rancher abandoned the mules and they roamed the countryside. Today, you won’t find a jackass on the hill, although I walk the hill a lot and my wife substitutes my name and this landmark quite frequently. But, I want to make it perfectly clear; I named my wine in tribute of the hill, NOT the winemaker. 

The idea to try my hand at winemaking originated a few years ago. It was a fall day and I was in my backyard watching migrating birds, happily chirping while stealing my grapes. These birds were fueling up for an international flight to Costa Rica. All I needed was a peanut tree and these freeloaders could pack some PB & J sandwiches and skip eating airline food entirely.  I interrupted my thieves and tasted the grapes. “Hmmm…, they smell and taste like Welch’s Grape Jam.” “Not bad,” I thought. The idea came to me to take back ownership. I decided the following year I would stop the sandwich makers and try my hand at making wine.

The following spring, my newly seeded idea grew from a simple garage sale. For a few bucks, I became the proud owner of an entire winemaking ensemble.  The collection included some large glass bottles, called carboys, chemicals, siphoning equipment, corks and other stuff I didn’t know heads or tails about.  I asked the former owner, “Why the bottles are called carboys? Do girl winemakers call them cargirls? Why don’t they just call them glass bottles?”  He shrugged his shoulders. “Where’s the manual?” I quizzically added. (Why I asked for a manual, is beyond me. I don’t do manuals.) 

“Just go to the wine and beer equipment shop on Broadway Blvd. and you can pick up everything you need,” he replied.

Next week I dutifully went to the wine shop and purchased a couple of books, which upon trying to read, I said, “Not Me.” I’m the kind of guy who ruins Christmas. When my kids were young, and got gifts with manuals, the manuals were never opened. I just went for it. OK, there were SOME years my kids really enjoyed Christmas--the years they received gifts without manuals! I did learn one thing from leafing through these books, making wine was pretty complicated. This is not a guessing endeavor. So, I stored my wine making possessions in the basement with other collectable stuff.
                   
A couple of years passed and then, in 2008, it happened, I met a real wine maker. Her name is Marianne “Gussie” Walter of Augustina’s Winery in Boulder. Gussie sells her commercially crafted wines at the weekly Bel Mar Farmers Market.  I met her through my wife. Gussie and my wife were neighbors under outdoor tents, selling their wares.
My wife is an artist. She takes junk and turns it into popular home and garden décor. People love it. She’s always on the hunt looking for discards and abandoned stuff. One day I spied her in our basement. I could see her wheels spinning, eyeing my abandoned wine equipment. Thank goodness the thick layer of dust precluded the notion of immediate action. Enter Gussie, and my equipment was granted a stay of execution.

Realizing “I better do something or else,” the following week I told Gussie I wanted to make homemade wine but I had no brain. Gussie smiled, I’m sure she quickly surmised, ‘Typical, male”. Gussie agreed to mentor me. So like a school child on show-and-tell day, I took my box of chemicals to market and handed them to Gussie. Gussie talked slowly, drew pictures, and used lots of arrows.  She also agreed to e-mail correspondence to help me through the hard times. “This is going to be fun,” I said, upon which Gussie handed the chemicals back to me and sympathetically patted me on the head.

While harvest was still a couple of weeks away, the grape clusters were maturing nicely. That gave me plenty of time to chip away the dirt, stage my equipment, and pick up some missing components. I knew that wine makers carefully selected harvest day based on multiple factors, including weather and the measure of brixs, sugar content of the grapes. Extended warm weather would assist the grapes in reaching peak ripeness. Cold or dramatic changes could stunt optimum flavor. I began watching weather forecasts.  Then one day, like flipping a light switch, I knew the date I should pick my grapes. When do the Broncos play their first nationally televised game?”

I used a crayon and colored a big grape on my harvest calendar; one day before the first game. All Coloradoans know that Mother Nature strategically pounds the state with a blizzard as the entire nation watches football through swirling snow. Ms. Nature loves to ski and loves to ski with friends! As the white stuff flies on television, the reservation lines ring off the hook in ski resort towns and she gets his wish. So my harvest would be the day before.

The day arrived. I prepared a hearty three egg omelet with a side of bacon in anticipation of a day filled with hard labor. I didn’t know how long it would take to harvest the fruit from three vines. I laced up work boots and visited the vines as early sunrise baptized the fruit. I invited my minister over and he spoke kind words of blessing over the cornucopia. Picking commenced and ended in 15 minutes. My twenty year old vines filled three, five gallon buckets with fruit. I was exhausted, so I took an hour coffee break.

Rested, I returned to work, unlaced my boots, discarded my socks, and proceeded to impart some soul to my pickins. I stomped to the tunes of Marvin Gaye because I knew he knew some stuff about grapes because he’d heard some stuff through the grape vine. Apparently, what he heard, and what I did with what he heard, wasn’t enough…my grapes found ways to squeeze between my toes. I changed to Diana Ross and the Supremes and intensified the drama. I performed my “I’m gonna get you” dance. Finally, perspiration glistening, the grapes conceded. I pressed and poured the juice in a bucket and placed it in my basement. Then I added yeast and secured an airlock. I got out of the way and science took over.

Fermentation ensued and concluded in four days. I learned that was much too fast! My basement was a semi sauna. The warm environment chased the yeast into percolating carbon dioxide like an open throttle steam ship. Next year, I will submerge the bucket in a tub of ice water and control the temperature around fifty degrees Fahrenheit. Fermentation at that temperature should last around ten to twelve days. (If I’m starting to sound like I know what I’m talking about….I fooled you! Gussie was a good teacher).

After fermentation, I siphoned (racked) the wine in carboys to allow the spent yeast to settle and the wine to clarify. On December 26, (I had plenty of time, my kids are older, no gifts with manuals) the wine was siphoned off the lees. Initial tasting indicated the need for sugar. Gussie, via an e-mail gave me the formula to add some sugar. After adding two percent sugar it started to taste better. Of course, I’m the producer, I added a large measure of wishful thinking, and ‘it really started tasting pretty good!”

I produced a rare nine bottles. Now that’s called a VERY limited production. That’s good for profit. The price of each bottle just rocketed into the outer atmosphere. We’re not talking mass produced “Two Buck Chuck” here. I know I could easily sell my wine for something like three dollars a bottle.  (Yes! Money set aside for college).

Now came the most important part of winemaking, creating the label.  I’ve learned, after many years of drinking wine, what makes a great wine is a cool label. So I did my homework regarding the history of Jackass Hill and named my wine, Jackass Wine.

After creating the label Gussie instructed me to wait two to three months before opening the first bottle, I couldn’t wait. I wanted a sneak preview so I took a bottle to my friend Chef Jean-Luc Voegele, the Executive Chef at the Westin Tabor Center in Downtown Denver. Chef Jean-luc was born and raised in France, he knows wine. I was nervous, what would he think? I poured a glass, watched him swirl, sniff and then partake. Immediately a smile came over his face and then it went dour.

He didn’t need to say a word…I knew what he was thinking…(”Here’s this upstart first time ever green wine maker, producing this fabulous wine on the level of great French wines…there’s no way I can compliment him. It would only feed his ego.”)  So instead of being honest he said, “This wine is not sellable, it’s rough on the edges.  If you want to salvage it, mix it as a cocktail with a Kir and serve it as an aperitif.  Or else use it as cooking wine.”                         

I smiled, I knew better.  A Frenchman can’t compliment an American winemaker.

I immediately devised a business plan. I would buy all the homes around Jackass Hill, plant vines and build a chateau on the top. I would call my castle, Chateau de Aˆne, (Manor Home of the Jackass). We shook hands and I thanked him for his opinion. I told myself, “It’s only one opinion.”

So now the wine rests in my basement. The target date to uncork the second bottle is April 22, 2009, my son’s twenty-first birthday.

What will the results be when I uncork the second bottle? You don’t need to guess, the results won’t be good. We’ll taste, our palettes will pucker up, and I’ll re-cork the bottle.

I thought of another idea besides Chef Jean-Luc’s summation; “I’ll use the remaining seven bottles as winter windshield wiper fluid.” The alcohol content will keep the fluid from freezing and at least I can salvage a clean windshield out of all of my hard work!

Hey, I tried.  I’m happy to report the entrepreneur spirit still lives on Jackass Hill, even if the results were the same as the first jackass endeavor. Stay tuned, I have plans this fall to make a second batch. If I’m lucky maybe hail will save the day.

Well, well, well; surprise, surprise surprise. My son, Eric, the newly christened twenty-one year old stood in our kitchen with neighbors from across the street; my wife and our eighteen year old second born son. We uncorked Jackass Wine, poured a toast and saluted my son’s milestone.

My harshest critic, my wife, admitted, “Hey this isn’t bad. What happened? A couple of months ago it had an edge. It’s now drinkable.” I didn’t respond, the appetizers were served and conversations galloped forward. My thoughts drifted towards ‘bottle shock’, the wine settling, softening etc, I’m not sure. I’m just an amateur.

Appetizers disappeared, dinner was served. My son’s birthday dinner request consisted of steak with caramelized onions and mushrooms. We filled plates and moved to the front porch enjoying our first of the year outdoor evening dinner. With dinner, I served another special treat: two bottles of Colorado wine, a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from Colorado Cellars, the state’s oldest winery and a bottle of Merlot from Plum Creek Cellars, one of the largest.

Both bottles were dated 1988, the year of my son’s birth.

My wife and I purchased these bottles soon after Eric’s birth and held on to them his entire life. About six years ago I contacted both wineries and asked if they would re-cork their respective bottles. Jenny Baldwin from Plum Creek and Richard Turley from Colorado Cellars were very accommodating. In addition I encouraged both to taste and asked their opinion of the wine.  Both simply stated, “It’s drinkable.” It wasn’t the rousing, enthusiastic, unabashed response I hoped for. I guess having surpassed the peak, the wine was sliding downward in quality and expectations. None the less, bottles were topped off with fresh wine and re-corked.

I warned everyone around the table to lower their expectations. The wines could be totally spoiled.  But what a surprise, both wines were identifiable, full bodied, color good and very drinkable. A toast to the winemakers!

While the wines may have been past there peak, my son has only begun his climb upwards in hope and aspirations. In a reverse sort of way, the wines paired well with our celebration.

My son’s birthday fell during the middle of the week. So with thoughts of work and an early rising for everyone, our little celebration was short lived. We kicked out the neighbors, quickly cleaned up and retired to bed. My son went across the street for a few minutes, while my eyes welcomed the sandman.

I woke up a little after midnight and peaked out to the street and saw my son’s car was gone.  He had vacated to his apartment. I made my way downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of water and spied a note on the kitchen counter.

“Thank you for dinner, family. I can’t say it enough, but you guys truly are awesome. I could not have asked for better parents or a brother over these 21 years. Here’s to 21 more! Love you guys!!  Eric.

Wow, a thank you note!

Usually we have to twist arms and threaten our boys within an inch of death to write thank you notes to friends and family. And this one was unprovoked. There is a God. This note was the perfect night cap, a little oasis in this experience called parenthood.  My head hit the pillow with contentment.
Good night.
Jackass Winemaker, Lo Mielke