Stressed Vines
By Sarah J. Hauser
@sarah.j.hauser
We step out of the Uber, and within about forty-five seconds, a young brunette woman hands us each a crisp glass of chardonnay. “Welcome to Macrostie,” she says with a smile. My dear friend, Sonya, and I glance at each other and laugh. How is this our life? I think. “Feel free to have a seat until your table is ready,” the hostess continues, and then she gestures to the bench in the shade.
We clink our glasses together and take a sip. It’s a drier chardonnay than I expect, a pleasant surprise to my palate. I feel entirely relaxed and completely out of my element at the same time. I’m not a midday wine-sipping, vineyard-going, breezy California woman. I wear yoga pants and oversized t-shirts, and sweat usually plasters my hair to the side of my face thanks to the North Carolina humidity. But this, right now? I could get used to this.
A few minutes later, we’re ushered to the estate house deck and seated at a table set with a row of empty wine glasses, water, a spit cup for each of us, and a list of what we’ll be tasting. Our server slash wine-educator walks over, tattoos covering her arms and a big smile on her face. Her enthusiasm is contagious. She’s not overly bubbly or faking her way through her job. You can tell she loves this work—teaching people about the craft of growing and harvesting and fermenting and aging and tasting.
Sonya and I laugh our way through the first few sips, pretending we know what the heck we’re talking about. I lift my glass to my nose and smell my wine before tasting. Do I know what I’m doing? Nope. But I’ve seen the movie Somm, which follows four sommeliers as they prepare for the nearly impossible Master Sommelier exam. I’ve taken a wine-tasting class once or twice and follow experts on Instagram. So I try to act the part. I swirl my drink a time or two, then take a slow sip. Sonya does the same. “I taste … grape … ” she says with a grin and a shrug.
“White grape, perhaps? Maybe fermented white grape?” I say. We laugh hard, shushing each other between chuckles so we don’t disturb the far more sophisticated guests at the next table.
We really don’t belong here.
We taste a couple more wines, moving from whites to reds. Our server comes over with a placard displaying a map of the region. “Maybe you’ve heard of the Russian River Valley,” she says. I have, in fact. But did I know where it was until she pointed to the spot on the map? Of course not.
“You just tasted wines from the Russian River Valley, a popular wine-growing region. What you’re going to taste next is one from the Petaluma Gap. This area is known for its ocean winds, long sunny days, and evening fog. The weather is more intense, more extreme compared to some other wine-growing regions. This stress changes the grape.”
We learn that often “stressed vines make the best wines.” When a vine struggles because of wind, terroir, water scarcity, or other factors, it tends to yield a smaller crop but with grapes that have a more robust, concentrated flavor. If the life of the vine is too easy, the grapes can be plentiful, for sure, but less tasty. If natural conditions are too comfortable, viticulturists will even introduce stress (like not giving the vines as much water) in order to bring out the more vibrant flavors of the grape.
I swirl the pinot noir just poured in my glass and take a sip. “I like this one,” I say, then take another sip. I don’t have the wine vocabulary to explain why, but the flavor certainly does seem more vibrant, richer, and overall more interesting. Out of all we’ve tasted, I like the wine that’s gone through some drama, the one that’s learned to adapt and change and become better in the process.
We learn more about other grapes, the soil, barrels used to age different wines. I find the winemaking process fascinating, and I wish I could remember all I’m being taught. I’ll forget most of it. But the idea of stressed vines sticks with me.
A few days later, I’m home in North Carolina. Maycember is in full swing. I’m back in my oversized t-shirt and yoga pants, making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while chugging black coffee from an oversized mug. One kid needs new shoes, my four-year-old whines that he can’t have candy before breakfast, and another child keeps reminding me of all the fifth grade graduation events to which I need to RSVP. (Okay, is it me, or is fifth grade graduation a much bigger ordeal than it was 30 years ago?)
Buy the teacher gifts, make sure the twins remember to water the neighbor’s plants, don’t forget to sign that permission slip, call Dad to see how his health is, make sure you do Isabel’s hair the right way for her dance photos, field day is on Thursday, buy cleats, we’re almost out of milk, make that Costco list, you should really be drinking more water, your book deadline is looming.
My brain runs wild with the amount of things to remember. They’re all good things, well, mostly anyway. The fact that the water pipe in the front yard broke again while I was out of town (and would break for a third time in just a few weeks) doesn’t make the end of the school year and the beginning of summer any easier. Even in the best of times, even when I look at the chaos and know that I really do have so much to be thankful for, this season still feels like … a lot. I know compared to many, my life is easy. I just came back from a freaking vineyard, for goodness’ sake. But some days, I still can’t help but feel the weight of overwhelm.
In wine language, this summer brings a busy growing season. The proverbial vines in my life are sure getting their share of stress, and I pray something good and fruitful comes from it. But by August, I’ll hit the finish line on a few commitments. My book manuscript will be turned in, a ministry cohort I’m part of will have come to a close, two kids will enter middle school. We’re also out of the diaper stage, and I am feeling far more settled into our new house and community than I’ve felt before (translation: I have local friends, which feels like an accomplishment in my 40s).
As I finish an intense season and consider the next, I’m tempted to pile on a whole lot more. I still need to work, of course. I can’t escape to a remote cabin or take a sabbatical from parenting. But so often, when one thing gets checked off the list, another immediately takes its place. Like my friend Shenay once said, “Most of us don’t pause after the breakthrough. We just upgrade our stress.”
I think back to the vines. Stressed vines can make great wine, and I hope that’s true of people. But there’s a fine line, isn’t there? Stress the vine too much, and it’ll die. Its leaves will fall off, and its fruit will shrivel up. Not only that, but the season of stress for a vine can’t be constant. There needs to be a season of dormancy, pruning, and preparation.
After the busyness of growth, after the harvest, after the grapes have long been plucked, the plants rest. They conserve their energy and soak up the winter rain, refilling what’s been depleted during the growing months. That season matters for good wine, too. Now I just need to remember that it certainly matters for people.
Sarah J. Hauser is a writer, editor, and speaker living in the Charlotte area with her husband, four kids, and overexcited rescue dog. She shares theology and stories to nourish the soul–and the occasional recipe to nourish the body. She is also the author of All Who Are Weary: Finding True Rest by Letting Go of the Burdens You Were Never Meant to Carry (Moody) and is working on her second book with B&H. Follow her work on Substack, her website, or on Instagram (@sarah.j.hauser).
Photo by Jennifer Floyd.