General

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January 13, 2020

Natural Cider

In attempting to talk about natural wine, I’m going to start where I end. The best description I’ve ever heard comes from Krista Scruggs of CO Cellars—“It’s just fucking fermented juice.” Scruggs should know. She’s put in years of long, hard hours working, farming, and fermenting— all of it culminating in her becoming a star among natural wine makers. I really need to take a trek to Vermont to visit her tasting room.

Perhaps another way to describe natural wine is to say that it contains the blood, sweat, and tears of the land, the fruit, and the human hands that guide the juice into the bottle. What it doesn’t contain is anything else. Period. The end. The author, Alice Feiring, describes it as “nothing added, nothing taken away.” For us, we do everything we can to employ natural methods to make our cider (cider is wine, to us). This means no sulfites, no filtering, no fining, no chemical additions or alterations of any kind. We like to age our ciders in used barrels that impart neutral notes, but will also “break bad” on occasion and age in “fresh-dump” wine and spirit barrels. While we wait for our trees to produce, which we grow with an organic/sustainable approach, we still must source from producers who do use some commercial methods. Again, we do the best we can, but we’re not perfect—yet.

Unfortunately, as Feiring, author of the book “Natural Wine for the People,” has recently noted, the co-opting of natural wine seems to be under way. Maybe it’s because of the human desire to label everything, and put everything into a neat little box? Maybe it’s because commodity wineries see dollar signs—like Big Ag food companies saw dollar signs in branding everything as organic. Personally, we’ve encountered both confusion and the pigeon-holing of naturally made cider from consumers, from producers, and by cider organizations. For whatever reason, there is some motivation to define and label natural cider as “sour.” Natural cider is not sour. Can it have funky or sour aromas and flavors? Sure. But to categorize all of it as “sour cider” is a grave misnomer. It assumes too much. It also confuses the consumer and makes them predetermine that all natural cider is sour. Maybe because I just can’t stand labels—never have, never will—or maybe because certain things simply escape categorization, in the end, as Scruggs poignantly and so eloquently surmises, it’s just fucking fermented juice. My addendum? No more, and, for fuck’s sake, no less.

May 19, 2019

The Straight Dope on Residual Sugar (“RS”)

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Understanding the types of cider now available can be confusing. The name, itself, is misunderstood in the United States. I grew up in New England, where “cider” meant non-alcoholic, unfiltered apple juice that you got from an orchard during the fall. “Hard cider” was a drink for adults. But then along came the Great Cider Revival in the United States—which is still unfolding as I type these words. Now, when we use the term “cider,” we mean hard cider, not apple juice. Okay, now that we’ve explained this, let’s talk about a term you may hear thrown around in tasting rooms—residual sugar (“RS”). Huh?

To understand RS, you need to understand what it means when someone says a wine is dry. Side note/news flash—cider is wine. Yes. It is. Every cidery in the country is licensed as a winery. Making cider is identical to making wine using grapes. The process is identical; all you’re doing is using apple juice instead of grape juice. So, when we hear someone say, “Gee, your cider tastes like wine,” we say, “Thanks! It is wine!” Okay, back to understanding the term, “dry.” Here’s the deal: you start off with apple juice, which is full of natural sugars. Yeast feeds on this sugar. When it does, one of the things it produces is alcohol. If you follow a natural method (like we do), you don’t add preservatives or other chemicals to stop this process, you don’t filter the fermentation, you don’t pasteurize it—you just let the fermentation go. The result? If all goes right, the yeast eats virtually all the sugars in the juice. This is what is meant by the term “dry,” or “finished to dry”—there is little to no sugar left after fermentation. Some ciders, even though dry, have a perception of sweetness—but that’s a story for another day.

That little to no sugar left over after fermentation is RS—residual sugar. Residual means something that remains after other things have been subtracted; what is left behind. Generally, if you let fermentation go without messing with it, there is virtually no RS—we are talking like .3% or less. Because we produce cider by the natural method, our ciders are typically dry (very little to no RS).

So, how do producers make cider that has noticeable RS content? How can a cider finish fermentation with 1% or more RS? Well, the producer will have to halt fermentation somehow so that there is noticeable sweetness (RS) left behind. This means they pasteurize (cook) the cider, add preservatives, excessively filter it, or a combination of adulterations, etc.—stuff we just won’t do. Taste matters to us, and messing around with nature, in our opinion, messes around with taste.

There is another way to make cider that contains some sweetness (aka, making an“off-dry” cider, or “semi-sweet” cider): add sugar back to a cider and then do something to prevent the yeast from eating it. But this is not RS! If a producer adds back sugar, this is not the same as RS. Remember, RS is sugar that is already in the apple juice, naturally. Added sugar is, literally, sugar added after fermentation to “back sweeten” it (get it? Add sugar back into the cider). So, when you see “RS” or “Residual Sugar” on a label, you may want to ask the producer if it is really RS, or sugar added to back sweeten the cider. And, if there is noticeable RS, what did they do to your innocent, defenseless cider to stop nature in its tracks so that the yeast couldn’t finish its meal! So rude!

The Straight Dope on Residual Sugar (“RS”)

January 22, 2019

Chasing Taste

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Let’s discuss the elephant in the room right off the bat. Me. I’m the elephant. I’m overweight. And yes, I have an undeniable desire to eat Big Macs—especially after partying a bit. Why is that? Some say it is because mass producers of food understand flavor too well—that the basic taste profiles, when put together in ridiculous proportions, turns the Big Mac, for example, into crack food. Think of that Big Mac. It’s really salty. A sour and bitter kick hits you from pickles and the “special sauce.” And then, you get a sweet punch from the bun—three layers of that crap. And don’t forget the ketchup, which is also filled with sugar. Take a good long look at those two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, on sesame seed bun. It’s the four taste sensations on steroids.

So, what the fuck do master chefs mean when they say we need to get back to taste, to food that is not a commodity, not mass-produced shit? I mean, that fast food stuff tastes great, doesn’t it?

Justin Burchill of Rappahanack Restaurant says that “taste for me is best described in terms not meant for taste.” Rather, he talks in terms of a single note at a time. “Bright, dull, loud, focused, muddy, sharp, round, soft, all of these are terms I use daily when talking about taste. I guess to me it’s more of a full experience rather than one single thing I can dial down on.” Justin hits on something that resonates with me. Again, make no mistake, I love Big Macs. But, they don’t have a unique or redefined note in them that hits you like a ton of bricks and maybe transports you back in time to some memory—grandma’s soup on a cold winter’s day, perhaps. Commodity foods lack that intangible, which elevates and/or educates your experience with food.

“We all have things we taste, we like, we dislike, and things we don’t understand,” says Andrew Manning of Longoven. “There are no rights or wrongs,” because “we all have different experiences” which “have educated us or aided us in understanding” what we are eating and drinking. “Taste for me is life, it’s experience,” he continues, it’s “year after year of eating drinking and thinking about what’s going on in your mouth right now.”

To Manning, it is part of the chef’s “responsibility to bring new flavors, and ingredients to the public; to take time to talk to the staff about importance of salt, acid, vegetal flavors, fermented products,” and on, “and how they all play a very important part of what we taste.” In my opinion, this is exactly why we need to seek out chefs that are dedicated to elevating and educating our tasting experience. This is why we need to support chefs who can, for example, take the simplicity of a single vegetable and transform it into something that brings you more joy, more can’t-put-your-finger-on-it goodness than you’d ever experienced before.

Images courtesy of Longoven

In my world, there is a war going on for my taste buds, and I want the small, local food producer to win out—not a commodity. And, so you know, it’s a struggle for our local chefs and honest food producers. As Justin explains, “sometimes it is hard to translate to our guests” what his taste intentions were in a dish. “Some of the dishes I’ve been most proud of, simply never worked out from a sales standpoint. I know the aesthetics, flavors, smells, textures, concepts were exactly what I wanted, but sometimes it just doesn’t play.” Why is that? And to be sure, what I’m talking about here goes beyond fast food versus fine dining. What I’m talking about here includes questioning why we settle for virtually the same line-up on the menu that appears in so many restaurants we enter. A roast chicken dish. A seared tuna dish. An Americanized pasta dish. Oh, and a steak and a pork chop. Bunch of salads and soups. Isn’t it boring? And, in the end, can’t we do better, or at least the same, cooking at home?

Okay, stepping off the soap box for a minute, I do get the utility of such, shall I say, basic food places—I get the price point issue, among other things. But I guess I’m saying there should be more places that drill down deeper into food culture—into taste. And we should seek these places out, revere them, and support them. And not every place needs to be super expensive. Some of my favorite food experiences have occurred in tiny, non-descript places that simply care about taste—and deliver it in spades. Anyway, if we seek these places out, we open up and expand our lives. We begin to understand the importance of a sustainably grown product, perhaps get a glimpse into a culture we previously knew nothing about simply by tasting a spice from that region or locale. Call me a dreamer, call me foolish, or whatever else you wish. I don’t give a shit. I still believe in the power of breaking bread with people, of expanding my horizons, and remaining open to any new experience. Is this what taste is all about?

I asked Manning if people care about taste, does it matter? “Great question. Answer: the more we educate, and put in front of people things we like and help them to understand about the reasons why—acid, umami, savory, sweet, vegetal, et cetera, the more people will start to think about what they’re eating or drinking, or tasting.” This inevitably leads to a discussion about the “product and the importance of, and how much of a difference a good product changes everything,” which then leads into a discussion about the importance of supporting and understanding good “growers, terroir, products, methods and techniques,” and on and on.

So, what the fuck does any of this have to do with cider? Actually, everything. We are the only cidery in the South and Mid-Atlantic region that is entirely dedicated to making fine cider, naturally. All we are after is taste—those notes that come together and transport you. Layer upon layer of flavor—from the fruit, barrel aging, adhering to natural methods, non-filtering—everything we do chases taste. There have been two moments (so far) when I felt like I was finally getting somewhere with our cider. The first was when a respected chef told me that our cider was the best he’d ever tasted in Virginia. The second was when a venerable apple grower, and former cider maker, starting trusting us with her fruit and recommended our cider to the public. Both moments left me speechless (a huge feat), and touched me to the core. It means maybe, just maybe, we are heading in the right direction. Yes, it all means that much to me.

And yes, we will always be out here, on our farm in Goochland, chasing taste. It fucking matters. Listen, man. Give me a Big Mac, I’ll enjoy it for a second. Give me an onion, a simple onion crafted with intention and a singular focus on taste—an onion that transports me, provides an experience? I’ll remember that shit forever. And that makes all the difference.

WCVE CulTerra Dinner - Courthouse Creek Cider

WCVE CulTerra Dinner featuring our fine ciders paired with a stellar 5-course dinner prepared by local chefs Michael Stotler, Justin Burchill, Andrew Manning, J Frank, and Bobo Catoe.

August 8, 2018

Living and Breathing | The Birth of a Cider

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As cider makers, we work in union with the transformation of living things. It begins with the physical fruit; it swings on the tree, some apples eager enough to drop, others holding on for a little more sunshine—a few more drops of rain. The fruit is harvested, either pressed by the hardworking hands at the orchards we work with, or transported straight to Courthouse Creek where we mill and press it ourselves.

Living and Breathing | The Birth of a Cider

What once grew over a season on a tree is now condensed into liquid, the raw material we use to create cider. Each apple is a reflection of its own innate characteristics: the weather it experienced in its growth, the soil that fed its tree, the hands that tended to its development, and on and on. Each of these elements varies year-to-year, and these variations reflect themselves in the fruit. Accepting these variations with an appreciation for all that nature is and does—and refusing to give in to the human temptation to alter them—is, to us, the very definition of orchard-based cider (or heritage cider, or whatever term you wish to use to try to capture nature).

With all of the patience and knowledge we can muster, we try to mimic the apple’s intuitive understanding that nature is at the helm and what it provides is beyond what we can give. The wild yeast and healthy bacteria on the skin of each apple is meant to be there, and not meant to be decimated with chemicals. The apple is a reflection of itself and the land it grew on—and in—thus, it demands respect. We allow the cider to breathe, never stifling its life with added preservatives.

Perhaps, our art is the attempt to tap into the fruit’s intuition, and guide it on its journey to becoming cider. Our actions are thoughtful and respectful. For instance, if we decide to use a cultivated yeast, we carefully select a strain that amplifies the characteristics of the fruit. We believe in the beauty of fermentation and/or maturation in wooden vessels; the cider living and breathing with the lungs of a barrel or foeder. After fermentation, the cider matures in a meditative state, undisturbed by additions, by prying hands, by any sort of process.

Every so often we taste the cider, study the cider, talk about the cider, debate about the cider. We allow it to dictate when it is ready for bottling, when its restful state is over and it wants to move on. We focus on taste and what speaks to us—not whether, for instance, we’ve hit target acid levels of a recipe by adding something that was not there from inception. As feebly as we can, we attempt to understand and listen to the language of cider. Once packaged the cider continues to transform, to age inside of the bottle in our cellar, on the tasting room shelves, in retail stores, in your refrigerator, at your table, and finally in your glass.

The cider is always living, containing invisible worlds more complex than we can ever imagine. We can only hope we’ve done it justice, and that the cider continues to live on in the moments we share together—at a picnic, while relaxing with friends, with a delicious dinner, and on and on.

June 25, 2018

The first supermarket . . . and our opening of a second location.

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The first supermarket supposedly appeared on the American landscape in 1946. That is not very long ago. Until then, where was all the food? Dear folks, the food was in homes, gardens, local fields, and forests. It was near kitchens, near tables, near bedsides. It was in the pantry, the cellar, the backyard.
-Joel Salatin, Polyface Farms

We are the parents of four kids, living in the 21st century. So, please don’t mistake the above quote as a belief that we can and should turn the clock back to 1946—like it or not, “big ag” and supermarkets are part of the landscape, and they have their place in modern society. But small, agrarian-based farms, markets, community CSAs, and coops are also a part of this landscape. In our opinion, there is too much “unused space,” so to speak, regarding these localized/community-centric opportunities. For us, cultivating that space is important. As we gear up to launch our second location in Scott’s Addition, Liza and I have been reflecting upon where we’ve been, where we are headed, and what we are all about.

It seems like a million years have gone by since we relocated to Virginia and started planting our orchard! Time certainly does accelerate as you age! Since 2013, we’ve planted about 4.5 acres of apples and pears, cultivated gardens, built a home and cidery/tasting room, rebuilt a home, re-cultivated gardens, and now we’re just about open a second tasting room location—oh, and raising the kids, can’t forget that! Thankfully, Liza and I like the rollercoaster version of life. We consider ourselves incredibly fortunate folks, and can’t wait for the next twist or turn.

While we are never sure what the future holds, we are super excited about opening our new location in Scott’s Addition, 3300 W. Broad, Richmond (off the back alley abutting Mactavish Street). The new space is just a tasting room, and all production remains at the farm. This is important to us, as we remain committed to our Goochland County family, friends, and community at large. Scott’s Addition is an amazing, vibrant area and we are really grateful to be able to showcase what we do in a tasting room there. Indeed, it is a great opportunity to further explore our philosophy of “culterra.” But we are also rooted, literally, in Goochland.

Culterra is a term we’ve adopted as an expression of our overall philosophy. At its core, culterra embodies the notion that understanding, interacting, and interpreting one’s community, and the land it inhabits, enriches the foundation of both. From our relationships and partnerships with area nonprofits, membership in the Richmond West Beverage Trail, personal belief system, dedication to family (a term we use in the broadest sense), and beyond—we believe that the overall health of a community is inextricably tied to the land, and vice-versa. We strive to nurture both.

So, cheers to the summer time, and here’s to your good health and well being! We hope you enjoy the Scott’s Addition experience, and then come see us at the farm in Goochland! Both offer something different and unique.

Cheers,
Eric & Liza

Our ciders, fermenting and maturing in wood barrels, at our farm and tasting room in Maidens, Virginia.

Mural work in progress, by Nico Cathcart, at our new tasting room in Scott’s Addition in Richmond, Virginia.

Flights and bites, every Friday at the farm from 5-8 pm. Flights available in Scott’s Addition starting June 30, 2018.

October 3, 2017

Keeping it (real) local: Ode to Goochland.

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Someone recently asked us what “terroir” meant to us. Terroir is a French term loosely meaning that wine becomes an expression of the soil in which the grapes were grown. In other words, certain areas/soils produce wines unique to that place. To us—it’s the totality of where you’re from; something more than just the soil. At Courthouse Creek, it’s Goochland, Virginia. It’s a cool breeze pushing north up the hill from the James River. It’s the red clay that stains everything—and we do mean everything. It’s the dankness of the creek in the shade. The sound of peepers in the summer, and of the snow as it hits the ground at midnight in winter. Where you’re from isn’t just about the soil; it also includes the community and sense of place around you. It’s the people. The local diner, and the morning gossip passed around there from table to table. The kindness of a neighbor. That feeling you get with the windows down, cruising in the car. It’s the things in that area that give your life purpose, character, and texture.

We like to believe that it’s all connected, all of where you’re from eventually finds its way into the soil. Because of this, our locality—Goochland, Virginia—is precious to us, and we want to see it thrive. It gives meaning and expression to our cider. It provides context for our pursuit of the rustic method, and why we let our ciders do their thing in barrels, with little intervention. We embrace the funk that naturally occurs from this process. It’s part of our personal terroir and, thus, part of where we’re from.