Porcelain, Paul, and a Parfait
A ghost and teacups are beckoning me to return to the vineyards of Germany.
On a rain soaked Sunday afternoon driving between my home in the Berkshires (Massachusetts, not England) to Hudson, New York a sign for an estate sale caught my eye; more than the sign, it was the long winding remote dirt road that screamed it needed further investigation. It’s common to stumble into estate sales in this part of New England that carry the contents of eclectic humans: painters, astronomers, rabbis, professors and writers.
The only place to park was on the lawn in front of a tiny disheveled house with a garage that matched. It was a quick walk through, as I wasn’t in the market for straw Asian conical hats, vintage cameras, kimonos or boxed GI Joe’s. Before heading back to the car, I paused before deciding to investigate the garage, you never know? The usual suspects were there: tools, ropes, rusted paint cans and metal filing cabinets. But under one of the tables I noticed a box overflowing with crinkles of yellow tinged newspaper. Half afraid I might find a rodent or something slithering, I cautiously pushed the paper aside and unearthed teacups caked in dust. My love for porcelain outweighed fear as I began to unravel an entire dessert set. It wasn’t just the porcelain I loved, it was the design – grape clusters.
The golden and purple grapes brought me back three years prior, when I was living in Wiesbaden, Germany. It was a cool fall day when I volunteered to help friends harvest grapes on the cold steep slopes in Assmannhausen. I paused after being handed a pair of shears, bucket, and gloves, that’s when it dawned on me; my hand would cut the umbilical cord. My actions would bring death to the clusters clinging to the vine. I would be the bearer of their death? It was too late to back out. I didn’t know German well enough to explain my unplanned moral dilemma and I’d left my car parked 30 minutes away at the cellar. I drove with the caravan, leaving was not an option. I inhaled and thought, “Judy, if you’re bringing death, handle it with love and care.” The town’s name on the Rhine, Assmanhausen, foreshadowed my mode of transport while harvesting. The best route downhill was to leave pride in the rearview and drop my denim covered butt onto the rocky slate terrain in front of all the Germans and scoot down the hill, plucking and picking until it was time to lug my bucket back uphill and repeat. I wasn’t the fastest harvester, that’s for certain. But every cluster was cut and handled with tenderness. It’s hard to describe the sense of calm that accompanied my first harvest. It was nothing less than spiritual. I lost track of time. Voices (mostly my own) were silenced, and concerns were nonexistent. I was present. It was only me, fresh air and my bundles of grapes. After spending hours picking Spatburgunder, the caravan packed up and drove to another location, which was much more forgiving (only slightly sloped), to pick Riesling grapes. I remember witnessing one of the men one row over quietly pluck and taste a grape, so I tasted a grape too. It was sour, tart and sweet with a tiny bitter pit enrobed in translucent golden skin. It was life.
After a few hours we loaded supplies up and did something I didn’t expect. The caravan started taking out blankets and containers filled with cheeses, sausages, pickled vegetables, homemade granola bars and the previous year’s vintage. As the sun was setting, a rugged tired crew sat upon the hill overlooking the Rhine. The communal silence combined with the view was breathtaking. When I got home, I popped two ibuprofen, changed out of my stained flannel shirt and jeans, poured a glass of wine and fell asleep before I could finish the glass. When I woke up, I was ready to go back.
My haphazard skills must have been good enough, because a few weeks later another vintner called from Hochheim explaining the previous vintner had recommended me. They asked if I could help with their Riesling harvest. I did. Like the grape stained jeans and shirt, time hasn’t erased the smile of those memories away.
It was the porcelain that brought me back and it was the porcelain that introduced me to the ghost. As I eagerly unwrapped my tea service, one piece of parchment grabbed me. The title popped “Wine News” by Paul A. Pollock. Reading the first line made me realize it wasn’t me who found anything. Paul and the teacups had found me…”Some of the greatest white wines in the world come from West Germany.” This article, which went into detail about Paul’s opinion on a number of German grapes and vintners, was ahead of its time; I scanned for the date of publication, 1979. And then I ran in the house to Google stalk Paul. He was born in Boston, was a business and wine columnist for the Patriot Ledger out of Quincy, MA. Mr. Pollock was busy, as he also co-authored a book called “Wine Trivia” and was a member of the Ordre des Compagnons du Beaujolais. I continued to scroll, Paul A. Pollock died in 1986. My heart dropped like Riesling clusters in autumn. It’s not like I had a plan had he been alive, but I didn’t want him….gone. His article on German wine was researched, witty, avant-garde and funny. The only tangible piece of Paul A. Pollock’s history that was accessible is the recipe he ended the piece with, a “Wine Cube Parfait.” It was accompanied by a personal account that endeared me to a stranger…
This whole gelatin thing reminds me of my German born great aunt Habern. Auntie fancied herself a great cook. In reality she was about one step shy of Typhoid Mary. She was also possessed of an incredible sensitivity. So one Sunday when my father, mother and me had been snared into having dinner at her home, she served us something called “Wine Jello.” Placed in front of me, I was reminded of a stranded jellyfish. My childlike mind churned. How could I refuse it? My mother and father’s minds churned. Would their pride and joy say something that would offend an easily offendable auntie? I rose to the occasion like a miniature Henry Kissinger. With a straight face, with purity in my heart and hope in my head, I took a position.
“I think I’ve had sufficient, auntie. No dessert for me.” So help me, she bought it. Hook, line and sinker. And that’s how come I lived to write this column.
I’m happy Paul survived through the ordeal of his auntie’s questionable dessert so he could write the article in 1979, just so 46 years later a stranger could unwrap teacups in her garage that rekindled the longing to return to a place that brought immense joy. I no longer believe I killed the lifeline to the grapes; their existence evolved from vine to cellar, then bottle to glass for consumption and enjoyment. Paul A. Pollock’s spirit and words weren’t lost on me, and I loved rolling up my sleeves in the kitchen as I tried to replicate his recipe that accompanied the news clipping. This dessert doesn’t take itself too seriously, but it is seriously delicious. It’s an adult version of jello, with Riesling (or at least that’s what I used).
Wine Cube Parfait
1 envelope unflavored gelatin
½ cup sugar
1 ¼ cups Rhine wine
1 pint strawberries, halved, hulled and sweetened
Directions – Sprinkle gelatin over ½ cup of wine in a small saucepan. Place over low heat and stir constantly until gelatin is dissolved (about three minutes).
Remove from heat, add sugar and the 1 ¼ cups of wine and stir until clear. Pour into 9×5 pan. Chill until firm, layer in parfait glasses with strawberry halves. Chill until ready to serve.
