If you’re a winemaker, a vineyard manager or viticulturist, or in a similar role, and if you have ten minutes to help a PhD student gather some data (and improve the state of research communication in the wine industry), I’d be most grateful for your response to this survey on your feelings about winemaking and growing information and where you go to find it. Find the completely anonymous survey here: http://fluidsurveys.com/s/winescienceinformation/
Some wine research is revelatory: it provides an “aha!” moment for some long-standing grape growing or winemaking question. Some wine research is disappointing: it doesn’t come up with the answer we wanted, or an answer at all. And some wine research is just plain weird. This week, a few entries in the weird category:
Using fruit flies as model sniffers – Drosophilia melanogaster, the common fruit fly, ranks right up there with the mouse and Escherichia coli as a hyper-common lab animal: their giant chromosomes make them easy targets for genetics research. What I didn’t know before? They’re also good for sniffing research. Some computational neuroscientists in the UK used flies to look for differences between brain responses to familiar and unfamiliar odor molecules? Familiar for a fly? Wine aroma molecules, of course. No word from the research group on whether the flies’ tasting notes will be released at a later date.
Impregnating yeast with wood aromas – We have oak adjuncts: cheap, convenient chips to mimic expensive, bulky barrels. We have lees aging: letting wine sit on the sludge of dead yeast cells left over after fermentation to yield flavor and texture. Ever thought of putting the two together? The idea somehow occurred to a group of Spanish enologists, who used the sometimes-spongelike qualities of yeast cell walls to absorb flavors from wood chips, then steeped the yeast gunk in red wine. The “wood-aromatised yeast lees” released woody flavors back into the wine, and both tasters and chemical analyses could show a difference (tasters particularly appreciated chestnut-infused wine, which was more plummy and spicy than oak, acacia, or cherry wood). The idea appears to be making wood-flavored wine faster, though it’s hard to see why using dead yeast as wood chip sponges is better than just using the wood chips.
Grape marc as an herbicide – Grape marc (or pomace, or solid leftover grape bits) isn’t usually considered toxic. Quite the contrary: it’s a common livestock feed for ranchers who live in wine regions. So it seems odd that mixing a chemical herbicide with marc made the herbicide a more potent plant killer, but that’s what a group of French plant scientists found: the mix specifically increased the herbicide’s cell killing capacity. The herbicide in question is less toxic than many other agricultural chemicals, but strategies to use less of the stuff by augmenting it with a natural (and otherwise pretty darn safe) waste product are mighty appealing nonetheless.
None of these studies will win an Ig Nobel — for research that makes you laugh, and then makes you think — though Ron Washam recently had a few suggestions for MW thesis topics that just might, should anyone have enough chutzpah to take them up. Embarrassingly and disappointingly enough, the only instance of wine-related research or a wine-related researcher being granted an Ig Nobel was in 2005, when Yoji Hayasaka of the Australian Wine Research Institute was part of the team that won that year’s biology prize for carefully creating a catalogue of the smells 131 different frog species produce when they’re stressed. Enology is such an excellent repository of enjoyable, engaging, thought-provoking, and sometimes silly research; surely, we can do better…or worse?
An enormous lot has been said about the relationship, or lack thereof, between grape yield and wine quality. So why is my October piece for Palate Press about whether higher yields mean lower quality?
1. My Palate Press colleague W. Blake Gray took an interesting economic tack on the problem a few months ago, reminding me that I wanted to revisit what we know via the scientific approach.
2. I’ve been more than a bit obsessed with the contacts (and conflicts, and congruencies) between anecdotal and scientific knowledge of late. The yield-quality problem is a fantastic case of the scientific evidence we have strongly suggesting one position (higher yields ≠ lower quality) while some peoples’ experience suggests that more may be going on than science has yet to document.
3. It’s a perennial question for a reason (or two): it’s interesting, and it’s important. And revisiting interesting and important things is worthwhile.
4. Richard Smart wrote an article for Wine Business Monthly back in 2004 proving, via contrary anecdotes, that higher yields don’t always mean lower quality, and that the principle isn’t true from a scientific perspective. He also implied that anyone who thought that myth had a place in winemaking was 1) a moron, and 2) unscientific, and that riled my epistemological feathers enough to want to write on the same topic from a different (better)* perspective. More on myths another day.
The short version: the oft-cited yield-quality relationship is more about correlation than causation particularly from the perspective of the scientific evidence, but whenever we’re talking quality things get fuzzy (and social) and our perceptions about wine quality involve more than just measurable scientific variables.
* Yes. I’ve just compared myself to a highly-accomplished viticultural scientist and found him wanting. Dr. Richard Smart is a marvelous scientist. He also, by this single account at least (I’ve not tracked down more examples), has ideas about which forms of knowledge-making are valid that I find deeply misguided.
Flor yeast are something like that one strange guy with the office down the hall, the one who’s always pleasant, who has a kind word when the rest of the world seems out to either hate or bother you, who sometimes holds the door open when you’re carrying coffee, and who does goodness-only-knows-what when he closes the door to that office of his. You’re really glad he’s there, but he’s a mystery.
I’m stretching, but you get the point: flor yeast are useful, we’re glad they’re there for us, and we don’t understand them. Flor are the film-forming, surface-dwelling yeast best known for their role in making sherry, though they’re also key actors in Hungarian dry Szamorodni**, Xeres from Jurez, and Jura’s Vin Jaune. “Biological aging” — the yeast metabolizing and spitting out acetaldehyde, glycerol, a bit of ethanol, volatile acids, and some other stuff — is responsible for much of the unique and complex nutty-freshness these wines share. Though it’s entirely possible to purchase and inoculate flor yeast, the film often comes and goes on its own in traditional production schemes. All of this happens after ordinary alcoholic fermentation finishes.
Flor are Saccharomyces cerevisiae, but they’re evidently not the same yeast responsible for alcoholic fermentation in these wines. Previous flor research also tells us that being flor is more about a lifestyle choice than about the yeast’s innate characteristics. Being flor is about surviving under stress: the yeast develop as a “velum” or skin on a high-alcohol (fortified) wine with little remaining nutrients. Yeast strains that survive here are generally those that have been able to make a few rapid, key genetic changes that researchers see as a common pattern across flor. By definition, one of those changes is the ability to form a film or skin on the wine’s surface, which signifies that the yeast have become more hydrophobic than usual: they don’t mix well with water, so they stick to each other and find the least-liquidy environment they can…given that they’re living off of a liquid.
Flor aren’t exactly like that guy down the hall, unless he’s been the subject of 34 studies published in the American Journal of Enology and Viticulture. Even still, how and why flor come and go isn’t something we understand well, and neither is what exactly makes flor yeast flor in the first place.
Wine microbiology research is often very local: researchers study the vineyards and wines near them (they’re convenient, but they’re also, often, the primary interest of whichever regional body is helping to fund the research). A study of flor yeast recently published in PLoS One (which means that it’s open-access; no paywall!) is notable for including samples from Hungary (Tokaj), Spain (Jerez), France (Jura), and Italy (Sardinia). This group of French enologists set out to build a better genetic tree for these yeasts, both to see how they’re related and to establish more data about what makes them flor-ish. My genetics knowledge is too poor to comment on how their data look, but it’s satisfying to note that they used more than one method.
How they’re related — The strains from different locations formed genetically similar groups: all of the strains from Jura were more similar to each other than to the strains from Jerez, and Jura strains were similar to other strains from the same cellar, too. My genetics knowledge is too poor to comment on how their data look, but it’s satisfying to note that they used more than one method to judge relatedness and kept coming up with the same relationships.
What makes a flor yeast a flor yeast — The best that can be said here is that this study makes one more incremental step forward in solving a big, complex problems. The researchers found two genetic changes shared across all of their flor yeasts, involving the duplication of two known genes. We know they’re genes; we don’t know much about what they do. So goes the story of modern genetics, caught between the past of not understanding how DNA mapped to functions at all and the future in which (we hope and presume) we’ll know what all (heck; I think we’d settle for most) genes actually do. This study also reinforces some previous findings about genetic characteristics shared by flor which, again, all point toward them having some kind of shared ability to deal with their high-alcohol, low-nutrient, clingy lifestyle. Gosh, now I feel as though I’ve really insulted that guy down the hall…
** An earlier version of this piece wrongly named the Hungarian wine as Tokaj Hegyalja, which is how the authors of the paper name that wine. A reader working in the Tokaj Hegyalja wine industry helpfully pointed out that Tokaj Hegyalja refers to the region and that the name of the wine I’m calling out is actually dry Szamorodni. She suggests that good descriptions of this wine can be found on the producer Samuel Tinon’s website. Thanks, Katherine.
Yesterday, a headline appeared in my email inbox, courtesy of Wine Business Monthly’s daily run-down, that read “DNA tests defeat wine barrel fraud.” About four different reactions crossed my mind more or less simultaneously.
1. I doubt it. Sounds like journalist hype.
2. Took them long enough; haven’t we had that technology for awhile now?
3. DNA tests don’t defeat anything. People defeat things.
I mightn’t have thought any more about it. But having spent the past week or two tearing apart assorted wine writings for evidence of how we make science happen in words, it seems I can’t just read anything anymore without asking: what do these words DO?
The headline is from a Wine-Searcher brief about new French technology to identify the geographic origin and species of barrel oak. But, really, the article is about the French asserting that they’re better than everyone else. The first three sentences of the piece outline, in very general terms, what the DNA tests do: researchers have genetically profiled enough oak trees to create a database against which new samples can be compared. Extract some kind of genetic information from tiny bits of barrel, compare that genetic “fingerprint” against the database and look for matches, and you’ve figured out where the oak used in the barrel originated.
I’m actually elaborating on what the Wine-Searcher piece said from general knowledge of how genetic testing works because the article spent its remaining 29 sentences describing how this technology fits into maintaining the cultural superiority of French oak over Hungarian oak. I’ve put it that way for a reason.
The DNA test itself might (maybe, in a very limited way) be value-neutral. But the way the test is constructed and used embodies the values of the researchers and the networks of interested industry members and funding agencies and organizations surrounding the researchers. The test determines geographic origin. Which geographies are important? Were American oaks included? We don’t know, because it wasn’t relevant, i.e. the French aren’t much worried about American fraud. How finely-grained do we want to make our distinctions in those famous French forests? The test isn’t value-neutral. The test is part of a network of people and organizations and values and priorities and economies and things. And in this case, the test has been enrolled in a program of asserting that French oak is both different and better than Eastern European oak. And that unscrupulous barrel makers are threatening consumers — and the integrity of the industry — by trying to pass off inferior stuff as the genuine article. So the headline actually is accurate (sorry, me #1 and 3), even if it left out some bits. The full version: “DNA tests” created by French researchers are enrolled in a program, funded and commercialized by the leading French wine research institute INRA and the French Institute of Technology for Forest Based and Furniture Sectors (FCBA), “defeat wine barrel fraud” and increase the value of French oak.
But the article goes on to say that coopers aren’t so sure that this technology is useful after all. Barrels are complicated with many different pieces. Testing all of the pieces would be expensive and cumbersome. Not testing all of them wouldn’t necessarily prove anything useful about the barrel. The Wine-Searcher piece sets up the common dynamic: scientists say that new technology will help; industry people (coopers, here) say we’re not so sure. Maybe the coopers aren’t willing to be enrolled in that INRA- and FCBA-led program. INRA has decided that their participation doesn’t matter. Their own news release says, with certainty, that the test “will be an effective deterrent against fraud and will promote traceability measures with wood industry stakeholders.” Who’s right? Not really important. The important thing is the conflict. Everyone isn’t on the same page, which means that moving forward will be sticky.*
I’m not suggesting that the Wine-Searcher writers should have done things differently, though just a little more detail on the tests in that first paragraph would have gone a long way. It’s impossible to tell how much information these scientists and their tests can give us about a particular barrel: country-of-origin and species, or what forest, or what part of a forest? The headline overstates the case, but that’s journalism and readers know the genre: the title grabs our attention so that we read and figure out that the headline isn’t exactly true.
“Scientists craft DNA tests to verify wine barrel identity claims” — a more accurate headline — is cumbersome and less effective as an attention-grabber. If we want to be precise about it, we can say that the headline uses metonymy, a specific figure of speech in which a part of something stands in for the whole, more complicated thing. “DNA tests” stands in for “scientists who have developed and conducted DNA tests.” Cognitive linguistics says that metonymy doesn’t confuse readers; no one is running around out there thinking that DNA tests have evolved sentience and will be lobbying for the right to vote or applying for drivers’ licenses (I hope).
So if my point isn’t to call out journalists for promoting scientific inaccuracy — something I do often enough, but not today — what is my point? That words construct and reflect how we see the world. Wine researchers are plagued by the persistent failure of winemakers and growers and assorted other industry non-scientists to do what science clearly says is the right thing. We know that overhead sprinklers are a terrible way to irrigate grapevines in Eastern Washington state, so why are growers still using them? Why do people do wrong things against their better interest, even when they’ve been told that they’re wrong? First, because those industry non-scientists see pieces of their own complex networks that the scientists don’t/can’t/won’t see. They’re probably not being unreasonable (probably; everyone’s unreasonable sometimes); they’re working with different considerations. Second, because “science” is never just “science.” Science is always part of value-laden programs into which winemakers and growers and coopers may or may not want to be enrolled. The science isn’t just right; the science is part of an agenda. Third, because words make technologies real to people. We interact with ideas, scientific and otherwise, through words. Words tell us what ideas can and can’t do. And, in this case, words have helped criminalize Hungarian oak…and made a new French technology a good deal more limited and parochial than it might otherwise.
*The French have a habit of developing great, or at least new and complicated, ideas at the administrative level only to have them fail majestically at the implementation level because everyone else/the common people/the people actually affected by the technology saw problems the administrators never considered. See Aramis and the 1970’s attempt at French electric autobuses, among others. Or maybe everyone does this sort of thing and we just have a habit of noticing the French cases.
I’d planned, today, to write about fine research led by Dr. Pascal Chatonnet and company at the French Laboratoire Excell demonstrating disturbingly high phthalate residues in some older French brandies, at least some level of plastic residue contamination in all of the French spirits and many wines they tested, and laying out some really sensible thinking on whether that’s a problem. But instead I find my hackles raised to unignorable degrees by one of the more insulting and ill-advised articles I’ve read on the wine-net recently (and it doesn’t even involve gender!) So here’s an effort to talk about the cost of an MW and plastic residues in wine, both.
From the things that make me spit fire file I offer you the following drivel by Ethan Millspaugh for Grape Collective. The title suggests that we’re talking about “the cost of becoming an educated wine drinker” — a fantastic and fascinating question — but the piece is actually about the cost of making an attempt at the coveted Master of Wine (MW) degree.
Mr. Gillspaugh massively underestimates that price tag at $25,000 (not including travel, not including wines for personal training, not including the time you didn’t spend working, not including babysitters or keeping the right society or purchasing a very good suit), and then suggests to us all that we don’t have to spend that much to become a wine expert. We could spend a very reasonable $60 to attend a WSET-hosted Champagne tasting or something (if, you know, you live in NYC or San Francisco or Chicago). Because really, that’s as good, isn’t it? And hence, once again, we have an opportunity for thoughtful and critical discussion on the internet sunk by smily faces and sheer lack of thinking.
The degree to which attaining the MW is limited to rich (white, preferably European, preferably English-speaking) people is hard to estimate. First, there’s the language issue. While the Institute of the Masters of Wine allows the written theory exam to be written in any language, everything else (study program, practical exam, thesis) is English-only. Then, the Institute headquarters and much of the training is in London, and its heritage is squarely British. And much as wine is becoming very international, it’s fair to say that the residents of some countries will be more interested in highly Eurocentric-trained wine specialists than others. I’m not willing to chalk the notable paucity of MWs in Africa up just to bias and barriers. Nonetheless, the entire continent has three — one in Egypt, two in South Africa, all in the most European of African countries — of 300 total world-wide, and two of those three are British ex-pats. Of five in Asia, only one is asian by nationality; the other four are caucasian and European- or American-born. The overwhelming majority of all MWs, of course, are British.
Scanning the member profiles on the Institute website, another striking thing is their limited range of occupations. Many are in the wine trade, either owning their own distribution company or buying for someone big. Many are self-employed consultants. A few are writers or “educators.” A few with technical backgrounds are now either buying wine or “consulting” in some non-technical capacity. In my thoroughly unscientific random clicking, I happened on not a single MW working in policy, public advocacy, or research.
Which brings me back to Chatonnet’s phthalate research. To put it briefly, the group found these common plastic additives — some of which are known endocrine disruptors that can mess with human hormonal systems — in most of the French wine and spirits they tested. Concentrations in 11% of the wines and 19% of the spirits exceeded accepted safety limits, with older spirits generally the worst offenders. Epoxy linings in storage tanks are the source; the solution is replacing old tanks with new phthalate-free ones or even retrofitting old tanks with a simple barrier coating — which they’ve developed, because that’s how awesome this team is.
Maybe the industry, now that they know, will get on that. But I hear from researchers over and over again that convincing wineries to heed such recommendations is one of their perennial banes. What if MWs were involved in helping to advocate for this sort of change?
What do MW’s have that PhDs in enology don’t? Highly public profiles. Broad, international wine industry knowledge. Extraordinarily strong networks. Often excellent communication skills (sporadic among scientists, unfortunately). Lots and lots of prestige. It’s really no mystery why MWs aren’t out leveraging all of those skills to improve awareness and policies around wine science and wine research. The MW is a general industry degree, not a technical one. MWs can earn much higher salaries elsewhere. All very understandable. I don’t want to believe that that has anything to do with the social elitism of being an MW, even if I suspect that it does.
And yet, what if — what if — someone decided to use an MW as a force for public good? I don’t have any specific plans or calls to action here. But with 300 exceptionally trained, driven, collegial wine lovers and more working up through lower levels of the pipeline, I’m sure someone has some ideas.
My September piece for Palate Press asks, “Is New Zealand the world’s most sustainable wine producing country?” to which the answer is: quite possibly, but the metrics we have don’t exactly say. The more important point is that sustainability is an excellent tool for industry self-improvement and a pretty terrible tool for comparisons between countries. It’s also not good at guaranteeing consumers of any particular pro-environmental or pro-community practices, though it still has a place in consumer communication: IF consumers understand that “sustainable” means “we’re thinking about what we’re doing (and usually trying to make it better)” OR if we let the marketing folk equate “sustainable” with “good!” and leave the right to use that word as an incentive to participate in sustainability programs. Which, even if they don’t guarantee vineyards full of happy children and chickens frolicking under thoroughly non-toxic vines, still do a great deal of good.
Stuck fermentations — when sugar levels stop dropping and the winemaking process stands still — are one of the more persistently frustrating mysteries in winemaking. Like most winemaking mysteries, we understand part but not all of the situation. Bacterial contamination is one of numerous known causes of sticking: lactic acid bacteria can compete with wine for access to sugar, but it’s also long seemed that something else is going on. Researchers now have a better idea of what that something else is, and it involves prions.** Yes, prions, best known by nearly everyone as the infective agent in bovine spongiform encephalopathy, more fondly known as Mad Cow Disease.
Briefly, bacteria are producing some kind of small signaling molecule that provokes Saccharomyces cerivisiae to shift from preferentially fermenting glucose into alcohol to consuming other energy sources indiscriminately. Bacteria release the molecule, yeast take the molecule up and begin expressing a prion, and in some as-yet-unknown way, the prion jams the mechanism that normally tells yeast to consume only glucose when it has both glucose and other energy sources available. Bacteria don’t tolerate alcohol as well as S. cerivisiae, so it’s in the bacteria’s interest to get the yeast to make less of it. S. cerivisiae can use all manner of different molecules for energy, but a specific control mechanism ensures that it (usually) eats glucose first when glucose is around.
These findings tie into an overwhelming lot of very interesting, very intricate biology, the fullness of which is a bit much to discuss here. But (understanding that there are others), a few reasons why this research matters to scientists and to winemakers stands out.
- Bacteria and yeast are talking to each other. Or, rather, bacteria are controlling yeast for the bacteria’s benefit. Bacteria produce lots of small messenger molecules — a bit like hormones in the human body — to communicate amongst themselves. But the idea that they use a similar molecule to control the behavior of a different species is exciting. Bacteria probably do this all the time, too, but microbiologists are behind on learning about it because we traditionally study one type of microbe at a time, by itself, in a test tube or beaker. Imagine studying 12 year-old boy behavior by putting lots of 12 year-old boys in a room by themselves and watching them for a week. That’s what we’ve been doing with bacteria. Microbiology as a field is increasingly realizing that there are better ways (which are, of course, more complicated, and therefore harder…)
- The mechanism involves prions, which are cool because they’re a relatively recent discovery and we’re finding them in places we didn’t see coming. It’s still not clear how they’re working in this setting, but finding out will almost certainly involve learning some new and interesting biology
- Winemakers who are adamant about avoiding stuck fermentations are probably also vigilant about trying to keep bacterial contamination out of their wines, so I imagine this news doesn’t change much. Nonetheless, some folk might end up using more sulfur dioxide in an effort to knock down bacteria in ferments that tend toward stickiness.
- More interestingly, researchers may be able to develop yeast that don’t respond to the bacteria-induced switch, maybe with a mutated form of the prion protein. Non-stick yeast?
**The research is published in two complementary papers (here and here) in the journal Cell and, as happens with particularly interesting stuff like this, the editors have put together a short summary. It’s still pretty dense stuff unless you have a background in molecular microbiology, but you can find it here if you’re interested in the details (and if you have institutional access to the journal).
The Romeo Bragato conference is New Zealand’s national wine industry conference for producers, policy makers, vendors, researchers, and such (and today, “such” even included New Zealand’s prime minister). With that audience, the topics discussed are broad, which makes it particularly interesting that the word “sustainability” seemed to crop up more often than any other today.
The main message from many today — growers and winemakers and administrators — is that New Zealand is awesome and needs to shout about it a bit more loudly. It’s hard to disagree. 94% of the country’s wineries are certified through the Sustainable Winegrowing New Zealand program (“swins”). 94%! And yet, to me, that’s actually a lot less significant on a story level than the individual, often very thoughtful initiatives wineries and vineyards are taking beyond that certification. From a consumer perspective, it’s near-impossible to translate the soft language on nzwine.com/sustainability into something meaningful and tangible; “foster biodiversity” and “monitor and manage erosion risk” and “engage in clean production practices,” as the sustainability standards say, is all pretty soft soap. But when I hear that Yealands Estate in the Awatere Valley is baling their vine prunings (yes, like hay) and burning them to fuel boilers that supply most of their hot water needs and eliminate the need for about $100,000-worth of LPG per year, that’s meaningful. That’s tangible. So are things that don’t involve metrics at all, like sniffing fine-aged manure with Rudi Bauer on his biodynamic estate in Central Otago; whatever you think of biodynamics, his extraordinary care for his land and vines and people is, well, something you can practically taste. Nevertheless, while I think folks abroad tend to think of New Zealand as a near-untouched refuge of pristine greenness (not entirely true, regrettably), the fullness of what Kiwi winemakers have achieved together on the sustainability front doesn’t come across as it should. Kiwis tend to be a pretty understated bunch, and it came up several times today that they may not realize how extraordinary, and how absolutely worth talking up, “just the thing we do here” really is.
But a second message — the step most speakers take after patting their collective backs — is the what’s next question. We’re great, but we can do better. And not just we can do better, but we must do better, and fast, not so much to protect our land as to protect our edge over those wilily Chileans who could rapidly and easily overtake us if they can market their wines as being more sustainable than New Zealand’s.
So what’s next? The industry has just updated and stepped up their sustainability reporting tool, WiSE (part of the Sustainability Dashboard project through which part of my PhD research is being funded), which is intended to be not just a reporting but a benchmarking and self-improvement tool. But that doesn’t really answer the question. The New Zealand wine industry has been remarkable in collaborating to create a unified international image. Seriously: where else can you find 94% certification in any non-mandatory administrative scheme? What’s the next direction in which the industry, collectively, will choose to travel?
Gwyn Williams, the chair of the New Zealand Winegrowers Sustainability Committee and a man with 31 years of Kiwi vineyard-managing experience, thinks that the national wine sustainability movement has stalled. I wonder if that stall is because there isn’t clear consensus on what’s next. Organic Winegrowers New Zealand is aiming for 20% certified organic vineyards by 2020. The president of that organization, James Milton (also the winemaker at the Demeter-certified biodynamic Milton Estate in Gisborne), said today that the organic and biodynamic folk need to work harder at speaking the languages of sustainability and science instead of isolating themselves in their own strange little corner as they’ve traditionally been wont to do. But, in a later session also on sustainability, Chris Howell of Prospect Vineyard in Hawke’s Bay mentioned being unconvinced about the totality of organic practices from a science perspective. A walk through the vendor’s area made it obvious that he’s not alone.
Is organic the next step beyond “sustainable?” Or biodynamic the next step beyond organic? Or organic-with-caveats — organic, but we’re not certified because we do X when we really have to, as I hear many vineyard managers say? Or just raising the bar on those key performance indicators about which the sustainability folk are always talking? More and better of the same, or something new?
If the New Zealand wine industry can decide, together, what better-than-sustainable looks like, they’ll achieve it. They don’t talk very loud, and they’re the most collectively laid-back people I’ve met, but I’ve learned in the past nine months not to underestimate the extraordinary Kiwi capacity for getting the job done.
Napa was hit by a 6.0 (read, major) earthquake early this morning that seriously damaged wineries, historic public buildings, houses, and people. Unless you’ve been wearing a cardboard box on your head since you woke up this morning, I’m sure you knew that already. Social and traditional media are laden with images of barrels and bottles in disarray, and Facebook tells me that several people I know needed to evacuate their homes on account of gas leaks.
The news coverage has (at least thus far) given prime attention to the visually arresting wine-related damage. Understandably so: just seeing a photo of Matthaisson’s tumbled barrel room on Facebook this morning took me aback, and I can only imagine how their team must have felt when they walked in. It goes without saying: wine is irreplaceable.
But amidst all of the appropriate shock and horror at the wine-related damage, it becomes too easy to forget the people who we aren’t seeing on the news. News outlets are interviewing representatives at wineries and resorts. Most pictures I’ve seen are of well-known wineries, upper-middle class houses, well-to-do folk who should have good insurance policies, or historic public buildings. That’s not everyone. Napa’s fire chief has been reported saying that one of the six known structural fires took out four mobile homes and damaged two others. Folks dependent on assorted retail and seasonal work will be disproportionately hurt by closures during clean-up. So will seasonal agricultural workers without home and property insurance.
The governor has declared a state of emergency, which I can only hope will support putting things back together for ALL residents of Napa County. Still, a chance of help later does little for people without a cushion now.
The media is doing a terrible job of directing public thinking around this event. It’s nice to know that the Meadowood (a leading luxury resort in the area) was undamaged, but I honestly don’t care; they can afford to deal. I care a great deal for the wineries who have lost wine in bottle or barrel. But as we express our solidarity with winemakers who have lost their work, let’s not forget the impoverished who are, perhaps, going to have an even harder time putting their lives back together.
I recently wrote an academic manuscript on, among other things, winemakers’ attitudes toward the relative importance of scientifically-supported information and information from personal experience. Some I’ve interviewed trust the science first, last, and always. Some trust experience (theirs or a neighbor’s, but usually theirs) and question the science, and many more fall into more complicated patterns somewhere in-between. To make it clear from the outset, my research takes the stance that none of these attitudes is better or worse than any other.
On what I thought was a completely unrelated topic, I took an hour out of PhD-ing to walk to the library for a book on chicken keeping on Saturday morning. I’d discovered a relic of a chicken coop at the house I’m renting and, as of yesterday, it has two new occupants*. Browsing around on the internet mostly told me that I wanted the coherence and completeness and ease of use that a book could offer.
My tiny neighborhood library had five books on keeping chickens (which tells you something about the neighborhood). Two were memoirs of woman-chicken romances; not what I needed. One was a tiny and poorly type-set volume that tried to cover ducks and guinea fowl and turkeys too; I set that aside. That left two for serious consideration.
I flipped through the much larger volume: professional and impersonal tone, readable text, black and white diagrams, detailed discussion of the various pelleted foods available and exhortations about how to choose the appropriate variety in the few pages I skimmed. The smaller: personal with lots of references to the author’s experiences, strongly authoritative, readable text, cheerful color pictures. I skimmed a page about kitchen scraps as feed with statements like “my chickens can tell the difference between real food and fake food, so don’t try giving them those plastic rolls you get on airplanes” and “people will tell you that citrus is bad for chickens and I’ve never had any problems but you should probably avoid it.”
I took home Jennie French’s Guide to Chooks** and left the Someone’s Guide to Backyard Fowl on the shelf.
On the walk home I realized what I had done. I had chosen the neighborly voice of “well, I tried it this way and it worked for me” over “poultry scientists agree that…”
I had decided between experience versus (not and, but versus) science. I didn’t want to believe that my chickens needed a diet of > 90% commercial feed plus a few kitchen “treats.” I assumed that that advice descended from nutritional guidelines developed for crowded battery farms looking for maximally efficient short-term egg production. I’m different. I want to live with my chickens, all two of them in their jungly run. The research doesn’t apply to me. But Jennie French talking about keeping chickens on her Australian avocado farm…Well, her farm is hot and dry and my garden is cool and wet, but at least she’s being sensible about chickens as productive members of a household.
I’d done exactly what so many of the winemakers I’ve interviewed do: decide that the research probably doesn’t apply to me and trust the more experienced peer who knows how it really is. Even though I’ve been thinking about this stuff (i.e. where stuff = my research on winemakers’ use of/attitudes toward science) for months now, my chicken book experience clarified two things:
1. I didn’t trust that the research applied to me because I couldn’t tell whether the research applied to me. The book didn’t tell me enough about where it’s authoritative recommendations came from for me to know whether or not to believe them. I heard exactly the same thing from winemakers about many of the recommendations in trade magazines: we need more. So, as a writer, the question becomes: how do I provide enough context to be useful?
2. I decided to trust the authoritative recommendations that were closer to what I wanted to do. I was looking to those books not just for information but for validation, to know that the half-formed plan in my head was probably okay and wouldn’t produce immediate chicken death. I sought confirmation, not challenge, because I didn’t want to have to change too much.
Old-fashioned science communication assumed that the scientists were enlightened, people who didn’t agree with them were backwards, and if they were only told about science they’d agree with it anyway (the much-maligned “deficit model”). It treated scientists like a different species of person or, rather, treated non-scientists like they weren’t quite right in the head. I wonder if guys who preached (and still preach) that model ever take home the neighborly chicken book.
* The ladies are hand-me-down trial chickens — a bit elderly, not laying for their previous owner, and acquired for free — so, backyard poultry enthusiasts, forgive me for not knowing their details. Mixed-breed both, I think: one smallish standard-looking red one (maybe a Shaver-RIR mix?) and one larger but still light white-blue girl with a bit of a fluffy head. And don’t worry. They’re getting a good, high-protein-with-oyster-grit feed alongside pumpkin seeds and rutabaga peels and outer cabbage leaves.
**Chooks = chickens down-under. For all their laid-back attitude, folks seem to want to abbreviate everything around here.