Grapevine

Where are you from? I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve answered that question. Within minutes of

meeting someone in the South you will most likely be greeted with an inquiry about your origins. The

question is just as much about your ancestry as it is about a physical address. Where we hale from tells a

lot about who we are.

Growing up I was always quick to answer “Garfield” in my southern drawl. My parents’ address is

Garfield but more specifically Grapevine Rd., a road cut through Georgia red clay with stretches of pale

sand, slick clay hills, and long flats crowned with thousands of tiny pebbles. The pebbles look like dark

freckles peppering the sandy soil. They sing with pops and dings, ricocheting off a vehicle’s fenders and

undercarriage. I’ve traveled this road many miles.

Grapevine Road was appropriately named after the rows of muscadine grapes planted and cared for by

my grandfather. There were 10 rows 100 yards long made with heavy wire stretched between wooden

posts. Thick masses of vines ascended from the ground to travel the length of wire. At the end of each

row was a weathered hand tooled sign naming the variety of grape: Fry, Senoia, Higgins, Dixie Red, and

Triumphs to name a few. The rows were just wide enough to accommodate a vehicle. The avenues

made the perfect racing lane for my cousins and me to speed on 4 wheelers and golf carts. If you

weren’t careful the race would end with the more daring driver jumping the terrace at the end and

landing in the cotton field beyond.

The vines grew lush and green in the spring and summer. Chutes of new growth would reach for the sky

and light green tendrils spread into the isles tickling passersby. The undergrowth formed a canopy of

shade beneath, an ideal home for rabbits who grazed in the early morning dew or late afternoon haze.

Clusters of fruit hidden from the eye and blazing dog days of summer waited to be picked. Spheres of

jewel toned goodness flecked with designs only the good Lord could create. Little dots and blemishes

decorated the shining sweet orbs. The smell was an intoxicating blend of sweet and spice. The taste,

heaven!

As the real heat of summer descended on the farm carloads of pickers would pull down the lane past

the blueberry bushes, pear trees, towering grain bins, and the catfish pond to inquire if the grapes were

ready. Folks helped themselves to the rows and filled grocery sacks, buckets, and crates to the brim.

Grandaddy taught the grandchildren how to wait on customers. It was an easy first business lesson.

Fifty cents a person and fifty cents a pound was simple for a child to calculate on one or both hands. We

weighed the grapes in a plastic foot tub perched atop the scale. Money was exchanged and we got to

keep half for our cut.

Once school started back in the fall the vines were left lonely and quiet. I can smell the fermenting fruit

intermingled with peanut dirt and cotton defoliant. The leaves turned every radiant shade of gold

and burnt orange and dropped to the ground leaving the vines bare. The dormant vines were pruned in

January or February to coax new growth in the spring. Afterwards the trimmings were gathered and

placed on a trailer to be tossed on the burn pile. Come spring the cycle started anew.

Eventually time took its toll on the weathered posts and my family made the hard decision to tear the

vines down and replace them with row crops. I miss the old vines. They were a fixture of home.

Life on a farm is always changing. Old is replaced by new. Rain washes the dirt and changes the

topography of the land. The ones left are the memory keepers. One day I’ll tell my little nephew why

the road that cuts through the center of Brown’s earth is named after his great grandfather and the

fruits

of his labor.

Muscadines are an unappreciated staple of southern culture. Many great southern novels mention

backyard grape arbors and recipes for homemade wine have been passed down for

generations. I think every southerner needs a recipe featuring this southern essential. The recipes

below were shared by friends or tasted at a local farmers market.

They are a treasure.

Braised Chicken and Muscadines (from friend Linda Newton)

1 whole Chicken cut into pieces

Salt and Pepper

2 Tbsp. Butter

1 Vidalia Onion (sliced)

2 cloves Garlic (diced)

2 Tbsp. Dijon mustard

1 Bay Leaf

1 tsp. Red Pepper Flakes

1 cup White Wine (I use chardonnay)

3 cups Muscadine grape (halved and seeded)

Directions

Pat the chicken dry with paper towels and season with salt and pepper.

In a large Dutch oven or skillet, heat the butter over medium-high heat. Brown the

chicken pieces on all sides and transfer them to a platter. Reserve the pan

drippings. Add the onions to the pan and cook for 4 to 5 minutes, stirring occasionally, until

soft. Add garlic and cook until fragrant.

Add mustard, bay leaf, and red pepper flakes and cook stirring until combined.

Add the wine and deglaze by scraping the bottom of the pan; bring to a boil.

Return the chicken and all the drippings to the pan.

Cover, reduce the heat to low, and simmer for 15 minutes.

Add the grapes and skins and stir well; cover and simmer for 25 minutes, or until

the chicken is cooked through, and the juices run clear when the chicken is pierced

with a fork.

Taste the sauce and adjust the salt and pepper.

Transfer to a serving platter. I like to serve it with creamy risotto.

Muscadine Lemonade

1 cup Sugar

5 cups Water

1 c Muscadine Juice (freshly squeezed)

1 c Lemon Juice (freshly squeezed)

Place sugar and water in a pot and boil until sugar is dissolved. Pour into a

pitcher and allow it to cool.

Crush grapes in a bowl with a potato masher or spoon. Strain pulp, skins,

and seeds from juice.

Add grape juice and lemon juice to sugar water. Allow juice to cool in the

fridge. Garnish with slices of lemon and halved grapes. Serve over ice.