When I spot the turnoff for Moorooduc Estate something shifts in the way I handle the wheel; my chin lifts with the tempo of my heart rate. I am the one in control of the small Peugeot so there is no negotiation about the detour or the length of time it may go for. It is also this fact that determines I will not be swallowing wine this morning, merely pushing it around the corners of my mouth and spitting, with discipline, into a bucket. It is also this very predicament that will ensure my buying more bottles than I can afford, for later over dinner I will want the full experience my probationary license is depriving me of.
The cellar inside is cool and dim from the rammed earth infrastructure. I make a mental note that my future home must also have a rammed earth infrastructure. My future home is an ever-evolving place with rooms and gardens constantly being furnished in my mind.
The lady behind the wooden bar is a short stumpy woman who suggests the fragrance of freshly baked bread. She is busy setting out glassware and as I wonder over she pours into two generously. She is zealous about the vineyard, the winemaker, and the fact that we are here standing in the cellar with her on this Tuesday in May. Her voice jumps an octave when she introduces the Pinot Noir varieties. I notice a worn copy of To the Lighthouse butterflied open on her tall wooden stool and find myself in a daze, unable to comprehend how one’s life could allow for so much pleasantness; it’s only just hit midday.
A peacock, a real one, grazes through the green vineyard, relishing in the gentle relief of am irrigation. I am transfixed by its luscious coverts and find myself tapping my bank card for all the Pinots. The warm lady who emanates sourdough tells me it pairs excellently with roast chicken. When she hands me a small pamphlet I notice flour caked in each of her fingertips, they appear as white crescent moons repeated on each finger like some sort of unusual paint job. Inside the pamphlet are recipes -all celebrating verjuice. A pale, green-yellow liquid fills the bottom of a fresh glass while she tells me I don’t have to spit this one because verjuice is the product of unripe grapes not fermented to the point of having developed alcohol content. The liquid is sweet and sour, thicker and rounder than vinegar but not nearly as much as the wine I have just tried. Great, she says, for agrodolce.
I owe the kind lady with the cake-y crescent fingernails many thanks for she has ensued many evenings of culinary joy in my home.
In our household, Sunday is the most anticipated day of the week. It is are synonymous with market day, indulgence and spending money we don’t have. On Saturday nights we dream of recipes and on Sunday mornings we shop for food and drink with food and drink in hand. We move with such little urgency down the meat, poultry and seafood aisles we are almost stationary. I am absorbed in the rich reds of the tuna steaks, the eyes of the garfish and the rows of humble sardines in their trays. While it’s the marbles of the steaks, the points of lamb and the nimble quails that entrance T.
With this visual knowledge in mind, we proceed to queue for Melbourne’s best dim sim. We buy four steamed soaked in dark soy and sit to discuss, between scolding bites, what looked good, what tonight could taste like. Each mouthful is a delectable and rejuvenating sodium hit. I visit the Turkish lady at the south end who makes the most esteemed Boreks in a twenty-kilometer radius, to then occupy myself with a cannoli and piccolo. The striking European woman who hands my sweet over reminds me of the verjuice on the top shelf of our kitchen.
I remind T and we fill our box accordingly.
At seven pm the pinot opens up to reveal dark cherry fruit and roast meat juices. Each sip is long and savory and reminds me of the mushrooms that come out of the area in autumn time. Meanwhile the mixture of garlic, sultanas, pine nuts, honey, saffron, thyme, vinegar, and verjuice fill the walls of our small apartment with flavors atypical to the Sundays we have known in the past. Soon this is the only way we will know it Sunday. The first mouthful is sensual. In the fifty minutes it has spent in the oven the agrodolce has seeped into every fiber of the chicken’s matter, redefining chicken altogether.
My breath is still garlicky when I wake up the next morning. I am hungry, parched and a little blue it’s a Monday -that Sunday is over. T is already at work. My head is foggy from all the pinot. I enjoy guzzling blood orange juice at the fridge door straight out of the carton that such solitude allows for. My bare belly distends. I notice the Tupperware container of reduced agrodolce and my mouths pools saliva at the thought of the overnight development of flavor. I pull it out of the fridge and do my best to distract myself while it reaches room temperature. I grill a piece of two-day-old sourdough, meanwhile stirring the solidified dressing through the pieces of vegetable, nut, and fruit. I spoon the rested agrodolce over the fat tinned sardines, sprinkle fresh parsley and crack black pepper. When I take a bite it is Sunday night all over, it might even be better.
Yellow Days 