Call me a pessimist, but in spite of all the amazing advances being made in the realm of cold weather fruits I don’t think anybody’s ever going to grow citrus in Minnesota. So what’s the hard-core locavore fundamentalist zealot to do when he finds himself in the North country and craving a glass or two of sangria, the citrus-laden wine drink of Spain? Since moving to California — or better yet, Spain — isn’t necessarily a workable option, the drink would just have to be adapted to local circumstances. Time for Minnesota sangria.

The inspiration for this concoction was a visit Martha and I made recently to Delano, MN and the Woodland Hill winery. Besides producing surprisingly decent traditional red and white wines, Woodland Hill also makes some worthwhile fruit wines, including, most notably for me, wines made with rhubarb. In visits to wineries in Michigan and Minnesota over the years I have imbibed all kinds of different fruit wines — most of them terrible — but this was the first time I’d ever seen rhubarb wine. Juice is extracted from the stalks by first freezing them to break up the cells, then pressing them for all they’re worth through a wine press.

At the time of our visit they were sold out of last year’s straight rhubarb vintage but had plenty of Tickled Pink, a strawberry-rhubarb blend. Strawberry and rhubarb is a classic flavor combination — and far superior to the ubiquitous kiwi-strawberry, I might add. Lest you think cloying thoughts of strawberry-rhubarb pie, crisp, or what-have-you, I should say this wine was remarkably restrained for a fruit wine; relatively dry (for a fruit wine!) and with clear strawberry and rhubarb flavor.

Clear as these flavors may have been, there’s always room for a little improvement. With copious quantities of strawberries and rhubarb from the Midtown Farmers Market, as well as a bundle of mint — the official herb of summertime — from the Saint Paul Farmers Market, I mixed up a version of this Spanish summertime staple fit for the fields of Minnesota.

Minnesota Sangria

• 1 bottle (750 ml) strawberry-rhubarb wine (we used Tickled Pink from Woodland Hill)
• 1 ½ cups rhubarb, cut into large chunks
• 10 medium strawberries, sliced
• 1 generous handful mint (you can leave it on the stem)

Mix all the ingredients in a large pitcher. Chill and serve.

“They just don’t make cocks like they used to.” So laments just about every modern recipe for coq au vin, the venerable French braise of rooster in wine. The story goes that the dish was developed as a way to use the meat of tough old roosters past their prime; only a long braise could break down the serious connective tissue developed from a lifetime of crowing at the dawn, strutting around the yard, getting in fights — in short, acting like a cock.

Nowadays, the poultry we eat goes from eggshell to belly in as little as six weeks; not enough time to develop muscles flavorful enough to stand up to hearty red wine sauce. Recipes attempt to compensate for modern chicken’s relative blandness with modifications: reducing the braising time, using select parts of the bird. But what if instead of changing the recipe to suit the bird, you found a better bird?

The original concept of coq au vin demands a bird that has lived a hard life, working strength and flavor into its muscles as it struggles every day for mere existence. You could ask your butcher or farmer to track down the oldest, meanest bird in the hen yard and deliver it to your table, but such animals are in short supply and someone might get hurt. Or, you could turn to wild birds — game — that live less sheltered lives than today’s chicken. What about, for example, pheasant, which I happen to have in great supply thanks to the generosity of our friends Johnny & Stacie?

The pheasant in question came into my possession deeply frozen. As I was waiting for it to thaw, I created my braising liquid: I combined the better part of a bottle of red wine (California petit sirah from a certain Trader of value-priced wines) with three cups of chicken broth and brought them to a boil, reducing the mixture to about four cups.

After my pheasant thawed I rinsed the bird, removing any errant feathers and being sure to preserve some of the blood for use as a thickener later. I then cut the bird into quarters. If your bird was shot, as mine was, this is a good time to gently massage the flesh, attempting to locate the small balls of lead that brought about the pheasant’s demise. Don’t worry if you can’t find them, though: what your fingers cannot find your teeth surely will!

With pheasant appropriately divided and seasoned with salt and pepper, I proceeded to render the fat out of some chopped bacon (saving the crispy bacon bits for later of course). I then browned the pheasant pieces in the fat and set them aside. Next in the pot went a handful each of chopped onion and celery, and when that was soft a tablespoon or two of chopped garlic, along with a tablespoon of tomato paste. At this point, quite a bit of dark brown sucs had developed, so I deglazed the pan with some of the braising liquid, scraping up every bit of browned deliciousness. I then returned the pheasant pieces to the pot (along with juices) and poured in the rest of the braising liquid. It all spent the next long while gently simmering, slightly covered, until the meat was tender.

It wouldn’t be coq au vin — well, faisan au vin — without pearl onions and mushrooms. Since braising these along with the bird would turn them into an unrecognizable mush, most recipes call for cooking them separately and mixing them in before serving the dish. While you could brown the mushrooms and onions in a pan, I prefer to roast them; maybe it gives them a deeper flavor, but it’s definitely a lot easier. Just toss cut up mushrooms and onions with olive oil, salt and pepper and roast at 500ºF until they are as brown as you like them.

With pheasant starting to separate from its bones and mushrooms and onions a deep golden brown, I stirred everything together (remember those bacon bits?). If your sauce is looking a bit thin, now’s the time to stir in blood (or cornstarch if you’re squeamish). Over olive oil mashed potatoes, it was a rich and satisfying meal; not least because of the deep flavor of meat that had lived a life before it found its way to my plate. Since I’ve never eaten it I can’t say if it’s any better or worse than a wizened old cock, but I’ll take it over a six week chick any time.

Tom and I enjoyed an afternoon of grape picking at St. Croix Vineyards on Saturday. The staff at the Vineyards started us off with lunch and wine, then we headed out into the vines for a lesson in picking.

We used clippers to remove the bunches of grapes and any dried or bird/bee eaten ones in the bunch. All grapes—good or bad—had to be removed so the vines would know it was time to get ready for winter. Bad ones were dropped unceremoniously to the ground while the worthy grapes were tossed into yellow lugs, for easy collection later.

I wore my own gloves, but most of the volunteers worked bare-handed. Pickers who are paid by the pound, according to the vineyard staff, tape metal talons to their fingers to enable them to pick quickly, Wolverine-style. We were glad we weren’t being paid by the pound.

At the end of the day, we were repaid for our hard labor with two bottles of wine each — that’s a half a bottle of wine an hour. Not bad for an afternoon’s work.

marthaandtom’s Grape Harvesting at St. Croix Vineyards photoset

This past Thursday I headed to Fenn Valley Winery with parents to sample a few Michigan wines on my last day there. While waiting for the Tasting Room at Fenn Valley to open (11 a.m. Eastern, sharp), we stopped for a slice of pie at Crane’s restaurant. They sell frozen pies at their counter and also offer table service in the dining room—word has it their bean soups are the perfect accompaniment to an autumn afternoon. I enjoyed half a mug of hot chocolate with apple crisp while my parents, Linda and Juan, had coffee and blueberry pie.

Crane’s main attraction is probably their U-Pick orchards of apples, peaches, and a lot of other fruits. I enjoyed wandering around the apple trees while Linda and Juan finished their coffees. It is important to know where one’s apple crisp comes from!

It’s safe to say we enjoyed the pie a bit more than the wine that followed. Just the same, hoping to support better years ahead I took home a bottle of Meritage, a wine Tom and I first had when we dined with his Aunt Ann and Uncle Don at Journeyman Café (again, formerly of Fennville). Meritage is Fenn Valley’s blend of their own Cabernet Franc, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Merlot. Of all of the winery’s offerings, it is definitely the best.

Tastings at Fenn Valley are complimentary. Of their wines, each guest is invited to choose five. When tasting with friends, though, it’s easy to share glasses around so that everyone can experience the full spectrum of the Fenn Valley.

Tasting Room Hours
Open year round for Free tasting and retail sales.
Monday—Saturday 11:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., Sunday 1:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m.

July and August
Monday—Saturday 11 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., Sunday 1:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m.

September and October
Monday—Thursday 11 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., Friday—Saturday 11:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., Sunday 1:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m.

Each time I walk into a wine store, I am faced with the problem of somehow deciding which bottle(s) to take home. There are plenty of good ways to do this: talk to the staff, get to know a brand, in-store tastings, etc.  Generally though, I go with the most superficial one—the label. No, not the information contained on the label; having tasted vastly different wines from the same species of grape and the same land I know better than to put my faith in varietals or regions. I am looking at the design of the label itself; if I think it looks cool or the graphics/colors appeal to me for some reason I’m pretty certainly walking home with the bottle. As it happens, this is a pretty good system—some books you can judge by the cover.

On a recent trip with family to Michigan’s Old Mission Peninsula, I discovered this rule works for the buildings in which wine is produced, not just the bottles. Most of the tasting rooms in Northern Michigan tend toward the rustic, repurposing old schoolhouses and barns or creating new buildings that are firmly within the farmstead idiom. Which makes it all the more striking when you turn a corner and run into this:

This fancy, modern building houses Old Mission’s newest winery: 2 Lads. Established just a few years ago, 2 Lads produces wines from a few varietals: we tried a Rosé of Cabernet Franc, a Pinot Grigio, and a Cabernet Franc. Merlot, Chardonnay and some Sparkling were also in production but not available yet to try—there should be more this fall. They are working to increase their capacity and variety by establishing new vines, but they chose their location partly because they could get into winemaking immediately with some of the established vines. Oh, and for this view:

In spite of how obviously impressed I was by the 2 Lads’ taste in architecture, there remained the question of the quality of their wine. Had 2 Lads poured all their money into a fancy building on a hill that would appeal to twenty-something hipsters while not worrying too much about making good wine? Not at all. I have been to many wineries on the Leelanau and Old Mission peninsulas and I can say 2 Lads is making the best wines of its selected varietals by far. The only winery making better wines is L. Mawby, which only produces sparkling wines (2 Lads didn’t have any sparkling wines available for tasting).

Most wineries in the area can produce pretty good whites, but what stands out at 2 Lads is the reds. I had previously believed that red wine just doesn’t work in the cold climate of Northern Michigan and that I shouldn’t expect much more than the thin, one-dimensional pinot noirs, merlots and cab francs produced by pretty much everyone in the area. But 2 Lads’ Cab Franc had real body and complexity; the 2007 was still a little fruity, but the potential with a couple of years cellaring for the fruit to subside and the wine to deepen was more obvious than in any bottle I had ever tasted. Winemaking in northern Michigan is relatively new—the first producer was only established about 30 years ago. 2 Lads represents a coming of age. 

Judging by appearance, of both their bottles and their building, 2 Lads looks like the premier winemaker of the Old Mission Peninsula. Drinking their wine—even before having several glasses—confirms this is the case.