Eric Brauninger writes my name is Eric Brauninger, I’m an aspiring vintner and soon to be winemaker living in Independence, Missouri. I’m 34 years old and an attorney by trade. I have a small vineyard on my property in Missouri. I love wine and wine history, especially the history of Missouri wine.
Chambourcin: a testament
Another rainy day. The sky is a mauve sheet. There is a touch of humidity in the air. Welcome to the Midwest United States in late May.
I’m walking along my rows of grapes. I need to mow, the grass is getting too high again. All this recent rain, no doubt. But I am happy. My Chambourcin grapes are growing like bonkers.
I planted Chambourcin two springs ago, on a warm April afternoon. My brother and I planted 172 graftings. A year before I planted 240 graftings of other varietals in another corner of our property. Most of those graftings did not survive the past two summers, which were unseasonably dry. But my Chambourcin are stout and growing taller everyday it seems. I am grateful for a wet May (finally).
I tried planting European varietals at my dad’s house seven years ago. None of them took. The Missouri seasons were too alien for those old world natives, the soil and air were too unusual a setting for cabernet, sangiovese, tempranillo and chardonnay. I conceded a battle against nature and against my (supposed) preferences: I’ll plant varietals that grow well in Missouri, I thought. So I gave in and planted varietals who, like my German ancestors before me, found a home in the new world, vignoles, traminette, noiret, regent, and most importantly, Chambourcin.
My choice of varietal was propitious: Chambourcin is the most widely-planted grape in Missouri. It endures the warm summers and the cold winters. Where I live, the yearly temperature will range from 100 degrees on the hottest July days to sub zero in late January. The plants take a beating. But Chambourcin flourishes. Using Chambourcin grapes, one can make (I’m told) a high quality red table wine, rose, and even a fortified wine, a la port or sherry. It's incredibly versatile. We could all learn something from Chambourcin.
Planting grapes is, above all else, a test of patience. You learn something that vintners have known for millennia: you have to work with the earth and the seasons, not against them. You have to start thinking in terms of years, not weeks and days. The diverse Missouri seasons are a teacher, I am its student, but Chambourcin is their scholar.
Last summer we harvested our first Chambourcin grapes. Not enough to make any meaningful quantity of wine. But the delight in seeing those little cherubs adorning these peculiar plants was palpable. My kids were overjoyed. Finally something to show for their daddy’s toil in the muggy Missouri heat. Chambourcin is teaching me something else vintners have known since time immemorial: time is a gift. Children understand this, and I’m rediscovering this, a time-starved, 34-year old attorney, US Army veteran, father of five, and wannabe winemaker.
My children have put up with me taking time on Saturday afternoons to tend to the vineyard (dare I call it that?). I find more and more that I am desperate to get away from the computer screen, the work calls, the all-consuming AI programs, and all other anti-human dimensions of contemporary American life, and seek the things that endure; to go to the vineyard. For me Chambourcin is more than a grape. It’s a testament.
Much like the brutality of the seasons in Missouri, modern life is overwhelming. There is so much to do. There is much to criticize. My culture is apt at tearing things down; it's not as keen to plant. A vineyard makes grapes, it doesn’t produce a crop like wheat or products like beef and pork. But there is life there. It's undeniable. It's no coincidence that cultures with vineyards endure. In a sense, we all need to return to the vineyard. We need Chambourcin.
This year I’ll be able to make wine. I dream of soon drinking my homemade Chambourcin wine. But my to-do list is long. I need to add a layer to the trellis system. I have to start thinking about bottling. Should I dig a cellar? Perhaps that’s too crazy an idea. I bet my wife will have considerations.
My dear wife. I sometimes wonder what she thinks of this strange enterprise we’ve embarked upon. “We grow grapes, we have a small vineyard”, people may think that sounds sexy, and that our intention was to sound cool. But that’s really not the point at all. I have no business plans, no grand aspirations. I want the opposite. To go low, to put my hand in the dirt. Planting a vineyard is not quite a revolutionary act, but it's close.
I love wine. I love drinking Chambourcin. I love what it means, what it hides to the undiscerning. I love watching things grow. That’s it, that's my grand scheme. And yet, I don’t live in Napa or Loire Valley. I live in Missouri. My vineyard is humble. I built it up over a period of a few years. I had to budget money and time. My vineyard lacks the grandeur of a hillside in Saale-Unstrut or Montferrat, but it's graced by the soft roaming of toddlers’ feet and the aroma of Chambourcin grapes. And for me, that makes it glorious.
The photo, showing a cluster of Chambourcin, is the author's own.
