Evren Evrim Kalkan writes Evren Evrim Kalkan is a Turkish winemaker, food engineer, and WSET Diploma graduate with over 20 years of experience in the wine industry. She has worked across diverse regions, including Turkey, South Africa, New Zealand, and California, gaining deep expertise in vineyard management and wine production. Evren is passionate about terroir, grape varieties, and the art of winemaking, combining technical precision with poetic storytelling. She serves as a wine consultant and educator, and regularly judges at prestigious wine competitions.
From root to glass: an ode to my most difficult love
This is, in fact, a love story full of yearning and turmoil. A love for a wine grape—its aromas, flavors, texture, and personality. But it didn’t begin with a naive, innocent affection. This is a love story shaped by deep fire and aching. As a winemaker, I live you with great love in my heart, every harvest, like an endless and consuming affair.
It’s March. While the imam is still reciting the morning call to prayer, my agricultural engineer friend and I set out—driving hundreds of kilometres just to see you. The fact that you are not easily accessible makes me even more attached to you. I wonder how your leaves and tiny buds endured last night’s bitter cold, or the hailstorm just a few days ago.
In the morning cold of Denizli’s Southern Plateau, I stand quietly in the vineyard, listening to the whisper of the wind as it moves through your rows. Watching your roots dive into the red soil among white stones, seeing the strength of nature in your branches and emerging clusters—it excites me deeply.
It’s May now. As I walk through the vineyards under spring rains, I watch the droplets fall from your leaves and gather at the tips of your growing bunches. And I dream. I dream of who you might become—will you be a gentle rosé with shy beauty, or will you evolve into a deep, layered, and complex diva in red? In the vineyards dotted with poppies and daisies, I watch you grow in harmony with the wild. We rest in the breeze blowing from the forest at the vineyard’s edge before heading off again to check another site.
One of my greatest joys is greeting the ladybugs that rest on your leaves in early spring. I always pause to say hello and wonder—what secrets do you whisper to each other at night?
Then comes August. When I close my eyes, I see your skin—fresh, misty, purplish-black in the morning chill. Because of the sharp difference between day and night temperatures, we wear jackets in the early dark. By afternoon, we’re drenched in sweat as we return from the vineyards. And in the evening, as I feel the cold settle on my skin once more, I smile—knowing that this contrast is helping you mature with complexity and grace.
September arrives, and I begin to take small samples from your mist-covered bunches. Tasting them, slowly, vineyard by vineyard, parcel by parcel. Observing your development like a lover tracing the subtle changes in their beloved’s face.
Finally, the decision is made: it’s time to harvest. You are picked in all your glory—by vineyard owners and villagers, in a collective spirit of care—and brought to the winery in crates. You arrive with respect and reverence, as you deserve.
Each crate is received, its contents cool and misty. We gently stack them and tuck you into the cold room to rest for one last night at +5°C—because in the morning, our shared journey will begin.
At sunrise, we start with quiet ceremony. The team carefully places you on the sorting table. You are gently caressed, sent slowly into the elevator. The bunches fall—gravity carrying you toward the moment where you must separate from the stems, the parts of you that have held you until now. Your transformation begins. You will shed some of your former traits and take on new shapes. Just like all of us, this change is both painful and beautiful.
I will not leave you alone. From grape to wine, I will be by your side—guiding, protecting, supporting. With my compassionate hands and passionate heart, I will care for you. When you need oxygen, I will help you breathe.
As the yeasts begin to nudge your skin, taking sugar and transforming it into something new—aroma, alcohol, complexity—I will be there. I will provide the coolness you need, the stillness, the confidence. I will pump over you gently each day, helping you find your internal balance.
Some mornings, when I enter the cellar, your fragrance greets me—blueberries, blackberries, spices. Other days, you are distant, sulking. Sometimes you overwhelm me with reductive aromas, demanding more attention, like a jealous lover. And still, I love you.
The first days are often difficult. But soon, you begin to change. You become fluid, alive, vibrant, unique. A new personality emerges—layered, elegant, confident.
You weren’t always like this. When we first met, I didn’t like you. You were wild, disobedient. And I was young. But the years passed. And every season, we returned to each other. In the vineyard, the tank, the press, the barrel, and finally the glass—we matured together.
Our first meeting was in Denizli, on the Güney Plateau. Then I met you again, in new forms. You appeared as a noble lady in the Rhône Valley, as a seductive sparkling in unexpected corners of the world, as a powerful diva under the Australian sun. Our relationship has been fiery, passionate, even jealous. But every time I meet you in the glass, I fall in love again. You might be shy at first—needing time to breathe and awaken. But when you do, you bloom.
Blackberry, blueberry, black cherry, black plum—these ripe, dark fruits are the first to arrive. Then a rush of spice—black pepper, always black pepper—followed by roasted notes, whispers of smoke and oak. On the palate, your acidity is vibrant, your tannins firm yet silky. You are long. You are balanced. You are unforgettable.
Sometimes your texture makes me feel as though I’m chewing tender meat—a savory, sensual dimension in the midst of all that fruit. A Syrah can be no more powerful. No more elegant.
Every year, every harvest, every glass: I remember how much I love you.
Image by diane555 via iStock.
