For Ellen, it could be having a bumper crop of apples, holding her son on one hip with one arm and chucking apples into the hopper of the press with the other. And on most days you get tired, even wrung out. Sometimes it is seamless, but on most days it is a bumpy ride. The thing to keep in mind, and I think what Ellen exemplifies, is balance can mean different things to different people, and even to the same person at different points during the year, or even their life. The golden ring of this merry-go-round is balance, something my Libran sensibility could definitely get behind. Could it be possible to have an emotionally and financially viable career path that still keeps you honest, available to your family, and somehow connect with the land around you? Absolutely. Somehow their decision to get away from the grind gave my own path some justification. When she recounted the decision she and her husband made to leave New York City and live on a farm in New Mexico, but still maintain ties to the mainstream world, part of me wanted to run home and plan a trip to New Mexico. I think this is part of the reason I was so taken by both of my meetings with Ellen. Wine is everywhere, and the scale seems unfairly tipped in favor of the grapes when it comes to biodiversity. But I can’t help echoing some of his feelings. I love living in Sonoma County and am grateful, pretty much every day for finding such a special spot in the world to call home.
#Zazu bacon popcorn plus
With eighty plus years of living, about sixty-five of them right in the center of what were apple orchards, I can only imagine the changes he has seen, and understand and appreciate the sentiment about the overabundance of grapes.
The lane was named for the two brothers that had lived there, who were also the father and uncle of his best friend.
I knew the mention of Facendini would lighten his mood from past stories he had shared with us. Now, there’s nothing but (expletive) grapes.” (This, coming from the man who has at least one glass of wine, usually local, every night with dinner and afterwards with his biscotti.) When I told him I was going to Facendini Lane his grimace turned into a huge smile. “There was a time I could tell ya who owned every orchard, and probably even who planted most of the god damned trees in Occidental and Sebastopol. “Nobody really grows apples anymore.” These were the words my often crotchety, but very likeable 82-year-old Italian neighbor, Skip, barked at me when I recounted part of my morning visit with Ellen Cavalli of Tilted Shed.
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