Tell Me I can't. I'll Find A Way.

I am a first-generation Macedonian born in the United States (Beaumont Hospital in Dearborn, Michigan to be exact), though I am certainly not the first Macedonian who wanted to stay in America. That credit belongs to my grandfather, Dedo Jordan, who came to Detroit via Montreal in 1925 when he was 16 years old. He loved speaking English and had no intention of returning to his homeland. Various circumstances led him to Pennsylvania, where he worked until 1930 when he received a letter from his father back in village Podmocani, asking him to return home to care for the family’s property. This responsibility would generally fall with his older brother, though Boris was out wandering, nowhere to be found.

Upon arrival Jordan emptied his steamer trunk and traded his dollars for gold coins called Napolianki, the only currency of the time besides barter and trade. Cash was just paper and money exchanges non-existent in this rural country, particularly Podmocani, smaller even than Los Alamos.

With his earnings, Jordan expanded his land holdings and purchased his legendary white horse before he rode into Evla, a neighboring village a half-day away where his sister Lola lived. He aimed to find a bride.

The telephone did not arrive to this region until the late 1970s, though news traveled at high-speed about the handsome bachelor, called beker in Macedonian, recently returned from America. As he rode the cobblestones into the village, Mila stood by the central water fountain, dressed in her best noshnia, her colorful kercheif properly place over her hair. She was casually waiting with the rest of the eligible girls. They all just happened to be fetching water that very same day. In a remarkable moment of bluster, Mila tenderly pushed back her kerchief partially revealing her face and hair. Jordan noticed. They were married soon thereafter.

My father, Kalia, is the youngest of their children, who by another set of unique circumstances arrived in Detroit in the late 1960s at the age of 18 to work alongside his uncle in the garment business. Soon, he met his bride, Dobrila, also 18. She had arrived from Macedonia that same year with her family via ocean liner. They danced on New Year’s Eve and were married February 22. I am their first born.

As newlyweds and young immigrants, they always imagined, unlike Jordan, they would return to Macedonia. Work hard, save money, create a new life. They didn’t. When you revisit your birthplace, that system is now foreign against your new experiences. You are stuck in a purgatory, being pulled back while moving forward. It’s impossible to relive the wistful spaces in your memory. They vanished. You don’t quite fit in anywhere anymore. I have asked my parents to share their experiences in our speaker series several times, only to be brushed away and met with the words, “Please don’t embarrass us.” This burns me to hear this.

My heart bursts with immense pride for my parents’ heroism. They created a vibrant, thriving life amidst the ridiculous challenges of rebuilding everything they had ever known, and could never have imagined, in a new country, without language skills, carrying burdens and hollow pockets. This is a testament to their will, to their community, and to the abundant welcoming nature of so many Americans. Their reflex in not wanting to talk about it in public still today, after more than 50 years in the U.S., is a testament to the overwhelming ignorance of other Americans who remain boorish to the gorgeousness beyond their realm. They are the ones who miss out, trapped inside a small dark box of self-inflicted blindness. The immigrants are the ones who get the prize. Against all odds they made it, though oftentimes amidst their heartbreak, fatigue and rejection, they can’t see it either.

I am proof of my parent’s improbable will and impossible choices. I could never achieve what they have accomplished even if I had three lifetimes. I am a product of their selflessness and their assimilation to the American dream. The dream is real people. It is earned. And its sacrifice is incalculable. To make wine without history in a small hamlet similar to where my family grew up is to welcome the outside in and the inside out. We’ve become something new and fresh. We are 100% Macedonian. We are 100% American. Here’s to the 200%. Now raise a glass and share your story. We all have one. I’m just getting started.

People First

When we first started the conversation with artist Karen Gearhart-Jensen back in May as leaves were bursting from sleepy wintery vines and grape clusters were blooming, I found extreme solace in walking the quiet vineyard rows, full sun warming my exposed face, inhaling unobstructed deep breaths. After two months of lockdown I already knew the words I wished to never hear again: pivot, new normal and lockdown being the first in a long list. As an eternal optimist, I have always sought unique paths to achieving a desired goal when all other options seemed blocked. It is generally never the easiest way nor the most efficient or productive, though it is mine. I can follow the arrow even when it is crooked, dodging trees in the forest. The clearing is always just around the ridge.

I was seeking connection in ways that I still don’t fully understand, and honestly haven’t had the time to reflect on. Initially in mid- March, I thought people would never buy wine again. A luxury product in a time of crisis? Alone in the tasting room day after day I called members, concerned about our collective welfare. News outlets and social media were and are constantly providing simultaneously too much information and not enough. How are you all personally, I wondered, beyond the noise. We were in our spring wine club season and it felt callous and insensitive to run business as usual and send shipments without asking permission, even though by joining the club you’ve authorized us to do so. I was racked with doubt and disbelief. Do you still want us? Do you still like us? Wait, what? You want us to double your order? You are so excited for your shipment? And you want to send wine to your friends?

I never take anything for granted, which is why I don’t save wine for special occasions. I actively work to secure your trust and support every single day. I am completely aware that this time has been devastating for millions of people, and not just in stats and figures, many of whom I know personally. I know you do, too. I am speechless at it all, which is not often the case. And I am hopeful, too, which is what winemaking forces us to be. The vines grow whether we bother them or not. The sun shines with or without us documenting its cycle in a perfect arc. Together they create a magical energy that produces abundance for us to share with each other when we weren’t even watching. How poetic and profound is that?

When I asked Karen if I could commission her to collaborate with me on Documenting Harvest 2020, the initial goal was to have a massive art showing this winter at the winery for our wine club, displaying all the works next to the grapes and the wines they reference so we could all gather in a collective sigh of relief at being able to embrace and enjoy togetherness once again. I told you I

am an optimist. The art show will happen when appropriate. Not a special time, just the right time. As these pieces came together, I asked Karen to create whatever mood struck her. There were no parameters besides expressing the joy and gravity of life in front of us. I gathered foliage, stems, tiny clusters and other vineyard objects, placed them in bags with water and left the bundles on her front porch for her to handle whenever she felt comfortable. We repeated this exercise a number of times. She produced artwork at a thrilling pace. To see the results of what I was feeling translated through someone else’s lens has been achingly poignant. Each time I study them the more humbled I become. When I was presenting a few pieces during one of our Art in the Park sessions a few weeks ago someone asked, “Why do you want to show us these things and bring us in so intensely?”

I was stunned at the question. Wasn’t it obvious? Though why would it be if I didn’t know either? I realized maybe we were speaking different languages. She came to drink wine and connect with friends. I wanted to talk about the meaning of life. I felt foolish for a second, then thought, this is all about the meaning of life. The wine, the friends, the art. This is exactly the reason. “That’s a great question,” I answered. “One I don’t have an answer for just yet, though I will, maybe, one day soon.”

Sonja Magdevski

To follow Karen: @relatingtonature

#documentingcasadumetzwines2020

The Wild

Winemaking is quite the ride.  

For 15 years now my seatbelt has been locked in place while the car races straight ahead.  Good thing most of the roads are well paved, albeit not always well marked.  I am still surprised I get to share this with you.  

The 2018 vintage was extraordinary, as they all are here in Santa Barbara County.  Don’t let anyone tell you differently.  Gentle, sweet, cool and long - this is the nature of the business when you start with Pinot Noir and end with Mourvèdre.  Each year creates challenging moments with glorious memories and always too many of both to list here for you now.  Make an appointment for a vineyard tour or a Grenache roadshow so we can have some time to talk.  Come and taste the vineyard and vintage variations.  Each year holds its own breathtaking story.  You can always give me a call or email me questions, too.  I LOVE questions.  I am always seeking new ways to give you a backstage pass to understand the magic of this world, without actually having you do any work.  That’s my job.  Your goal is to enjoy the romance. 

I will share a recent answer to a question I was asked about why I chose to make wine in Santa Barbara Wine Country.  I had been living in Malibu for a year in 2003 completing my graduate thesis and working at Cosentino’s Flower shop when my dad came to visit from Michigan.  He wanted to go to Napa for the day.  When you don’t live in California everything seems close.  Someone overheard our conversation, laughed and said, “You should really go to the Santa Ynez Valley.”  “Where?” I asked.  “Just take the 101 to the 154 - it’s worth it.”  It was on that trip that part of my world fell into place while another part broke open.  We visited Firestone Winery and Vineyards, took the tour, walked the path to what was then Curtis Winery and leisurely drove the length of Foxen Canyon to Santa Maria savoring every curve along the way.  With sunshine on our faces and smiles in our hearts we went home full of wonder.  Every opportunity I had I would drive up for the day to reenergize that feeling again.  One year later I helped plant a vineyard and make wine in a garage.  Never in my wildest imagination did I think wine was something people actually did as a profession.  I quickly came to understand that wine is an all encompassing way of life, each season holding a secret ingredient for the next, as long as you are paying attention. 

If you haven’t picked up the Grüner Veltliner Cider, you will want to give this refreshing beauty a try.  Promise.  Or your money back guaranteed. 

Gratitude

Harvest season for me is a waltz between my three selves, switching partners as necessary.  One is the completely present Sonja working, head down, checking off each responsibility, day to day, week to week, ensuring everything is done correctly at the winery.  Timing is critical.  Focus is vital.  Distraction is dangerous.  The future is a hazy mirage.  Second is the out-of-body Sonja, choreographing everything from above, sometimes chiding number one asking, “What are you doing?”  “Don’t forget to order the glasses.”  “Did you send that invoice?”  The third Sonja is the one who leaves the winery exhausted and enters the tasting room to a full house reenergized in spirit as to why Sonja #1 and #2 exist. 

Now that harvest has made its way toward the winter months, almost all of the fruit has been picked as I write except Larner Grenache, scheduled for harvest Tuesday, November 13th.  My three selves have a quiet moment together to assess the work accomplished and the work that still lies ahead.  (Picking fruit is only one major step toward winemaking amidst dozens of steps that come before and after.)  It is also a pause to express something that has been simmering deep down throughout the last few months, gently bubbling its way to the surface being pushed around by my three selves while processing fruit, walking vineyards, cleaning barrels and punching down fermentation bins.  For the first time this year I took on the responsibility of an intern for three weeks.  Simon is a wine club member and earnestly asked if there was any way he could assist me.  I pondered the notion for a long while and finally said yes.  Not that I don’t need help or want help.  Though if you look back to the previous paragraph, a mediocre intern can mess up timing and focus and be a distraction. 

FYI - Simon was superb.  I learned 3 things from my experience with him.  1. I am pretty intense to work with, particularly when 3 selves are battling for attention.  When you are by yourself, it is ok.  When someone else is in your midst, it can be scary.  2.  Simon asked A LOT of questions, which I understand.  I do, too.  Though you can’t learn winemaking in three weeks.  Nothing makes sense in that time frame.  Wine is patience.  Wine is virtue.  Wine is wisdom.  Vines grow for years in one place, nurturing the soil, making a statement and giving life.  Seeing grapes in a winery is out of context.  Today where everything is accessible “on demand”, wine provides the checks and balances on that immediacy.  I finally said, “I can give you every answer to all of your questions and you still have no answers.”  Essentially, pay attention to what you don’t know and take in the ephemeral.  Wine is nuance. You can’t teach that.

The third lesson came on his last day.  I asked him to present his honest experiences at a speaker series with no editing or input from me.  He was great and engaging.  He also posed the question:  “What would the world look like if Sonja just gave up.”

I laughed at first. “Nothing at all,” I answered.  Which is absolutely true.  No one’s life would change.  I wouldn’t have calloused hands and wacky dreams of grapes falling during harvest.  There is ample wine in the marketplace.  Plenty of delicious Grenache to showcase to your friends.  I am reminded of this everywhere I go outside of the winery and the tasting room bubble.  In July I was in Oregon with my husband tasting wines at the International Pinot Noir Conference.  All the wines were great.  Working the wine market, visiting accounts in Los Angeles, Metro Detroit or Washington DC - lots of wine everywhere I look.  Your local supermarket is stocked with walls of fine wine.  Target.  Costco.  Whole Foods.  Santa Barbara alone has more than 200 wineries to choose from.  Edna Valley.  Paso Robles.  Napa.  Sonoma.  Temecula.  Santa Cruz.  Mendocino.  The entire world!  This isn’t a sales push away from me.  This is a massive thank you for supporting me the way you do.  It is my goal each day to make this an important and valuable experience for you each time you choose us.  Because even though your life wouldn’t change, my life would.  Your smiles, faces and encouragement would be missing.  I would kinda miss my callouses, too. 

When you share our wine you are drinking in the beautiful landscape of Santa Barbara Wine Country.  I don’t expect you to remember the clones, the soil, vine row orientation or even the vineyard name.  That is my job.  If I have done all the hard work, the results should be evident in the final product, thus making your job easy.  Enjoying delicious wine, connecting to the maker, the farmer and the land through liquid gold.  That is a major commitment to honor on both of our ends.  It takes effort and dedication.  I take this responsibility seriously.  At each staff meeting I remind my incredible colleagues that every person who walks in that door is a miracle.  All we have in equal proportions regardless of ethnicity, gender, religion and politics is time.  The fact that you have chosen to share your time and resources with us is a gift.  Thank you. 

NOW let’s get back to the FUN.  Please join me.  Immerse yourselves in the background, history and insight into this beautiful world of wine.  This is in your honor.  Join me for vineyard tours.  Grenache Roadshows.  Barrel tastings.  Educational seminars.  Private Dinners.  All yours, on demand. 

Identity Politics

I was born in Dearborn, Michigan a first generation American-Macedonian whose parents were from Yugoslavia.  My first language was Macedonian.  Today I hardly speak it, ever since my grandmother passed away.  It isn’t exactly like riding a bicycle.  Language, like everything, evolves and revolves around the currents of the day.  The Macedonian language that we speak at home is entombed in the 1968 version, the year my parents immigrated to Detroit.  They lived together cramped in a house near several factories that spewed pollution.  My mom remembers being covered in a thin layer of black soot each morning that collected prominently along the windowsills.  She worked as a keypuncher for a bank (the early version of data entry) and my dad made nylon jackets at his uncle’s textile factory.  He would cut thick layers of fabric strewn along a 50-foot long table with oversized stainless steel scissors the length of a child’s arm for the seamstresses to sew the jackets together.  They met on New Year’s Eve at a church holiday party and were married seven weeks later on February 22, 1969.            

Their first home was a converted garage apartment in Hamtramck, still within the site lines of the industrial pollution zone when one day they saw a commercial on TV about a newly constructed neighborhood in a suburb called Farmington Hills, about 45 minutes away.  Green, rural, open and clean.  They jumped in the car that day to visit and after a number of extended family negotiations they collected money for a down payment.  Within months they moved into their brand new home with my maternal grandparents and uncle by their side.  This was a fantasy world.  They worked very hard.  Raised two kids, my brother and me.  Everyone became U.S. Citizens – grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles.  Most summers they whisked us off to Macedonia to visit family, savor our culture and provide context for their lives.  They sent us off to college without having any idea about tuition or the rest of it – we were the first to go, after all.  Our lives were all about jumping in and asking questions later.  Making it work was the only unspoken mantra we lived by.

They wanted me to be a doctor or lawyer or President of the United States (my mom still never gives up hope). I am a winemaker after attending undergrad study in political science and graduate school for journalism in pursuit of finding the formula for world peace.  Today I accomplish this through wine one glass at a time.  I started winemaking never having tasted Grenache.  Fifteen years later I am enamored and mystified with the challenges of this grape.  The first bottle of wine I ever bought was in December 1994 for a holiday dinner.  It was a Beaujolais Nouveau from a hippie corner market in Ann Arbor where I’d shop for groceries.  I haven’t had many bottles of Beaujolais since, though I still shop at hippie markets. 

I tell you this story because we are the sum of our parts.  Identity is malleable.  We change and evolve as our language does, learning along the way where we come from, what the pieces of our lives mean and how they all fit together.  My parents have lived in the U.S. for 50 years.  Are they Americans?  Are they Macedonians?  What am I?  It all depends on who is asking and where I am.  Yet, at the core, we are all the ultimate Americans.  My parents left their country for a new opportunity.  I can’t fathom the idea of moving to China, not speaking the language, and trying to figure out a life.  My father is the kindest, most gentle man.  The only time I have seen him truly enraged was when a customer walked into our Baskin Robbins ice cream store where we owned the building and the business and told him to go back to his own country.

I believe we can be many things at once and then nothing at all.  Shaping and shifting identities is normal for me.  I don’t adhere to any doctrines except the ones that are in my heart.  And yet we all want immediate, easy answers.  Blue or Red.  Real or Fake.  Black or White.  I was recently interviewed by Fast Company magazine about the increasing trend in natural wine.  The journalist approached me at a wine shop where I was presenting.  “To what would you contribute your growth over the last few years?” she asked me.  “Not to marketing natural wine,” I said.  “If you asked any of my wine club members about my natural wines they would look at you with blank stares.”  The wines should speak for themselves, I added.  They are merit based.  They are earned.  Not because they are natural or unnatural, whatever that really means.  She pressed on wanting me to bash “corporate” or “unnatural” wine for her storyline.  I asked her if she could tell the difference?  She admitted probably not.  Then why are you writing the story, I wanted to ask?  I didn’t.  I am learning to pick my battles.  I apologized that I was unable to provide the answers she was seeking for a clean and simple narrative.  “This is complicated,” I said.  “You should really come to Santa Barbara wine country to better understand the issues.  It is a short, beautiful drive from LA.”

The other question I often get is about being a woman in the wine industry.  I had a couple in the tasting room ask me the other day, “Are you really doing this all by yourself?”  I was uncertain how to answer.  What were they really asking?  Did they want to know about the boat my mom took across the Atlantic in 1968 with her family?  They had paid for first-class tickets but were shoved in third-class, as Slavs were considered untrustworthy.  How about my dad who left his village at 18 while his older brother was in the military?  He went to work with his uncle who introduced him to grapefruit for the first time. 

Were they really curious about my parents who trusted me with a loan to open a tasting room in tiny Los Alamos when my colleagues advised me against it?  “No one goes to Los Alamos,” they repeated.  Or about the hundreds of people (including you reading this now) who have supported me?  Through the evolution of Casa Dumetz, to the Western heroine I fell in love with named Clementine Carter and the incredible men and women who have helped me celebrate The Feminist Party in honor of this inclusive journey?

 “Yes, I do, all by myself,”

 I replied.For some reason we need this concrete delineation, identification, distinction, differentiation, labeling and hashtagging of every aspect of our lives.  Look at me!  Over here!  I suppose the simple answer is easier, albeit boring.  We seem to be defined by what we are not than by what we actually are – a messy combination of history, legacy, genetic mutations, hormones, secrets, emotions, successes and failures that create our incredibly complex and dynamic lives.  I am not only a runner who loves eggs but who also doesn’t like oysters.  I prefer to stay in the orange, purple and green areas of the color spectrum that become muddled and eventually vibrant when blended together.  This is where all the thought provoking, analytical and mindful conversations actually happen when we decide to listen to one another openly over a glass of wine. 

Sometimes I stand across the street and look back at the tasting rooms stunned at what you can accomplish when you don’t know you can’t do it.  Your participation in this journey is not lost on me.  Thank you.  Gray is my new Pantone “It” Color and it pairs perfectly with Grenache Rosé.