Yangarra winemaker Peter Fraser fills Nog the ceramic egg with Grenache. Marketing manager Selina Kelly says, “Benedicte and Florentine are already full with Roussanne, and Sunny got the rest of the Grenache. We’re trialling some whole-bunch ferment in the eggs – we just haven’t quite figured out how we’re going to get the bunches out yet.” Picture by Randy Larcombe. We received this photograph this morning just in time for Easter. Great marketing, guys.
Good Friday is a sad day but bloody frickin’ shit it’s good having a day off, isn’t it! Being a good Catholic boy I grew up respecting the solemnity of the occasion, which is of course the commemoration of Jesus dying on the Cross (isn’t it? Help me out here, Br John.) It’s boring on Good Friday. It’s always overcast and there’s never anything open. No pub, no tattoo parlour, no hydroponics shop, no AFL, no Dan’s, no nothin’. Mum never used to let us watch the Rank Arena on Good Friday. In fact we weren’t allowed to watch anything or do anything. We just had to sit around in the purple bean-bag looking respectful and waiting for 3 o’clock to go to St Mark’s Cathedral in Gertrude St for the palms and stuff (or is that Sunday?). No chops. Just Gold Top hot-cross buns. And seafood – Bird’s Eye fish fingers came in a packet of six which didn’t go far in a family of eight so Mum chopped them in half. Mum loved a Baileys on the rocks – but never on Good Friday! Mum did a reasonable job of raising me. Last year on Good Friday she surprised me by showing up on my doorstep unannounced. It was bitter-sweet. I love Mum. She loves me. But I had a pig on a spit in the backyard.
“What’s all that white smoke?” she asked.
“New Pope, Mum, new Pope.” Happy Easter. – Ed.