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“Nope. Harvesting, washing, milling, fermenting, bottling. The fermentation process will take care of any harmful bacteria.”
“That’s interesting. I didn’t know that.”
“We have over one thousand apple trees and almost three dozen varieties. Cole and I have traveled all over the state to taste different ciders at different farms to see which we like best. It’s interesting how each apple can taste so different. It’s like they have their own personalities. We’ve also begun experimenting with other fruits, honey, and spices like cinnamon to see what flavors we can develop.”
“How many people do you have working here?”
“Full time, it’s just Cole and me. Then we have Jane. During the season when we need the apples picked, I hire kids from the high school to help out. Here is where we package the cider. Mostly, this is just Cole and me.”
“Is it hard?”
“No. I like working with my hands, and I’m proud of what we make.”
“Who designs the labels?” She’s looking at the large framed labels we have hanging, almost like a trophy wall.
“I designed the orchard logo, but the labels are a combination of ideas between me and Cole. He’s really good at what he does.”
I walk her over to the last wall, where I have a small bar set up for people who ask about tours. It’s not a lot, but I have four taps running year-round where people can sample the different flavors and then relax if they want to on one of the four leather chairs sitting nearby.
“Want to taste?” I ask her.
She looks around the barn and then back at me. Her face is blank, and she is right. I probably should be out there shaking hands and kissing babies, but I just want to be here with her for some unknown reason.
“Absolutely,” she says, sliding onto one of the stools. Have I imagined watching her drink my ciders? Yes. But having her sitting here, I hate that I notice how she brightens the whole place.
I grab four small glasses used for a tasting flight, fill each halfway with the different flavors, and then turn to set them in front of her. I find I’m nervous about her reaction, which is ridiculous, but deep down, I want her to like them.
She picks up the first glass and takes a sip. It’s our signature cider coming from the mature apple trees here on the mountain. Hell, she even has a few of these trees over in the back portion of her yard. This cider is what made me want to take a deeper dive. I made it the first year and knew I was on to something.
“This is good.”
My heart expands in my chest, and I press my lips together and smile at her.
“Is this something you dreamed about, or is this like a hobby?”
I think about my father’s reaction when I told him. At first, he thought I did this as an investment, which he was fine with. But as I spent more and more time here and began expanding the production, the disdain crept in, as well as his opinions of my life choices.
Ask me how I feel about his opinions as I breathe in this fresh mountain air and watch my feisty new neighbor drink my ciders.
“Well, it wasn’t in the plans, but the moment I saw it was for sale, something in me clicked. I didn’t even question it either.”
“So what’s next?”
“The donuts are great, and I love the you-pick season, but I’d like to expand the operation a bit more. Twelve ciders on tap and build out a tasting room.”
“Tasting rooms mean more people,” she says, eyeing me.
“That it does.”
She drops her gaze to the next glass and subtly nods her head. I know what she’s thinking. I’ve thought it too.
“Does that bother you?”
She picks up the second glass and takes a sip. Her brows rise in acknowledgment of the flavor, and then she puts the glass back down. This one has cinnamon infused.
“I don’t know. It’s not my place to say anything to you. This is your business and your land.”
She’s not wrong, and while I also shouldn’t care what she thinks about this, I find I do.
