an American grape's identity crisis 🧐

The news has been (continues to be) a lot.

Between ICE raids, breaking news alerts, and the possibility of new neighbors (hey, Greenland!), I've been thinking a lot about what exactly borders and belonging really means. 

As you know, the Big Orange Man groaned that there are “no documents" to support Denmark’s claim of Greenland, and “it’s only that a boat landed there hundreds of years ago.” 

Um.
I believe the Native Americans would have some choice words on that.

My question is:

What does it mean to be “American” in a country that’s not even 250 years old, made up of a “melting pot” of people who landed here and declared it theirs?

When US citizens and Native Americans are being attacked and detained, who is it that “belongs”?

I’ll stop before this turns into a full-blown rant.

But that’s why today, I’m talking about “America’s Grape.”
Or at least, that’s what America likes to call it.

You’ve heard of Zinfandel.

Big, jammy, high-alcohol red wine.
Or maybe you’ve seen it listed as “White Zinfandel” and been confused when it arrived pink (and kinda sweet).

Like America, most people have a love-hate relationship with it.
And also like America, Zinfandel got here on a boat hundreds of years ago.

The true origin of Zinfandel is Croatia, where it’s called Crljenak Kaštelanski or Tribidrag.

It migrated to Italy (as Primitivo) in the 18th century, then arrived in New York by way of Austria around the 1820s, where it was named “Black Zinfardel of Hungary.”

Shortly after landing in New York, it went west for the Gold Rush with horticulturalists and nurserymen and by the late 1860s, it was California’s most planted grape.

Then, Prohibition.

Many of these vines survived Prohibition but, unfortunately, they were mostly planted in California's hot Central Valley, where it supplied grapes for Prohibition-era home winemaking and not for quality. Without many quality vines left, the grape’s reputation suffered and plantings decreased.

Then in 1972, Sutter Home Winery decided to try something new and produced the very first “White Zinfandel.”

It blew up.

Suddenly, American wine writers were calling Zinfandel “a California original, grown nowhere else” and “California’s own red grape.” 

But, of course…it wasn’t.

For decades, people debated whether Zinfandel was American, Austrian, or Hungarian. 

As technology evolved, scientists began doing genetic testing of grapes and in 1993, a UC Davis grape geneticist named Carole Meredith was able to confirm that Zinfandel = Primitivo.

This was when Croatian-born, Napa Valley winemaker Mike Grgich joined the discussion. There were rumors that the Italian Primitivo had its origins in Croatia, and he encouraged Carole Meredith and her team to embark on a “Zinquest.” 

Finally, in late 2001, they matched both grapes back to their Croatian roots after multiple vine samples, including one vine found in a Croatian old lady’s garden.

(Yes really.)

So let’s review:

Zinfandel came to America, got renamed multiple times, went west, got famous, was declared American, and then years later, some people got weirdly into Zinfandel’s Ancestry.com until they traced it back to a grandma in Croatia.

Honestly, does it get more American than that?!

While it’s fallen out of fashion, it’s still the fourth most planted grape in California (after Chardonnay, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Pinot Noir). 

Some quirks worth knowing:

In case you’re a visual learner -
These photos demonstrate how unevenly the grapes can ripen. Lots of underripe green berries on the left, and overripe, raisined berries on the right.

And lastly, as we now know, Zinfandel has a global identity!

If you hate a big, jammy California Zin, try a Primitivo from Italy, or a Zinfandel from Australia, Chile, or South Africa. 

And just remember.

Zinfandel isn’t America’s grape because it was born here.
It’s the most American grape because it wasn’t. 

Well.

These days, I don’t leave the house without my passport. My husband and parents have the phone number for a friend/attorney to call, just in case. 

As someone who grew up mixed race in Japan and in the United States, I’ve always had this sense of being an outsider, but I’ve never felt this fear.

It was more fun stuff, like “No, sorry, I didn’t grow up watching Boy Meets World” or “if Japanese people ate sushi everyday, they’d be bankrupt” or “what? No, I’ve never eaten a blood cube” (true story). 

I never really felt the need or desire to blend in.
I was American enough. And, I was Japanese enough.

Now, I feel this weird need to prove I’m American. I’m stuck in this weird place between “Get me the f** out of here” and “Look at what a normal American I am! Nothing to see here!”

It’s a weird feeling to juggle, along with the desperation and rage that comes in waves with the news. 

But sometimes, there’s also hope.

It’s rare, but it sparks up when I hear about people coming together to protect their neighbors in Minneapolis. Or when Kansas City council members voted to block detention centers from being built here. 

Sometimes it’s just crying as I watch a shelter dog’s transformation after he finds his forever family 😭

I wish I could leave you with some more inspiring words.

But instead, I’ll close out with this:

Take care of yourself. Take care of your community. And don’t listen to the Dry January evangelists. No one has the patience for that in this economy!

Go pour yourself something bold and unruly.
Preferably with a higher abv.

Cheers,

P.S. Sharing is caring — especially when we’re all feeling a little lost in the vines. Forward this to the Zin lover/hater in your life.

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