Yukaipa’t
I pulled into the unmarked yard and prayed that such delicate human-made material could withstand the unforgiving terrain and dry heat as loudly crunching dirt and popping rocks beneath my tires continued. Not even the most ingenious minds can outsmart nature. We are forever at the mercy of our land, whether it decides to nurture or neglect.
Despite my wavering faith in a vehicle better suited for driving in style than cross-country adventures, I was determined to visit North Cork Vineyard and Winery after reading about a movement to establish a local appellation. Online photos of alluring seasonal landscapes boasting luscious green piedmonts in cooler seasons and land speckled with dark brown patches of shrubs during dry seasons piqued my interest in the region’s debut.
Turning off my engine, I sat back in my seat, staring off into the distance while I waited for the winery to open. The view made it more apparent to me that I had been far enough from the glamorous façade of Los Angeles at Yucaipa or Yukaipa’t [yoo·kai·puh·t] — the land originally inhabited by the Serrano Native Indians — where the heat-stricken earth and summer sky blended in hues of gold and black.
Nature attuned to the conjoined beating of my heart and the heaviness of my breath. The insects hissed loudly, and furry wildlife rustled in the sundried grass. Something was mesmerizing about the sandy vastness and sweeping sound of rubble to the tune of the whistling wind.
As opening time approached, I broke from nature’s trance and made my way to the entrance, where one of the winery managers pleasantly greeted me and offered open seating until the staff finished setting up. Slipping on smooth surfaces and tripping up uneven pathways led me to the right spot — of which there was no shortage — beneath a shady, dancing tree facing rocky giants surrounding me.
Once I heard the clanking of bottles settle, I turned and walked to the counter where a young bar staff member had finished her preparations, drying wine glasses and graciously waiting for the few customers who began funneling into the yard to approach her. Placing the towel and wine glass down, she smiled and asked what I had been in the mood to taste. Eager to experience an expansive tasting, I voraciously ordered a wine flight featuring a few Lodi varieties and a glass of what became my favorite, North Cork’s Symphony sparkling wine, for later.
I returned to my table, secluded from the other customers engaged in light chatter. When the solo bar staff member arrived with my wine flight, I immediately tasted my way, left to right, white to red. I started with their smooth, fruity white blend, moved to a drier Pinot with a prominent pear flavor, tasted their rambunctiously tart, berry-flavored Sangiovese, and ended with a bold, floral Zinfandel boasting a hint of vanilla.
These wines were delicious, but what was the story behind them? North Cork’s anonymity and nascency tugged at me. I wanted to learn more, and for whatever story I couldn’t uncover, I hoped to taste my way to one. I refreshed my mouth with water and began re-tasting, hoping some inspiration for a story would come to me. Still, nothing surfaced. I wondered if I was overthinking the situation, but my ego demanded the tender appreciation from a sentimental connection of a wine to the land.
Whiffs of seasoned meats announced the pop-up vendor’s arrival, erupting a colossal craving that distracted me from my ruminations. I walked over to The Jerk Grill — a food truck part of the winery’s pop-up vendor program, serving a Jamaican-Cali culinary fusion — and ordered their featured combo of black-eyed peas and rice, festival, pico de gallo, and jerk chicken. Once ready, I excitedly stopped at the bar to pick up my previously ordered sparkling wine to pair with my meal.
But before I rushed off to experiment with my pairing, I paused and asked the bar staff, busy drying yet another wine glass, whether she knew the winery’s full story. She stopped wringing the towel against the wine glass’s rim and looked up to recall a forgotten regurgitation of information.
To my disappointment, she returned her gaze to me with a grimace of uncertainty that sought forgiveness. She expressed she hadn’t entirely known, followed by a recitation of the bits of information I had already gathered online. Feeling defeated in my quest to shape a story around this aspiring appellation and North Cork’s wines, I thanked the compunctuous staff member and returned to my table.
North Cork’s Symphony was an enchanting conclusion to my wine tasting. The sweet and fruity bubbly impeccably balanced my meal’s fried textures and salty flavors. Descending from my gastronomical rapture, I reflected: were the culinary fusions I just enjoyed an inevitable propel into a future where some parts of a meal’s origin remain, and others are soon forgotten?
Culinary fusions like the Jamaican-Cali dish and its distinctive wine pairing also illuminate the converged journeys of foreigners and native dwellers. This culinary novelty isn’t a mainstream indulgence, so the mosaic of flavors is apparent to those who enjoy them; retracing a story behind the flavorful adventure isn’t an enervating pursuit. So if a legacy obscures history, its descendants, those who benefit from it, should acknowledge what makes the recent story the prevailing one.
Looking down at my empty food carton, I wondered which part of this fusion was destined to be appropriated until its origins were untraceable. Was I enjoying a cultural defeat or victory?
With the Spanish Missionaries and Secularization Act of 1833 sanctioning the expropriation of Yukaipa’t, one can only imagine the debt owed across many vineyards in the United States, where a similar history is blatantly dismissed. New missionary, same mission.
I suppose North Cork’s story is fortunately beginning where one had unfortunately long ended. Yukaipa’t: the “fertile valley,” a long-lost home that now fortifies contemporary vineyards and delectable wines.
