‘Grape Wine’

Most people believe that grape jelly comes from the grape jelly store. But this is not so. It comes from the feet of beautiful young ladies trained in the art of the time cherished traditions of the grape jelly stomp.

In small towns, villages, and hamlets all over the world, towns hidden from the main highways and the prying eyes of the wise and college educated consumers, grape jelly artists go about their quiet business.

Old women, lying on their unkempt cots in their tiny thatch roofed houses dream of long gone days when they were young and spry, when they, in their turn, stomped the ripened grape beneath their uncalloused feet, laughing and giddy with the aroma of the fresh blood of the fattened jelly grape.

The old town fiddle player gives way to the new, but the ancient gypsy tunes remain the same, quavering melodies, to entice the juice from the grape jelly grape and into the oak bottomed collection barrel, great in size, and painted with ancient grape stain. Softly, at first, they strike up the grape stomp songs.

The town girls, almost from birth, strain the years until the time that they can proudly take their place inside the barrels amongst the fragrant grapes, stems, and leaves, to add their tiny footprints to the dance of the ages. A solemn event it is, but spiced with laughter, as the girls’ pride spills over into the sloshy purple liquid.

The dance of the grape stomp, as old as memory, and as fresh as the morning sun, performed by virginal lasses, many who can’t read or write their names, but who know the rhythmic mysteries of the dance of the ripened grape.

The plump grapes, at first unyielding, but made to yield under the practiced toes of the smiling, but serious bevirgined stompers, pop and snap to yield the delicious liquid that oozes between their toes. Kneeding the fruit of the vine, between the practiced foot fingers, slowly, the grape suddenly gives forth in a spray of ecstasy. No grape, nor vine, nor leaf can for long maintain under the persistent sensual stompings.

Around the large barrel, the old men of the village, four deep, hold their collective breaths, swaying a bit themselves as the girls dance round and round in the grape slurry, their skirts pulled high around their knees. The grape broth rises slowly in the oaken vessel. At first, it stains the ankle, and then the knee. The pressures of the moment build and the eyes of the men bulge. There is sweat beneath their soiled caps, the soil of vineyard, and their breathing becomes ragged as the moment of fulfillment approaches.

The music is loud and much faster now, as the tortured strains scream from the ancient violins…

At last, when the men can contain themselves no longer, they spring at the barrel, pushing and shoving, their crazed expressions intent on only one thing…

Producing cups from beneath their vineyard soiled tunics, they cling fiercely to the lip of the man high barrel, climbing and stretching, clawing their way up high enough to dip their cups into the frothy brew rising ever higher by the fevered stomping of the grape virgins.

The first man to dip, jostled by those behind, lets himself down slowly, and holding his cup high makes his way from the multitudes to stand beneath the grape arbor entrance to the stomping pit. Carefully, very carefully, though his arms strain and his belly aches, he raises the cup to his quivering lips.

Tasting the first yield, praying for much more to come, he tastes the first drops of the purple grape liquid, as the grape steam enters his nostrils. It is almost more than he can bear. Falling backwards, the grape tendrils catching him, supporting him, he up ends the cup and drinks deeply of the grape elixir of the gods themselves.

Lost to him, mere footsteps away, at the virginal vat, the struggle continues as the girls stomp round and round, their eyes blazing now, and the crowd, round the barrel, making soft animal noises, pushing and shoving… The music flows as freely now as the free juice of the grape jelly grape.

In hidden hamlets, villages, and small towns all over the earth, the ritual of the grape stomp continues unabated, as it has been for thousands of years.

The men of the city go about their business, oblivious to the animal grape passions raging just beyond the city limits. In the mornings, they pile grape jelly on their buttered toast, never knowing the secret place from which it sprang, and the passionate grape stomping women from whose naked feet their morning joy flows.

Ed Note: Grape stomp virgins often cavort to music like this ancient Grape Stomp Romp, melody handed down since the days of Helen of Troy who was very fond of Grape Jelly Wine. Gather the family round, grab a cup of grape jelly, turn up the speakers, and click the Grape Stomp Romp link.