Wine originates from grapes, which in turn need to be on healthy rootstock to thrive. Throughout the growing season and beyond, these vines are the life of the vineyard and the very heart of the industry, and need to be nurtured. People come from certain rootstock as well, some genetics and some training and nurturing, and I was no exception to this rule.

Having come from a French-American mother and an Irish father, I was raised with French culture. My mother, Brigitte Marguerite, who recently passed away, was likely the Julia Childs/Martha Stewart perfect combination of these two. As children, we learned French first, then English. This included French history and reading Les Misérables, Victor Hugo and Molière, so we would be well-rounded.

Ratatouille, Bouillabaisse, Cassoulet, and many other traditional French dishes were cranked out of the humble Huntington Beach house. At the dinner table was the quintessential jug of Ernest and Julio Hearty Burgundy.

We were four children, Genevieve, Edwin Jr., Martine and Dominique. We were allowed to have wine at the dinner table, but it was diluted and we added a sugar cube. As children, we surely did not know this was called chaptalization! We were also allowed to have a sugar cube dipped in Cognac, which was called “canard” or duck, but that was more reserved for those special occasions.

For dessert, she made pain au chocolat, croissants, and croissants aux amandes, éclairs, and sometimes flan. On Mardis Gras, we would typically have crêpes for dinner, just to keep it fun! We were truly fortunate.

In respect of the truly humble beginnings in so many of the family wineries we have come across, I wish to share an excerpt from my mother’s perspective. What’s important here, is that through good times and tough times, we remain humble and appreciate what we have.

”The winter of 1940 in Normandy, France, was a rigorous winter. Inside the Normandy style house, logs were burning in the large fireplace. Outside, icicles festooned the hangar, and the countryside was a blanket of snow. It was Christmas Eve, in World War II occupied France. My parents had sheltered four British flyers. They were sharing our lives and our fears, and tonight on this memorable Christmas Eve, they were sharing the joy of Christmas, away from their homeland and loved ones. Papo, my father, had gone in the woods earlier in the day to cut down a Christmas tree. With the help of the “British boys”, as we called them, we trimmed the tree with delicate clip-on glass ornaments and silver garland. The finishing touch was the lighting of the candles by father and the boys. We gathered around the fireplace in a religious silence-the bright flames lighting up our faces. At regular intervals, the crackling of the wood and the sound of the winds would break the silence. When we spoke, it was in a low tone of voice, in case a collaborationist would make a surprise visit and turn us over to the enemies