October 18 to 19: Tataroba
We had an invitation from my translator's family to come to Kakheti and watch them make/do tataroba. Who could resist?
It was cloudy, but beautiful when we got there, with the sun trying to burn through. The Alazani valley looked just as amazing as ever.
When we arrived tatara production was underway: the brown juice of white grapes, mixed with flour, is boiled for three hours, until it becomes a stiff mass.
This involves a lot of stirring and fooling with the fire.
While the tatara was cooking, the nice ladies of the neighborhood brought out the walnuts, which had been strung onto thread. The trick here is to push the nut-string under the tatara with the paddle, and pull it out swiftly and smoothly.
Here an expert demonstrates the desired result: a smooth, fairly nasty looking thing: Churchkela. The tatara is very sweet and tasty, a floury pudding.
Just Do It. The production line started up and before we knew it, sticks full of Churchkela.
Several hours later, dozens of Georgian Snickers. They must dry for a day and then get another, thinner coat of tatara.
While tataroba was going on, the gents fired up the tone.
Firing the tone involved burning a mass of trimmings, starting with grape vines. Note the two liter bottle of accelerant next to the tone.
Once the walls of the tone were blazingly hot, the dough was rolled (or patted) into shape.
This is how dedaspuri gets its characteristic shape.
And here is a week's worth of bread for the two families: and it was amazingly tasty hot from the tone.
The landlord took us to see some churches in the village (but up on the hill) and we somehow wound up at a picnic, drinking 32 year old white wine (well, it was brown and tasted like sherry) with friends. They took a modern approach to toasting, and made jokes during all the toasts.
We went home and had a blow-out feast that night, sitting on the porch overlooking the beautiful garden loaded with fruit hanging right there, next to the table. It really was a vision of heaven: fecund, rich, and perfect. I drank glass after glass of the grandfather's wine: brown, dead dry, and tannic, it came right out of the huge kvevris in the old marani next to the house. We made toast after toast: all the Georgian classics and I got drunk enough for it to seem meaningful, which is the trick to the meaning of the Supra: you have to be drunk to get it. Then we sat in the yard and talked late into the night, with stars overhead.
The next day, I was subdued. We went to a nearby hill town, visited the church where St. Nino is buried, and drove around.
It started to rain, and we sat on the porch overlooking the valley. Eventually we had to go home to Tbilisi.
I don't know when I will be back here again.