The Cider House – Part 1: First Pour

Rosa had never owned a cider house, which was why she bought one.

At fifty-seven, newly divorced, with a modest settlement and a lifetime of doing what other people expected, she had driven north from Madrid with a map and a suitcase and bid on a crumbling stone llagar in a green Asturian valley. She won.

"You are the new owner," said a voice at the gate.

A man in a flat cap and rubber boots stood among the apple trees, hands in his pockets. He was sixty-one, rugged, with a white moustache and clear, humorous eyes. "Alejandro. Next farm. I made cider in this house for your predecessor for forty years. You will need me."

"I will not."

"You do not know how to pour."

"It is a bottle."

He raised an eyebrow, took a bottle from the stone shelf, and lifted it high over his head. With the other hand he held a wide glass down at hip height. The cider arced through the air in a long golden thread and landed, foaming, in the glass.

Rosa's mouth fell open.

"That," said Alejandro, "is escanciar. It wakes the cider. Try."

She tried. The cider splashed down her front, all over the flagstones and, regrettably, onto Alejandro's boots.

"Ah," he said, calmly.

"I am so sorry."

"Again."

She lost count of how many tries it took. By the end of the afternoon, she had learned to pour one clean arc, and her face ached from laughing.

"Can I ask you something?" said Rosa.

"Yes."

"Why are you helping me? You could have let me fail."

"Because I do not want this house to die," said Alejandro. "And because I have not laughed this much in eleven years."

"Green?" said Rosa, using the word of her daughter.

"Green," said Alejandro, solemnly. "Very green. Again."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Apple Season.