Strong Cyder (Apple & Grape Wine)
12.5% ABV, 750 ml
Unity is made by adding air-dried wine grapes in with the apple juice while it ferments in neutral oak barrels. The high sugar content of the wine grape raisins contributes to the 12.5% ABV, which is more comparable to a wine than the typical cider. Full-bodied, dry, and abounding with warm flavors of apple pie, ginger, and baking spices, Unity has a complex and satisfying character that pairs well with rich foods. Perfect for dinner parties, special occasions, or relaxing in an antique leather chair with Thoreau, Unity is sure to impress even the most discerning and refined palates.
A union of grapes and apples, Unity is the culmination of our cidermaker Brian’s passions and is a nod to his training in the wine industry. It is also revealing of his extravagant nerdiness in that he discovered the recipe for this old, forgotten, early-American style during one of many late-night excursions down the rabbit hole of Google Books and its collection of 19th century texts. The 1825 book that inspired Unity was The American Orchardist, the author of which, James Thatcher, also was known for his essay on demonology, ghosts and apparitions, and popular superstitions.
- Warm flavors of apple pie, ginger, cardamom, and nutmeg.
- Full body.
- Aged for 15 months in neutral oak barrels.
- An early American style cider that combines raisins and apples to produce complex flavor and a high alcohol content similar to that of wine.
- Made from Rome, Spitzenburg, and Yellow Delicious apples and Marsanne grapes.
- All apples were grown on our family farm and were picked, crushed, and pressed in-house.
- Wild fermented, unfiltered, and unpasteurized.
- Completely dry flavor with zero residual sugar.
- Bottle conditioned with no artificial carbonation.
At Evenfall, storytelling is an essential part of what we do. Read on for a short story inspired by Unity.
The sun bathed the world in rich, saccharine light, though its heat was just beginning to reach the Earth’s surface. It shone brilliantly as if compensating for its earlier sequestration behind a gray, swirling soup of fog and clouds. One moment, crisp early morning air had chilled the back of the farmer’s neck and numbed his fingertips, the next, the sun had made its debut, enveloping him in an intense warmth that caused beads of sweat to spring forth from his pores. He paused momentarily to strip off a layer of clothing, but returned quickly to his work. He had been laboring in the vineyard for three hours, but had only made it halfway through his task.
The steady rhythm of his movements was matched by an equally constant screeching from above. At one time, he had felt like a trespasser in the vineyard as the osprey circled overhead, defending its fastidiously built nest and the delicate contents within. But over time, he became accustomed to it, the sound weaving itself in with the rustling of grape leaves, the persistent scurry of ground squirrels, the gentle babble of the nearby river, and all of the other sounds that had woven together to form an auditory tapestry of life in the vineyard. Today he longed for the osprey’s protestations to cease, not because the sound produced in him a mild irritation and an underlying, less comprehensible twinge of guilt as it once had, but because the bird always quieted when She was about to appear. With an admirable strength of will, he endeavored to keep his mind focused on his work, to tamp down hope and anticipation, to put Her and her mysterious visits out of his mind. He failed.
Her floating, swirling ringlets that defied gravity, her dark purple-blue irises, the way her touch enlivened and invigorated the vines — he was intoxicated with recollection. He caught himself humming a tune that he had heard her sing and lyrics that he had never learned took shape in his mind in the strange tones of a language he did not know. One day as they had worked side-by-side, she had explained — her meaning entering his mind without the words being spoken aloud — that when she sang to the vines and tended them, she was strengthening them, infusing them with inspiration, courage, reverie, empathy, passion, and all manner of fortifying qualities. In exchange, they told her their stories, stories of those who had tended them, stories of dirt and earth and stone.
Lulled into the deepest recesses of his waking mind by memories of her, he was unaware at first of the silence that had fallen. The osprey flapped silently overhead, its shadow racing across rows and rows of vines and shading the farmer’s eyes momentarily from the sun. He turned and there she stood at the edge of the vineyard, arms stretched skyward toward the osprey. She held a small pile of vine cuttings aloft, the same pieces the farmer had just trimmed. The osprey circled slowly before dropping gently toward the Earth and grasping the bundle in its talons. It spiraled upward into the air and delivered the cuttings to its nest where it would weave them in and offer up its stories in exchange for the fortitude and vitality that the woman had infused into the vines.