Lord, Bless These Hands

Gordon walks toward me with a bottle of wine protruding from the pocket of his cargo shorts. I ask, “Is that a bottle of booze in your pants, or are you happy to see me?” He doesn’t get the joke. Gordon’s an older guy and should know that tired groaner, but somehow it’s elluded him. That, or he's just distracted. I know Gordon from an advanced winemaking class we took together at a local winery. He’s here at the Denver County Fair to enter a bottle of his pride-and-joy in the amateur winemaking contest. It’s a show-off-y blend of french grapes from a certain region known for its sophisticated soil and nuanced weather (or maybe it’s the other way around). It’s a wine anyone would be proud to have made, yet as I walk with him over to the competition entry table, Gordon hesitates, suddenly shy. It’s a big deal to submit a hand-made thing for judgement, even if it’s just at a county fair.

Gordon tells me the most discouraging thought is that his wine might not even get drunk. “I don’t care if I don’t win a ribbon. I just can’t stand the thought of my wine being poured down a drain. I hope someone at least enjoys it.” Those words stick in my mind when I finally bring my own fermented experiments over to the judges. The county fair staff are encouraged to enter competitions as long as we’re not directly involved in judging, and since I am managing the art gallery, there is no conflict of interest entering my homemade hard cider and rose petal wine. I too dread the moment I retrieve my bottles only to discover them half full of the libations I’ve been babying for almost a year. So at the last possible moment, I resolve that the risk of rejection is worth the potential affirmation, and I surrender my creations for evaluation.


At church potlucks, and other places religious folks gather for meals, it’s common to hear a prayer of thanks that blesses the hands of the people who prepared the meal. The Christian version goes something like this: “Lord, we give you thanks for this meal, (etc, etc), And we ask that you bless the hands that made this food. May it strengthen us so that we may better serve you. In Jesus name, amen.”  As a kid who spent a lot of time at church picnics, the blessing of hands seemed curious to me. I always pictured ladies hands because cooking was pretty much women’s work back then. I imagined their hands had an invisible, sacred aura that got re-charged every time someone prayed for them, and that this somehow enabled them to be amazing cooks. It is no wonder the hands that create food are set apart for special recognition. Food is among the most fundamental sources of sensual joy we can experience, since it is basic to our survival. I can’t recall any prayers of blessing specific to other types of work, except maybe surgeons. Their hands were routinely busy patching up the old people in our church. But there were no blessings for the hands that prepared tax documents or did data entry or took away our garbage.


My favorite moment at the Denver County Fair happens on the last day, at the very end, after everyone goes home. This is when the call goes out over our walkie talkies to come divvy up the leftovers from the food and drink competitions. Don’t for a second imagine that stuff gets tossed in a dumpster. Some of us have been eyeing those cupcakes and lattice-topped pies all weekend. Generally, the creators of these dilectables don’t bother to circle back at closing time to claim the remains of their labor. This is good news for the staff. Most of us are dead on our feet by this point, so we summon what civility we have left to bargain over half eaten pies that have been sitting in display cases all weekend, and random bottles of home-brew (beer contestants are required to submit 2 bottles, one is for the judges, the second is a “backup.” These are rarely opened). My own haul after this year’s fair included various ambitiously-hopped beers with the word “imperial” in their titles. I also loaded up with several perfect slices of strawberry-rhubarb pie that were seemingly beamed down from heaven by someone’s righteous great grandmother, and an apple pie labeled “3 Sheets to the Wind Bourbon Apple Pie,” whose sugary spell I am under as I write.

I have no idea who made any of the things I’m nibbling on now. For the purpose of blind judging, each entry has an item number and a title, but nothing to indicate the identity of its creator. I suppose if I were especially determined I could track these people down, but it would take some serious poking around in an Excel spreadsheet I don’t have access to anymore. I’m not even sure what the point would be. I’m not a food critic or some sort of culinary talent scout. I’m just a random dude that ended up with county fair leftovers. The thing is, I’m really thankful for these things, despite their idiosyncrasies and technical flaws, or maybe because of them. What often gets labeled a flaw is just a departure from the expectations of the judges anyway. Most of what I’ve brought home is pretty delightful, and none of it is bad. So in the late summer night quiet of my back porch, I savor each edible creation, wishing I could thank each baker or brewer for the gift they didn’t know they gave me.

I ended up taking third place for both of my booze entries. The judges were unallied. Their remarks were contradictory and blunt, but somehow seemed fair. One said my cider had a sophisticated flavor profile, but lacked correct aroma. Another said it lacked complexity but was still drinkable. A third judge said it was nicely done and very drinkable, with hints of gardenia and honey. I’m still trying to parse all their comments. Coming from the art world - and before that a long career in advertising - I am prepared to triangulate this sort of messy feedback. Still, after nearly forty years of exposing myself to such critiques, I have yet to develop much immunity to their souring effects on my emotions. Anyone entering a contest like this must first battle their own self-doubt before they can offer up their talents to the world. After that we learn to take our lumps in a give-and-take process that hopefully leads to some sort of validation of our efforts. This is the bumpy path of the “third place” creative endeavor, and there is no shame in it. The trick is to buck-up, process the criticism, and move forward. This may be the single hardest thing any creative person has to do on a regular basis.

As we clear the last few items from the cooler it is evident that Gordon’s bottle is not among the sad, unconvincing wines left on the back of the shelf. Instead, I find it in a box of empties headed for recycling. I recognize it by it’s distinctive tapered shape, the kind normally used for light-bodied wines. As I pull it from the box I am relieved to see about a half inch of sediment sloshing around the bottom of the bottle - evidence the wine was drunk, and possibly enjoyed, but not poured out. Though his wine didn’t win a ribbon, I assume Gordon is tenacious enough to give it a try again next year, as will I. In the meantime I say a quick prayer of blessing for his hands, and then for my own. I don’t know if that’s how it’s supposed to work, but it’s worth a shot.