Karakterre Conversations with: Julie-Ann Hoch
Julie-Ann Hoch (PureJoy Botanicals): We don’t always say “wine” and “beer” anymore – we talk about beverages. Because it gives us the space to think beyond categories. A great drink doesn’t need to belong in a box. It just needs to move you.
I have no statistics at hand but my gut feeling is that Austria leads Europe at female farmers, either as single leaders or leading with there partners. Or at least it’s top three! Ask me not to go justify this gut feeling but rather consider the conversation with one of the most forward thinking farmers of the younger generation that I’ve met in the last few years.
Julie-Ann Hoch has been part of Karakterre for quite a few years now. Her farm, PureJoy Botanicals, is based in Krems, an hour or so outside the capital, Vienna. Her website states: “I am working with pure and organic botanicals. I love the impact of herbs to our body.” In the world of commercial mass production, her projects- brought to life with her partner Christoph Hoch, an established winegrower himself- are outright fascinating. In the world of “natural” winegrower they can get sidelined by the more “popular” wines section. Julie-Ann’s ideas- bottled as drinks- deserve however, every bit of attention.
The interview intentionally leaves a lot of points just out there, in the open, for the reader to explore further on their own.
You’re a young, modern farmer with ideas that originate in the past. What sparked that mindset?
It didn’t come from strategy. It came from gut instinct and lived experience. There’s a kind of depth that only emerges when you listen to the land instead of controlling it. Biodynamics gave us a language for that – not as dogma, but as a tool. It taught us to observe more and interfere less.
And let’s be honest: some of our peers look at us like we’re off track. Farming ancient grains? Letting things ferment “wild”? But for us, it’s not about nostalgia. It’s about building flavor and meaning– and that means accepting complexity, unpredictability, and time. Sometimes, the mess is the magic.
We’re not doing this alone – we couldn’t. A lot of these ideas would’ve stayed theory if we didn’t have friends and partners to bring them into the world with us. That’s what transforms vision intoaction.
One example of your ideas, co-fermentations of wine and beer – what was the thinking behind it?
“Co-existing” might describe the classical worlds of wine and beer – clean pilsners on one side, filtered cabernets on the other. But when you look at spontaneously fermented beer and natural wine, the line almost vanishes. They’re so close it almost hurts that they’re treated like separate planets. It’s the same wildness, the same devotion to time, microbes, and raw agricultural expression.That’s really where our motivation comes from.
We don’t always say “wine” and “beer” anymore – we talk about beverages. Because it gives us the space to think beyond categories. A great drink doesn’t need to belong in a box. It just needs to move you.
You run a cultivation project to keep old wheat and barley varieties alive. Are they necessarily “better” than the modern ones?
Better is a tricky word. Modern varieties are optimized for yield, logistics, and industrial brewing and in that context, they make sense. But we're after something else. Older varieties like our “Domen” barley aren’t just romantic relics – they bring structure, depth, and uniqueness to our beers. They behave differently, they are different— and they matter. They’re also samenfest – we can reproduce them ourselves. That makes them less dependent on big seed corporations. They yield less, but resist more. These are varieties for generations, not for quarterly reports. This is independence. Not just in business, but in farming.
Their value isn’t just agronomic, but cultural. It’s a about telling stories. Keeping them alive is both an act of resistance and creation. We don’t want them to survive in gene banks – we want them back in fields, in brew kettles, in glasses. The goal isn’t to stay in the past, but to build something modern with memory.
Your ecosystem is a sustainable one. But can small be scalable? What’s your take on size vs sustainability?
If you zoom out, sustainability isn’t small – it’s essential. The paradox is: to make a meaningful impact, your ideas need to scale. But scale can’t mean dilution. Our model is about resilience through networks. We grow some of our own ingredients, yes, but we also collaborate – with grain growers, coopers, winemakers. With people who know things we don’t. Who challenge and complete us. Without that web, we’d be limited. But together, we can afford to be bolder. To test things that otherwise wouldn’t stand a chance.It’s not about becoming huge. It’s about building ecosystems that are big enough to matter, but rooted enough to endure. If one node fails, the whole web doesn’t collapse. And in that web lies the real value – the blend of ideals and pragmatism, of history and innovation. It’s the kind of collaboration you don’t forget, because it gives shape to things you could never build alone.
Right now, we’re in a position where we’re pushing boundaries – not by chasing status, but by digging deeper. You could say we allow ourselves to work with patience and stubborn clarity. Our gold isn’t luxury – it’s time. It’s conviction. It’s a seed we can replant.
Even if you think you've cracked the code (you haven’t), you eventually need to step back and ask: what are we really doing here? If we stay tiny, maybe we tend a beautiful patch of land – but the world just keeps going. Sometimes, growing means loosening your grip on ideological perfection. You adapt. And in return, you gain something that ideology alone can’t offer: reach. Visibility. A voice. You start to matter to people you’ve never met. You’re not just farming. You’re communicating. And that changes things.
It’s not about being perfect. It’s about staying in motion. One step at a time. That’s how movements begin.
What’s your most exciting place of interest today (physical or mental space, food or wine, culture in general)?
The beer doesn’t come from one head alone – and each of us would probably give a different answer. But if you ask me personally, it’s not really a “place” in the classical sense. It’s a spark. A deep, motivated conversation with someone who truly burns for what they do – especially when that fire is about a food or drink, something alive and sensory. That fills me with joy. It leaves a mark.
As much as we live for connection, we also seek silence. Stillness. Almost solitude. We regularly withdraw – not to escape, but to refill, to recalibrate. Geographically, you could call it Norway – but not the postcard towns. More north, more raw.
There’s also a historical link there. Traditional brewing cultures in Norway – like kveik fermentations – have taught us that “wild” isn’t new. It’s ancient; it’s just been forgotten. We’re not inventing something new. We’re remembering. That kind of brewing tradition isn’t background noise to us – it’s an anchor and an inspiration. That silence part? That’s more Christoph’s (Hoch; Julie-Ann’s partner) take. I live for the exchange. That tension – between noise and quiet – keeps us balanced. And maybe that’s the real ferment.
Our mariage parfait.
Thank you for this conversation, Julie-Ann!
Marko