Left Coast Cowboys

You might have caught the news about one of the world’s most ancient languages which just became extinct when the last native speaker died at 85. What went unreported was another event of at least the same cultural significance. Namely, the last household in the economically developed world without a microwave just succumbed. That would be my house. After decades of resisting one of the more evil forces of Westernization, I’ve purchased a microwave. It took the threat of imminent starvation to do it.

My problem with the microwave is not that I’m technology-averse. I’m an early adopter of all Apple products and I’m the Mechanical Gadget Queen: GPS devices, heart rate monitors, any number of MP3 players. I love ‘em all. My problem with the microwave, and my position against buying one lo these many years, is that they are essentially useless technology. By that, I mean that a microwave can’t do anything that another device can’t do better. Except the few things that it can do which are really not particularly needed.

Want to make a great meal fast? The pressure cooker can make a from-scratch meal just as fast and make it three times better. Microwaves seem to alter the texture of foods. And not for the better. By contrast, the pressure cooker infuses everything it cooks with concentrated flavor. My verdict: the ecological niche of “fast cooking” is more than adequately filled. No need for a microwave.

Microwave noodle meals. If they served this in Abu Graib, human rights groups would be screaming.

“But”, say the microwave groupies, “you can’t warm up last night’s left overs as well in a pressure cooker.” My retort, how about the barest minimum of preplanning. Is it really so onerous to turn on the stove or the toaster oven and warm something up? Especially when conventional cookers don’t change the food texture and, as a bonus, give you that nice brown crustiness on, say, a cheese topped meal?

This is the disaster area that is now my kitchen. Except the large appliances have been trucked off to various charities.

And really, how much do you want to build your diet around “warming up leftovers”? It seems to me, the things microwave fans point to as “better warmed up in the microwave”, like spaghetti, are things that should never be served as leftovers in the first place. Do you think any self-respecting Italian is eating warmed up spaghetti? I think they cook the pasta they plan to serve ten minutes before they serve it. Maybe I have too much time on my hands, but when something as fast and easy as pasta is too much to squeeze into my schedule, well, time to think about better time management. Oh, and boiling water? The British would have two words for you: Atomic Teapot. Faster than a microwave, thank you.

Then our current kitchen remodel left us with no refrigerator, sink, stove or dishwasher. Andy warned me that we’d have to get a microwave. Especially since now the only area with a sink, counter and refrigerator is the mini-bar in our bedroom. Somehow, the idea of cookery in the bedroom, including washing dishes there and trucking the garbage down the stairs, has not been appealing. Nope, the kind of cookery you want to do in these situations involves grabbing something shelf-stable, that can be eaten in what it’s cooked in — preferably something that can be chucked in the garbage immediately after consumption. Hello Microwave.

My Goddaughter demonstrates the face I make when eating microwaved foods. Come to think of it, commercial baby food is pretty shelf-stable. Hmmm.

Still, I didn’t go without a fight. But one week of subsisting on yogurt, fruit, trail mix and Whole Foods’ salad bar had me desperate for alternatives. I cadged a meal from friends, but with weeks more of kitchen remodel ahead of me, I’m not sure how much I can count on that option.

So now I have a microwave. I got a black one to reflect its Satanic properties. I haven’t gotten much beyond oatmeal. Which is as unevenly heated as I expected. And Annie Chun microwave soups meals. Which are as horrible and faux food as I knew they would be. I may microwave a sweet potato. I’m sure the texture will be strangely mealy and not as beautifully caramelized as if it were cooked in a proper oven. I probably won’t get beyond that. I can’t bear to. And when this remodel is done, some shelter in San Francisco may be recipient of an only slightly used microwave.

Cousin John, as you’ll remember from this post, is a purist. He makes wine, but spurning our carefully crafted and specially raised UC Davis yeasts, Cousin John uses whatever is floating in the air. In fact, Cousin John only uses au natural techniques and ingredients to make wine. He’s been known to wander the byways of Sonoma picking wild fruit for fermentation. I’ve even accused him, although I have no hard evidence, of trying to make wine out of roadkill. It’s only a matter of time.

So it’s been great fun to have Cousin John make some of his wine from our grapes using his Stone Age methods. Call it the ultimate control group. Since the Cabernet pressing, which Cousin John did with our old basket press, our two Cabernets have been fermenting side by side — ours in oak barrels, Cousin John’s in glass carboys.

This past weekend, it was time for Cousin John to do another racking of his wine, which made the perfect opportunity for a side-by-side tasting. So who is winning? Our college boy yeasts or Cousin John’s juvenile delinquent yeasts? The jury is still out, but both are tasting quite good. However, I still think a college education, even for wine, gives the edge.

Watching Cousin John rack wine the old fashioned way. With tubes, muscles and carboys. No, I'm not nostalgic for THOSE days.

"Terrier" is a unit of measure around here. After racking, Cousin John has two terriers of Cabernet. Appropriate.

Our first tasting was our Rose, the first Rose we’ve ever made.

The verdict: almost all the residual sugars are gone and it's tasting very, very good.

Then we tapped our Cabernet from the barrels.

Compared with Cousin John’s, ours had fermented out more completely. And the oak of the barrel is adding interesting notes. John’s is still a tiny bit fizzy as residual yeast keeps struggling to the last. But the good fruit is holding up in both.

The verdicts on our other barrels are more mixed. Our predominantly Grenache blend and predominantly Mourvedre blends are tasting very good indeed. But last year’s Mourvedre, which is fermenting on its own, is troubling. Andy was ready to pour it out. It’s been reprieved at the last minute and will have a few more months to redeem itself.

All that "tasting" can really add up. So we took off on a hike to the redwoods to burn off the alcohol.

We saw some mushrooms that looked so toxic, even John, the ultimate forager, wasn't tempted to pick them.

He concentrated instead on trying to determine what animal teeth marks we were seeing on some scattered bones.

Obviously, the thought that a large predator was hanging around, caused me not to get the above picture in very good focus.

But I later did get an in-focus picture of the stump of petrified redwood that John the Baptist found in the creek.

And I managed to do that "fuzzy water" photography technique.

All in all, a successful day of winemaking. I’d say we and our college boy yeasts are ahead at this point. But it’s probably not wise to bet against Cousin John.

What a difference a month makes. Especially in Sonoma. Especially if that month is January. Especially, especially if it’s an El Nino January. Buckets of rain have been coming down for what seems like weeks. But Saturday offered a rare sunny break and a chance to corral the terriers and walk the back 40 to see how everything was holding up. The first thing we encountered was a lovely little sylan stream, complete with Hobbit-sized waterfalls, running along the back fence. Since this area is usually filled with trash that idiots throw over our fence and into our property, this change was a nice surprise. I got very excited and immediately went into naming mode — as every rock and wide spot in the road has a name here. I’d settled on Danthonia Creek, naming it after Danthonia californica or California Oatgrass, which happens to be one of the few natives I can reliably identify. Then John the Baptist came by to disabuse me of the notion that I’ve got a new creek. Yes, he and Louis cleaned it up and made it what it is, but apparently they can’t make it spring-fed, which he is insisting is the definition of a creek. What I’ve got, apparently, is a drainage ditch. But Danthonia Ditch just doesn’t have the same ring.

Well, no sense getting stuck in semantics. There was so much else to see.

The Goat Rocks are covered by this great multi-colored lichen. Perfect for Terrier King of the Hill posing..

Why are they called Goat Rocks? Because at one time we thought some goats that we might get would enjoy them. Then we changed our minds and decided to get burros. But by then the rocks were named.

Moving right along: ’shrooms were popping up everywhere.

You won't catch us harvesting these. As bad as I am identifying flowers, I'm taking no chances with a plant that might kill me.

Also blooming were these great little flowers.

Which someone will probably tell me is a weed. Flowers I like are always turning out to be weeds.

In the vineyards, the buds aren't yet ready to break on the trimmed grape vines.

But the mustard is as high as a terriers eye.

Dead and dying branches have been trimmed from our Manzanita grove. And piled neatly as living space for small critters.

The coyotes had thoughtfully left some deer legs for Oscar to munch on.

Which it looked as if he might have to fight vultures to keep.

So our perambulations done, Oscar retired by the woodstove with an even better chewie.

His George Bush stuffed toy, which he's not giving up no matter how many administrations come and go.

All the pictures from our foray, here.

We have a great group of English and Scottish friends with whom we usually celebrate what we call the Trifecta of the High Holy Holidays: Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter. In fact, we have so much fun on these occasions, we’ve been searching for years for other suitably hallowed events on which to gather. Finally, someone recommended Burns Night, a traditional Scottish festivity celebrating national poet Robert Burns. Our schedules didn’t let us get together until a week after the official date, but everything else was planned according to tradition.

Of course, that meant a haggis. Most of us don’t think of Scotland as exactly the epicenter of grand cuisine and some people would cite the haggis for that reputation — unless they bring up deep fried Mars Bars. Haggis, as you may or may not know, is a pudding of sorts, involving lambs lungs, other offal, oats and all steamed in a sheep’s stomach. Our Scottish friend Jan assured us it was “lovely and spicy”, but since we couldn’t imagine anything Scottish being spicy as we would know it, we didn’t have a clue what to expect. As time ticked closer to our Burns Night, Andy and Rob began to get worried and plotted to bring proper British bangers to the feast. Just in case some of us lost our nerve when faced with a haggis.

You know a Burns Night is going to be special when you are greeted at the door by a handsome Scotsman in a kilt bearing a haggis. Shown here: Scotch Andrew and Wee Andrew.

We needn’t have bothered, as the English would say. The haggis? Absolutely fabulous. The nearest I can describe it was a bit like a proper British black or white pudding (which is a sausage). But the oats in it give it a wonderful texture. The spices? Well, I would say more savory than spicy as in Mexican or Indian spicy. But perfectly wonderful. The traditional sides of “neeps and tatties” just added to the homey, warm flavor of the meal.

Here, two Englishman stare in amazement as a true Scot carves the haggis while his wife reads Robert Burns "Address to a Haggis": "Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!"

Of course, any meal that features aged single malt Scotch at every course has got to be a winner. Then there was the dessert which was a sort of trifle, heavily featuring cream, more Scotch and oats. In fact those oats, with their cholesterol reducing properties, were probably counteracting all the cream, organ meat and alcohol that we were consuming. Hooray for oats!

Haggis (which was wonderful) with the traditional sides: neeps (turnips or rutabagas) and tatties (potatoes). Yum.

And the Scotch. Did I mention the Scotch? Lots of single malt and a special 30 year old Scotch.

But don't worry about our cholesterol. There were oats in EVERYTHING. Even the trifle which included oats and brown sugar caramelized in the broiler. Can we say Yum again?

And Scotch Andrew’s kilt outfit? Now we’ve made it mandatory for all occasions. In fact, Andy and Rob are feeling miffed that England doesn’t really have a national costume. What would they wear? Bowler hats? Skinhead outfits? Renaissance Faire Morris Dancer tights? They’ve settle on the idea of Celtic robes and woad daubed faces. Coming soon: Midsommer Eve Druid Style.

In conclusion, I’m allowing no more jokes about Scottish food. If all they could offer were haggis, neeps and tatties, they’ve secured respect.

And you don't want to disagree. We still don't know what a Scotsman wears under his kilt, but they do carry daggers in those Sporrans.

Read Burns’ “Address to a Haggis” here (with translation because you’ll never understand the Scots). So let’s end with the traditional Selkirk Grace by the esteemed Rabbie Burns:

Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some would eat that want it;
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
Sae let the Lord be thankit.

For other pictures of our Burns Night, click here.

Illustration of Huck Finn by E. W. Kemble from 1884 first edition

The announcement of J.D. Salinger’s death has me thinking about my favorite alienated, wandering adolescent searching for truth in a corrupt world. I’m not talking about Holden Caulfield. Caulfield is just a snarky, overprivileged preppie starring in what is surely one of the most overrated novels in the American canon. Nope, the real Great American Boy-Hero, maybe the Greatest American Hero Ever, is Huckleberry Finn.

On the surface, there are some parallels between both books and both heroes. Don’t be fooled and don’t accept third rate when the real deal is available. Both Holden and Huck are fleeing a structured society that they feel doesn’t represent them. Both embark on adventures. Holden has flunked out of prep school and takes off to his home city of New York for a lost weekend mostly on the fringes. Huck escapes a virtuous widow’s attempts to “sivilize” him. But he embarks on a rip-roaring raft adventure down the Mississippi River. If we just want to compare the two books on the basis of story, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn wins hands-down.

Before he was a Hobbit, Elijah Wood was a Huck Finn. Unfortunately, a sterilized, Disneyfied one with none of Twain's bite.

Both books are written in the vernacular of the day and of the hero’s age group, and both books have been banned for it. But Holden’s whiney Fifties preppyisms sounded dated when I first read them a few short decades after the publication date. More than a hundred years later, Huck’s dialogue still sounds fresh, even if we flinch at his repeated, and authentic, use of the N word. But where I find Holden’s profanities and slang true to the character, they don’t serve much more purpose than authenticity and perhaps shock value. While Huck’s language is also authentic to time and place, I think Twain had something else in mind in having Huck refer to his good friend and companion as “Nigger Jim”. Huck is a product of a society that is inherently racist (in fact the novel takes place before the Civil War). Worse yet, he’s Poor White Trash, with a drunken, illiterate father who rails about how a Black professor is allowed to vote “jes like me” (even though he admits he, himself, was too drunk to make it to the polls). How much stronger the counterpoint when Huck begins to value Jim as an exceptional human being and turn his back on the racism that he has been taught at home, in school and in church. I can’t imagine how hard it would be for an African American teen to sit in a class and listen to that word bandied about. But it doesn’t take far into the book before Twain, who was an ardent abolitionist and tireless campaigner against racism, makes a stronger case than he could have with a character who was as saintly and sweet-spoken as Uncle Tom’s Little Eva.

Don’t agree with me? Russell Baker does:

“The people whom Huck and Jim encounter on the Mississippi are drunkards, murderers, bullies, swindlers, lynchers, thieves, liars, frauds, child abusers, numbskulls, hypocrites, windbags and traders in human flesh. All are white. The one man of honor in this phantasmagoria is ‘Nigger Jim,’ as Twain called him to emphasize the irony of a society in which the only true gentleman was held beneath contempt.”

According to his own daughter, Salinger became a bitter, truly weird old man. I feel sure Holden, had he been allowed to grow up fictionally, would have too.

In spite of the mad professor hair, Twain became funnier and more socially active as he aged. I think Huck would have as well. Although perhaps with not the same mastery of grammar and irony.

But my big beef with Holden Caulfield? Well, what exactly do we learn from him and his adventures? That he’s not as much of a “catcher” as his wiser little sister? That, from the perspective of the mental facility where he ends up, he really kind of misses his “secret slob” prep school roommate Stradlater? That life’s a bitch and then you graduate?

You get just a bit more from Huck Finn.

Instead of snarking and sneering at everything in a vain attempt to create a veneer of sophistication, Huck cheerfully admits that he’s ignorant and “unsivilized”. But as he sees, over and over, how Polite Society, the Law, and the Church uphold things that Huck knows in his gut are not fair, he boldly decides to reject racism, violence and inequality. Society tells him helping Jim is stealing property, but Huck decides he’ll risk it and “I’ll just go to Hell.” Mark Twain in his lecture notes explains it better than I can:

“A sound heart is a surer guide than an ill-trained conscience,”[Huckberry Finn is] “…a book of mine where a sound heart and a deformed conscience come into collision and conscience suffers defeat.”

Take that Holden Caulfield. Who’s the phony now?

I’m usually hesitant to recommend works of art based on the likability of the artist. Some truly great Art and Literature have been created by some truly odious human beings. But I can’t help contrasting Salinger and Twain.

You have to believe that Holden Caulfield, had he been allowed to grow up fictionally, would have ended up not unlike Salinger, living in an isolated cabin, drinking his own urine and obsessing over inappropriate relationships with teen girls. Twain, on the other hand, became a great humanitarian, speaking out loud and strong against institutionalized racism, segregation and lynching. Then he put his money where his mouth was, paying for at least two African-Americans to attend college. Besides Twain would be the best dinner party companion ever. He said everything witty that Oscar Wilde didn’t say first.

Huck Finn might not have become as adept with words, but I’m sure he would have grown up to be just as entertaining. And I’ll bet you a corncob pipe, in his off hours from rafting and adventuring (the end of the book finds him taking off for the West), he would have been as much the humanitarian as Twain. He’s already gotten off to a good start when the novel ends.

And therein lies the difference. For all Holden’s whining, his Upper East Side anguish can’t compare to the travails of poor Huck: drunken abusive father, poverty, society’s scorn. Yet, Huck is relentlessly upbeat. And better yet, he’s a doer. When he figures out that he can’t agree with his Society’s values, he actively rejects them and works to give a man his freedom. Were Holden around today, the only action I can see him taking is perhaps writing a bitter, venemous blog. Today, he would grow up to be a reclusive Rush Limbaugh. Flask of urine next to his keyboard. Maybe with a few well-thumbed back copies of Teen Magazine.

My choice is clear. Sorry, Holden fans. I’ll take my Teen Angst with a side of river rafting and likability, please.