Left Coast Cowboys

On the Internet, no one knows you're a dog.

My second year trying to do NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month) and I came up short. Real short. The goal was to post every day for a month. But winemaking and Thanksgiving got in the way. Actually that’s no excuse. Although November is the official month, you can take the pledge every month. Sort of like AA. In fact, I have taken the pledge every month since November 2008. And every month I’ve failed. Well, it’s good to have goals.

All I can say to any disappointed readers is: watch this space. A Vegas roadtrip with a twist is coming up this weekend.

Years ago, when I was a journalist, I had the opportunity to interview Julia Child. We talked French cooking for a bit and then I made the mistake of asking her, “What would you suggest to people who want to cook your recipes but want to reduce the calories, the butter, cream and fat.” Julia answered in her inimitable voice (and yes, she really does talk like that): “I would SUGGEST that they are no fun AT ALL.” I took that comment to heart, and nowhere does it show up more often than at Thanksgiving. Calories, butter, cream, fat and fun were definitely the order of the day. A brief sampling:

Goat cheese souffles started it all. Note truffle oil in foreground.

There were lashings of champagne served in our faux English pub.

The turkey was on the verge of overbrowned, but brining saved the juiciness.

Plates were filled, then refilled again.

Our best Bordeaux were decanted.

Followed by an extensive cheese plate.

Followed by a sherry trifle, made by two fair Scottish hands.

Only the dogs were eating vegetarian.

Everyone agreed it was fantastic. Even those of us who only ate creamed spinach and applesauce.

Julia Child was right! No cream, no butter, no calories equals NO FUN.

Julia putting the hammer down on spoil sports. Image from Google Images.

Photo: ABC Television

By now, most of you know that Donny Osmond took the silver disco ball trophy last night as the new reigning champion of Dancing With the Stars. Pretty good for a 51 year old Grandfather and the perfect opportunity for me to reprise one of my Donny Osmond posts. My faithful readers will remember when I first mentioned Donny Osmond on this blog. It was a throw-away line in a post I wrote about Michael Jackson’s death. In response to my musing that I thought Donny was an underappreciated talent, I got flooded with emails, Twitters and Facebook messages (People, talk to the blog!) In fact, I got more feedback on Donny than I did on Michael Jackson. So I had to come out as a secret Donny Osmond fan in a follow-up post. Next thing I know, it’s picked up in the forums at Donny’s official fan site and even reprinted on the front page. And again, the Twitters, Facebook messages and emails confirm that there are a lot of Donny fans out there. Even ones who aren’t embarrassed to admit it.

So I thought I’d better examine this Donny phenomenon in a little more depth. Not being a scholar of music or even particularly knowledgable about modern music, I contacted my go-to guy on all music theory, history and trivia from the Blues of the 20s to Rock of the New Millenium. That would be my brother, Steven, who has been a professional guitarist and student of American music since high school. Knowing how Steven used to meet mention of bubblegum singers like Bobby Sherman with a sneer and an Eric Clapton guitar lick, I was a little nervous about asking for his musical assessment of Donny. I was completely surprised. Steve has a great appreciation of Donny, who he says is an artist with a lot of cred among serious rock musicians:

We rockers always appreciate a good vocalist as they

are always so hard to find. It really doesn’t matter what style you do

as it is very easy to spot the pretenders. Donny is no pretender. He’s

a pro with serious vocal ability.

No less an authority than Jeff Beck thinks Donny rocks. He does. Just ask him. (photo: Mandy Hall)

Then he went on to point me toward a YouTube clip that he thinks illustrates his point. In Rock guitar legend Jeff Beck’s Ambitious video, the scenerio is a tongue-in-cheek “audition” where various singers and wannabes are lining up to try out as lead singer. Among them is Donny Osmond taking a cheerful poke at his own career. But as they say, the laughing stops when Donny starts to sing. Steven points out, “Donny’s vocals can definitely stand up to and even complement Beck’s guitar playing.” (In fact, Steve wondered why Beck didn’t go ahead and cut a collaborative album with Donny. He’d buy it.) But of course, as I said last time and Steve confirms, Donny can do most everything.

Here's the Donny I'm listening to now. Get it now from iTunes.

Judging from the Donny Osmond CDs I’ve downloaded recently, what Donny prefers to do is what used to be termed “Blue Eyed Soul”. You can hear how he’s mastered that genre on his cover of the old Spinners hit Could It Be I’m Falling in Love and he puts a nice twist on Al Green’s Let’s Stay Together. Plus, he shows the BeeGees how it should have been done with a surprising take on How Deep is Your Love, a song I spent the Seventies trying to avoid. When Donny sings it, I’ve been known to hit repeat on my iPod one, or maybe even two, times. Then, on the same CD, Donny tackles Broadway with Seasons of Love (Rent) and This is the Moment (Jekyll and Hyde), Reggae with I Can See Clearly Now, and even performs an interesting do-over on his own old hit Puppy Love. As Steven says, when you have real talent and a true understanding and feeling for the music, you can cross into most any genre. The only thing I haven’t seen Donny tackle is the standards, which sorely need him. At a time when we’ve got Rod Stewart mangling Porter and Michael Buble injecting too much sugar into Berlin, the American Songbooks need Donny Osmond.

So c’mon, folks. I know there are a lot of you out there who agree with me. Git yer Donny on and let’s start a movement. Download your favorite Donny Osmond songs and hold that iPod up high, no matter where you are. Tell the world, WE ARE DONNY NATION. Say it loud, Donny Fan and Proud!

NOTE: Here’s that Jeff Beck Ambitious video I told you about. Watch it and tell me if you don’t think Donny should be a rocker front man.

Image: http://whatscookingamerica.net

The simplistic Third Grade explanation for the Pilgrims’ journey is that they came here for religious freedom, the freedom to worship in a church other than the Church of England. I know better. They came to America for freedom from British culinary tyranny — for the freedom to have a proper Thanksgiving dinner. Being married to a Brit and surrounded by British friends, this is a battle I know. I fight it every year. It doesn’t help that each Thanksgiving, I somehow manage to have Americans outnumbered by Brits at my table.

It usually starts about a week or so before Thanksgiving:

Andy: Let’s do something different for Thanksgiving. How about a roast goose?

Me: NO, Thanksgiving is always about turkey.

Andy: Duck a l’Orange?

Me: No, turkey.

Andy: Shoulder of wild boar?

Me: No, it has to be what the Pilgrims ate.

Andy: How do you know they didn’t have a nice Beef Wellington?

This is "The First Thanksgiving" by Jean Louis Gerome Ferris. See only turkey, no Chateaubriand.

Then the emails start flooding in from the Brits who always join us. And it’s always about changing the menu and making it more British. Given that the British have a traditionally narrow range of foods they can eat, most of which are brown, this presents some difficulty.

Thufferin' Thuccotash! Brits who come to my house are made to eat orange vegetables. Image copyright Warner Brothers.

For years, Rob has been lobbying for apple pie and ice cream instead of pumpkin pie. My friend Vickie, also a Brit, backs him up with this justification: “Pumpkin is a silly vegetable.” Her chief objection is that pumpkins are orange. In fact, orange vegetables are a major sticking point with the British. The only orange vegetable they’ll recognize are carrots. Not squash, not pumpkin, not sweet potatoes. None of the staples of Thanksgiving.

Vegetables themselves are a sticking point, not being a favorite for British palates. The latest campaign is to demand all their favorite starches from past Thanksgivings. So currently, I’m fielding a blizzard of emails demanding stuffing, cauliflower au gratin, garlic mashed potatoes AND roast potatoes. All in addition to the squash or sweet potato that I’m insisting stay on the menu (which they will quietly feed to the dogs). I know they are hoping starch overload will crowd out any need for vegetables.

My friend Susi, Rob’s wife and one of the other lone Americans, has been able to get Brussels Sprouts in without too much protest. But when you roast something with bacon and truffle oil, you can usually get a Brit to eat it. I did have some success with succotash in past years, but I think the novelty of eating something mentioned in a Looney Tunes cartoon hasn’t worn off for the Brits yet. They’re still having too much fun yelling out “Thufferin’ Thuckotash”.

The real challenge is Julian. He’s a former Oxford divinity student, and as such, can argue endlessly about how many pieces of vegetable can fit on the head of a pin. (About how many he would let pass his lips.) So getting into a Thanksgiving menu debate with him is a dangerous activity.

Julian: I don’t see why we have to stick with what the Pilgrims would eat. They probably were living on hardtack and salt pork. The menu should be open and flexible.

Me: No, the Indians brought all the food because the Pilgrims were crap as farmers. They would have starved without all the orange vegetables and turkey the Indians brought.

Julian: But I heard the Pilgrims travelled around a lot looking for a place to settle, so I think Thanksgiving should include the best of Europe: fondue, white truffles, caviar, Chateaubriand, the finest cheeses of France…

Andy tries to claim the dogs have votes -- as Brits.

Okay, Julian got me on the cheeses, so for at least six years now our Thanksgiving meal has been followed by the most exquisite and extensive cheese plate outside of a Parisian Michelin starred restaurant — courtesy of Julian. That’s supplemented by a new tradition started by our highland friend Scotch Andrew who leads the men in an after-dinner tradition called “Drink and talk Scotch.” (I know Scotch is the drink and Scots are the drinkers, but try telling that to the English. To them, they’re both Scotch.) Andrew’s wife, Jan, also a Scot, has been recruited into the conspiracy and now brings an authentic sherry trifle. Presumably to crowd out the pumpkin pie. And while American Thanksgivings usually include the viewing of a football game or the Macy’s parade, ours always involves the screening of a James Bond movie.

About the only point of tradition the Brits will agree on is tobacco. Lots of tobacco. In the form of big cigars. Rob says it’s an homage to Squanto, practically a sacrament. He’s threatening to bring a peace pipe this year.

Yes, things can get tricky for me even when I use the tradition argument. Julian turns it against me on the grounds that on Thanksgiving I should respect America’s democratic ideals and let the majority rule. With four Brits, two Scots and three Americans, you know how that vote is going to go. I try to posit that my mother, as the oldest, should have extra voting power. They counter by throwing in Jan and Andrew’s two kids and saying they really count as Scots. Andy’s even claiming, since Smooth Fox Terriers are an ancient English breed, the dogs are two British votes. I argue that we beat the British in 1776 and bailed them out of two world wars, so that ought to count for something. Julian counters that we inflicted the world with Britney Spears, Glenn Beck and Jon and Kate, so we should be stripped of all our votes based on heinous crimes against humanity.

It becomes clear at this point that I can’t win on logic.

“You can have whatever you want on Guy Fawkes Night and St. Swithins Day and whatever other obscure British holiday you want to celebrate. But Thanksgiving is America’s Holiday. So we’re having turkey and orange vegetables and pumpkin pie.

‘Cause I’m the American, and I say so.”

Whew! Didn’t realize the implications of dropping out of my life to spend nearly three months living in a barn with two terriers and making wine. Last year, I found myself at the Doctor Doolittle level of craziness — you know, where you think you can talk to the animals. This year, I became the world’s oldest juvenile delinquent. Yup, I’m now officially a dropout. I missed so many classes and fell so far behind in my homework, I’ve had to make the difficult decision to drop, not just my Spanish class, but my HTML class as well.

Okay, that may not seem like a big deal to you. But I’m wondering if I’ll ever recover from the stigma. Throughout my life, I’ve always done the required reading, turned in the homework on time and I’ve never, ever dropped a class. But now…

Can I say in my defense, that before grapes got in the way of my academic progress, I had an A average in both classes? Nope, I didn’t think that would impress you much. Well, it’s the consolation I’m clinging to. At least until Spring semester when I think I’ll sign up for one or both classes in a community college version of a do-over.

At least the other day, since I wasn’t going to class I got to reacquaint myself with my Goddaughter, the World’s Most Beautiful Baby. So what better way to end this confessional post than with the palate cleanser of a few irresistible baby pictures:

TEEFIES!

Amelia with her new toy camera. She'll be starting a photo-blog next week.

Because on the InterWebs, no one knows you're a baby.