Left Coast Cowboys

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.

There, I’m just going to say it: I got an F in Spanish 1B this Fall Term. Now I’m going to explain. With more enthusiasm than foresight, I signed up for both HTML Programming and Spanish 1B last fall, completely ignoring the fact that Fall Term runs right through grape harvest and winemaking season. By midterm, it was clear I wasn’t going to make it through the courses. I’d had missed too many classes when called away by “winemaking emergencies”.

No problem. City College of San Francisco is nothing if not wired. You can manage the whole administrative side of your enrollment on-line. So I fired up the website after harvest one day and withdrew from HTML Programming. No such luck with Spanish. The little “withdraw” option button that was supposed to be there wasn’t. I tried on and off for a week or so to withdraw, but the button never appeared. Not at any time. Not in any browser.

Finally, I emailed the professor, told him of my issue and asked if he could withdraw me from the course. “Sorry” was the answer. “You’ve missed by one day the window to take a Withdraw. Now I’ll have to give you an F. Unless you come in and take the Final.”

Well, let’s see. A ton or so of grapes potentially rotting on the vine? Or an F in Community College? The decision was made easier when I was told I could see the Dean of Students and petition for a retroactive Withdraw. Little did I know that our Governator’s severe budget cuts to California colleges have ensured that the Dean seems to have no regular office hours any more. Maybe we don’t even have a Dean. Maybe he’s been replaced with an iPhone App. In any case, he’s uninterested in my plight. He’s not answering my phone calls and emails.

So, I let it drop. Really, it’s not as if that F will keep me from graduate school. As for learning Spanish, I signed up to retake the course this Spring Term. No harm, no foul.

Lucy promises to make me really hit the books hard this semester.

Until Andy made a joke in front of my mother about my big failing grade. Mom, who proudly watched me make my way through years of school with mostly As, is ready to bring the whole California system of higher education crashing down over this. Her daughter with an F? Unacceptable! Worse yet, she’s worrying herself sick about it.

“You need to be concerned about this F. What if they find out about it? You know they can find out anything on the Internets. I bet I could just look up your name and that F would be there.”

“Well, Mom. Who are “they”? My friends? They’re already laughing about it. Future employers? I’m self employed and I won’t fire myself. My seasonal vineyard workers? They already know my Spanish is crap.”

“Well, it’s on your permanent record now. Someone could find out about it and publish it.”

“Okay, when Barack calls me to defend the next endangered Democratic Senate seat, I’ll practice full disclosure. I’ll tell him all about the F. And about the sex tape I didn’t make. There will be no surprises at the Oval office. We’ll take a page out of George Bush’s playbook. I’ll chalk it up to youthful hijinks. And I’ll say I’ve found Jesus now.”

But still Mom’s got me worried. I mean, this has screwed up my grade point average, which I should tell you — modestly [blushes] — was 4.0 before this unfortunate incident. In fact, it should be noted that I had As in both courses at Midterm before I dropped out. I swear on a stack of Bibles, I’m not smoking or taking drugs. Just in case you thought I’d suddenly become a juvenile delinquent a few decades too late.

In fact, I’m headed to my first class tonight in do-over Spanish 1B. I promise to study hard. Don’t judge me harshly InterWebs.

Even Oscar's pitching in to keep the family from any more shame.

Earlier this week, I braved a rare break in our winter storms to get up to Sonoma and check the progress that John the Baptist and Louis have made in our trails and vulnerable flood areas. After last year’s storms, the rains that filled our seasonal creek, in addition to a number of felled trees, caused massive erosion. John and Louis swore it wouldn’t happen again. They’ve been busy for weeks with straw bales and logs and rocks to shore up banks, build run-off channels and divert rainwater from flood-prone areas. After bushwhacking down our most vulnerable trail, I have to say, there’s nothing Mother Nature can throw at us that John and Louis haven’t built defenses against. Not that Mother Nature would want to thwart John and Louis. She’s never looked this good in our neck of the woods. And every lady of a certain age certainly appreciates a little cosmetic help.

For instance, look at this lovely sylvan scene. Untouched Nature at its best, no? NO. This area has had more work by experts than Cher’s face. But the results are equally impressive.

Artful arranging of rocks, wire-screened underwater breakwaters and felled trees have resulted in this beautifully channeled waterway.

C'mon. This is like a Hollywood set. Don't you just expect Jeremiah Johnson to ride through here?

Last year, this whole bank eroded. This year, a John and Louis waterfall is channeling the runoff.

As always, I learned tons of things on a John and Louis Nature Walk. For instance, did you know that this foam is perfectly natural? Some sort of protein stirred up when the water is running quickly.

And here I was worried someone was polluting my creek with Joy dishwashing detergent.

John even located a piece of petrified Redwood.

Which I was so excited to see that I couldn't properly focus my camera. Note to self: rephotograph this at a later date.

And let's give Mother Nature a little credit for dressing things up with lovely mosses and ferns.

John and Louis also pointed out some really cool plants that are starting to sprout. But it was too wet to take out my notebook, so I promptly forgot what they are. But I’m assured they are very special.

Hopefully John or another reader will leave a comment identifying this plant. Update: as you can see from the comments, John the Baptist weighed in identifying this as Golden back fern (Pityrogramma).

And this plant, too. Update: Reader Maybelline correctly identified this as a Maidenhair fern. John the Baptist confirms it.

I’d planned to start a Two Terrier Nature Series on this blog, identifying and showcasing our many native plants. But I realize I’m going to have to do a lot better than this. Note to self: carry pens and notebook at all times.

In the meantime, bring on the rain! We’re ready.

California has been pounded by rainstorms this week, complete with thunder, lightning and lots of power outages. Add one nervous, neurotic terrier and it’s a recipe for disaster. Or at least a week of no sleep. Lucy would be that terrier. And from the first loud clap of thunder on Tuesday, she became the shivering, hyperventilating poster pet for animal medication.

The problem is that her fears didn’t manifest as fear of thunder, lightning or even loud noises and flashes of light. They translated into fear of anything that sounds like water — including showers and running faucets — and anything that flashes — including a light switch going on or the flicker of the television set. Her immediate response is to dive under the bed and start hyperventilating as she frantically tries to dig a hole in the floor boards. This has been pretty much around the clock behavior, although night time is the worst time. It’s safe to say that nobody has had much sleep around here for a week. Not to mention that there hasn’t been much showering going on. I have two choices for a shower. I can lock her out of the bathroom and endure her howls and cries. Or I can bring her into the bathroom and watch her completely lose it as the water hits the tile. Both options give me about a 90 second window. Needless to say, there is no hair washing.

Lucy's feeling much safer under the covers.

Now you would expect that this would be the moment for the heartwarming solution. Where little Oscar, her terrier brother, snuggles up and calms her, resolving the whole situation. But that would be the wrong movie.

Oscar, for all his pretend ferocity, is usually completely under the paw of Big Sister Lucy. He gobbles down his food because, if she finishes before him, she’ll rush over and grab the remainder in his bowl. He is relegated to one special corner of the bed. If he steps into another area, Lucy chases him right back. It goes without saying, that she owns all the toys. But there is now one terrier who is completely unafraid of storms. And he’s been leisurely eating his dinner and hers, stretching out and claiming all parts of the bed. And he now has all the toys. So much for terrier love.

Oscar is now the boy with the most toys. All the toys, in fact.

Luckily California has about one month of winter and about a week or two of it is usually extreme. That means we are getting to the end of this storm season. I can’t imagine how the balance of power is going to shift once Lucy can emerge from her phobias. It’s probably not going to be pretty.

Note: Any post that references a Doors song seems to require a hippy trippy photo illustration. I’m playing around with FX Photo Studio, an iPhone application that lets me manipulate photos in hundreds of ways. This is my “Flashback to the Sixties” style.

And speaking of The Doors, this parody by Weird Al Yankovic gave me a much needed chuckle through all the madness. Ladies and Germs, I give you “Craigslist”: