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.

Long-time readers were probably wondering when I’d get back to the farm. Well, after nearly six months tending the grapes, harvesting and terrier wrangling (mostly on my own), I was thrilled to get back to San Francisco, where we officially live. With the wine all fermented and snugly sleeping in barrels, there isn’t much to do up in Sonoma. It’s what Judy Collins once musically called, “The Fallow Time”.

But in reality, even when you are doing George Bush ranching (defined as having no livestock but terriers), there’s always something to do. So we went back up to Two Terrier Vineyards to putter around and see how things are going.

First, everything is greening up after some rain, but not as much as we would like or are used to this time of year. However the low-hanging fog in the morning drops a surprising amount of moisture on the ground. Puts me in mind of an old nursery rhyme:

One misty, moisty morning when cloudy was the weather...

I chanced to meet an old man all dressed in...flame-retardant synthetic fabric.

Apparently, we don’t have enough irons in the fire and Andy has decided he has to take up go-cart racing down at the local NASCAR track. He says it’s perfectly safe. I say: any “sport” that requires a rib protector, a helmet and a flame-retardant suit is, at the least, questionable.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch…

The vineyards have been sown with mustard to put nitrogen back in the soil.

I love how the mustard comes up in little combed rows. It should burst out into yellow bloom any day now. By the way, I caught hell for this from John the Baptist, our native plants guy and trail builder. Seems he doesn’t consider mustard native — even though the Spanish are credited with bringing it over in the 1500s. And it’s somewhat invasive. Next year, on his advice, we’ll be planting fava beans for our nitrogen fixing. They aren’t native, but they aren’t invasive. Better yet, John says to plant lupines. Then when everyone else has mustard yellow vineyards, ours will be purple.

By the way, John saw our resident mountain lion, who I’ve named Joaquin, but who John insists is female. Apparently, she was sitting serenely on a rock overhang above our favorite hiking trail. Only forest spirit, John the Baptist, could sneak up on a mountain lion. Me, I think I’ll give that trail a miss for awhile.

The next big maintenance job is to prune back all our vines. We're just waiting for complete dormancy. Which is right about now.

The story isn’t so good at my raised bed garden.

Three carrots seem to have sprouted.

And no fava beans. Despite the netting, I saw signs of varmint activity.

Git along, little doggies. Git on varmint patrol.

That is, you can chase varmints anywhere but down a drain. Luckily, John has "Oscar-proofed" them all after an unfortunate stuck terrier incident.

And that's the State of the Farm, January 2010

It’s not often I feel old. My nieces in their early Twenties are skeptical, but I tell them, as you grow older, you never really have the perception that you ever hit an age that your parents were in your lifetime. But now and then I’m brought up short by a comment or event that makes me realize I’m not technically young anymore. If young is defined as the generation that is currently shaping Pop Culture. Or the generation that the advertisers are falling all over themselves to attract. No, I guess I haven’t been that generation for awhile. I’m a bit too young to be a Baby Boomer, which is the generation that will never let go. As I’ve said before, I’m Generation Jones, that lost generation between the Boomers and Gen X.

But through it all, I never really feel old. Except for sometimes. And I’m not even counting those times that I mistakenly refer to “records” in front of a twelve-year-old who has never bought one. At least twelve-year-olds know what records are and vinyl still has a certain hip-retro-cool factor.

So when a “feel old moment” suddenly slaps me in the face, it’s all that much more shocking. I had one just a few days before Christmas.

Shopping for cufflinks for my husband, I stumbled onto a selection of cuffs made from old coins. Old American coins. When the young and perky sales girl tripped over, I said that I very much wanted to buy a set or two, but did she have some made with British coins.

No, she didn’t. But being young, perky and on commission, she noticed the pair I was fondling. I’d already decided that if I couldn’t get British coins, I’d buy this set.

Young and Perky wasn’t going to let me leave without a purchase, so she started the pitch:

“We don’t have British coins. But look at these lovely cuffs you’re holding. They’re made from very rare old Buffalo quarters.”

Buffalo QUARTERS? Rare? Old?

I know buffalo NICKELS were last minted in 1938 and the government started taking them out of circulation in the Fifties and Sixties. But they were still so much in evidence when I was growing up, that my brother and I regularly rooted through our dad’s change bowl looking for them. And found one at least every week or so. In fact, I still routinely check all my change as I expect to see one at some point.

I fixed her with a steely-eyed stare that I hoped conveyed the greater knowledge gleaned from a few more years of living.

“You mean those Buffalo NICKELS? The ones they say gave Buffalo, New York the nickname The Nickel City?” They’re not so rare. They were all over the place when I was a kid. And they were still worth…well…about a nickel.”

It's tough being Generation Jones. Just ask me and Barack.

Never try to show off in front of someone younger and perkier. At least not with knowledge. It doesn’t work. I couldn’t tell if she was surprised at the news that there is a nickname for Buffalo, New York. Or that she was shocked at being confronted by someone who had used a Buffalo Nickel as actual currency. And was still ambulatory and breathing without a portable oxygen tank.

Suddenly, in the middle of Nordstroms, I felt like one of the last survivors of the Great San Francisco Earthquake. You’re thrilled there are still a few of them around, but it’s tough to see them trotted out at gatherings for fear they may die in front of you.

I bought those Buffalo “Quarter” cufflinks. But the joy was gone. If I were now to find a buffalo nickel in the change dish, it would look as sad to me as my tattered old Mouseketeers hat the last time I saw it in my mother’s attic.

Now THAT makes me feel old.

That’s one theory of New Year’s Eve. Then there is the other. That you should have a complete blow-out of all the things that you plan to “resolution” out of your life. Sort of the ultimate: “get it out of your system” technique. The latter pretty much sums up our New Year’s Eve. The usual suspects were gathered. This is the crew that we traditionally have around for what we call The Holiday Trifecta: Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter. This year, for the first time, New Year’s Eve was added to the mix. And it was such a hit, we’re now looking for an equally good word for “four in a row”.

The crew is Andy and me as hosts for the simple reason that Andy has built a complete replica of an English pub in the basement of our San Francisco house. We also have a TV room down there which is handy for the entertainment portion of our evening. Other characters include Rob and Susi, parents of The World’s Most Beautiful Baby, our Goddaughter. Eccentric Julian and Vickie, two additional Brits. And rounded out by Scotch Andrew and his lovely wife, Jan. That makes for two Americans (Susi and I), four Brits (Andy, Rob, Julian and Vickie) and two Scots, Jan and Andrew. A great mix, we’ve discovered, for events of this sort.

Few will be sorry to see the back of 2009. But it was notable for the birth of The World's Most Beautiful Baby.

The theme of this event was fondue. And it was the perfect prelude for anyone whose New Year’s resolution contained any combination of giving up fat, alcohol or unhealthy eating. By which, I mean that the dinner consisted of lashings of rich cheese, smoked meats, alcohol and general merriment. I think we all got our 2010 quota of all of the above. Giving them up for awhile should be easy now.

Jan and Julian model the extremely strange New Year's gear that was the only stuff available if you shop at the last minute.

I won’t bore you with all the details of the evening. You had to be there. But I will pass along a few things we learned:

1) When confronted by Kirsch-laden cheesy goodness, few people will know when to stop. No matter how many bowls of this stuff you put out, everyone will keep eating. Be warned.

It would clog your arteries just to look at pictures of what we ate. So this is a healthful salad, crudites and cold cuts. Served before the cheese came out and it all got ugly -- at least from a heart-healthy perspective.

2) Massive quantities of cheese will induce Cheese Coma or, at the very least, Cheese Alzheimer’s. As we collapsed on the couch to watch Animal House and a Three Stooges Marathon, we realized our cheese-laden brains could barely process this simple fare. Be warned.

3) Despite the popular belief, when Scots are placed in front of a fondue pot filled with boiling oil, they will politely turn bread chunks into croutons. They will not whip out Mars Bars and attempt to deep fry them.

Surprisingly, there were an infinite number of ways to wear these weird plush fedoras. Andy went for the Sinatra slouch. Scotch Andrew perfected the Harlem Hoofer's look.

4) Boeuf Bourguignon is best made by Scotswomen. We had an excellent one from Jan’s fair hands. Then she slipped up and mentioned she might soon be making a steak and ale pie. Based on the beef, we will be lurking near her front porch ready to invite ourselves when that happens.

5) You think the French are the world’s cheesemasters? They have nothing on the English and the Swiss. In Julian, we just happened to have an Englishman of Swiss extraction. I’ll leave you to imagine the results of his efforts.

6) Fox Terriers are notoriously “child intolerant”. You may think separating them from any attendant children will be your biggest challenge. In actuality, terriers will tremble at the force that is a large healthy Scottish toddler. Oscar and Lucy are still hiding under the bed this morning.

7) On that subject, it’s a good idea to hire a babysitter for these occasions. Not to keep the kiddies out of trouble. But to save terrier sanity and allow the adults to behave as childishly as possible without imprinting bad habits on their offspring.

8 ) If you wait too long to pick up the party favors, you will be left with slim and very odd pickings. All that was available yesterday afternoon was a ten pack of “pimps and ho’s” type black velour fedoras and feathery headdresses. And balloons in black, silver and orange. Which, in an odd way, was somewhat appropriate for the end of a very strange year and decade.

9) Cheese should have been discovered by some civilization as a superb mortar. If the Parthenon, the Pyramids and the glorious buildings of Rome had been liberally mortared with leftover fondue, they would still be standing today. This we learned at morning-after clean-up. Be warned.

10) New Year’s Eve is best spent with very good friends. Add cheese and the result is perfection.

Happy New Year, everyone. And I hope you celebrated with as wonderful a crew as we did.

Today was spent on Belize’s reef, specifically at the Hol Chan Marine Reserve. In this one shallow area of the reef, near a cut that leads out to the wider ocean, are a variety of ecosytems, from coral forests to sea grass fields. The result is a congregation on any given day of at least 80% of the acquatic species native to the Caribbean. Compared to Australia’s Barrier Reef, which is suffering from a starfish invasion and coral bleaching, the reef here is in prime health.

But rather than tell you, let me show you. Hang in there to the end of the video to see Andy holding and petting a friendly nurse shark!

At Hol Chan Marine Reserve