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.

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.

One of the things to love about Sonoma is that it isn’t just wine country. In fact, Sonoma County is as much about sustainable, organic agriculture as it is about wine. Whether it’s artisanal goat cheese, grass-fed beef, free range chicken or heirloom vegetables, Sonoma’s got it all. Go to Napa for the glitz and the faux Chateau. Sonoma is all about manure on the boots and dirt under the fingernails.

So I was excited to hear that the town of Sonoma has just been named the first Cittaslow or “Slow City” in the United States by the prestigious (and curmudgeonly) Cittaslow International. Dedicated to preserving traditional and earth-friendly foodways, Cittaslow International has rigorous standards for any potential Slow Cities:

“Prospective Cittaslow members have populations of less than 50,000 and are evaluated in six topic groupings and 54 areas of excellence. These include sustainable agricultural practices, land use and infrastructure, environmental policy, support for local food cultivation and preparation, conservation of traditional artisan products, available hospitality programs, historic preservation, and educational programs for all ages. Also necessary for membership is local involvement participation of the City Council and the local Slow Food chapter.”

But hey, as any of the locals will tell you. Sonoma was Slow before Slow was cool. In fact, generations of teens have called their town “Slow-noma” and not necessarily because of the artisanal produce.

How Slow is Sonoma? Well, it passes my most rigorous test. One of my pet peeves is that, in one of the U.S.’s few lamb-raising regions, so many grocery stores — even those that profess to support sustainable agriculture (Whole Foods, I’m looking at you) — continue to sell only New Zealand lamb. That’s not just bringing coals to Newcastle. That’s burning loads of coal to get coals to Newcastle.

Sonoma is full of farmers like Aldo and Terri Ritz who care deeply about keeping their products organic, heirloom and sustainable. Did I also mention "delicious"?

At my favorite grocery store, Sonoma Market (a family-run supermarket that can teach Whole Foods a thing or two about sourcing locally), I quizzed the butcher on the available lamb chops.

“Which of these chops is sourced locally?”

The butcher fixed me with a steely gaze and answered:

“Depends what you mean by local.”

“Try me.”

“Well, we have lamb from near Point Reyes Station (35 miles away), or this lamb from north of Petaluma (14 miles away). Or we have Farmer XXX’s lamb pastured down near Ernie’s Tin Bar (5 miles away).”

Need more affirmation for Sonoma foodways?

Food Network's irrepressible Guy Fieri is in Sonoma today filming Matt over at The Schellville Grill.

Food Network’s Guy Fieri is at one of my favorite diners, The Schellville Grill, to profile owner/chef Matt Nagan’s Buckaroo Sandwich and Smoked Tri-Tip Sandy for Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. You know The Schellville Grill. It’s the old wooden place near the Schellville Fire Station (which guarantees the food is good and filling). It’s the place with the hand-lettered sign that says “Come in and give Matt a hug” (which shows you the place has heart).

And last but not least, The Olive Festival is in full swing up here showcasing Sonoma’s “other big crop”. There was something of an upset at Martini Madness, where local bartenders vie for the best and most original variation on the cocktail.

We were rooting for our favorite bartenders from The Girl and The Fig, but Sonoma-Meritage walked off with First Prize for their “Dirty Cougar” which features Hendricks Gin, fresh grapefruit juice,  St Germaine Elderflower liqueur and wildflower honey syrup. In the interest of informing my readers, I’ll have to try one, although I suspect this cocktail honors a certain type of Meritage patron more than it does our own Mountain Lion, Joaquinetta, and her ilk. On the other hand, I’m not sure I’ll be rushing off to try the winner of “Best Olive” category. That was Saddles Restaurant’s torch flamed creme brulee stuffed olive. I can’t even say that sounds “interesting”.

I think I’ve made my point that Sonoma is all about the local agriculture. And I haven’t even gotten into the most hotly contested controversy in town for the past few months: the great coup d’etat that overthrew the previous directorship of the Farmer’s Market on the Plaza. We’ll save that one for another time.

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.

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.