Left Coast Cowboys

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.”

So I was scanning the news feeds and I came across this article about how the Republican party is splitting in two ideological directions. One faction, the Florida Model calls for more moderate views and reaching out to swing voters. The Texas Model says the GOP should consolidate around a staunch right wing agenda as far and as differentiated from the Democratic Party as possible. But what really caught my attention was a synopsis of the 2008 Texas GOP platform, which outlines the issues the Texas Model is rallying around. Among the planks in that platform: “We support adoption of American English as the official language of Texas and of the United States.” Oh, I’m aware of the danger those tricky newcomers pose with their refusal to speak perfect English two weeks after arriving here. You take a stroll to a place like San Francisco’s Mission District where most of the billboards are in Spanish and Hey Presto! before you know it, you’re singing “La Cucaracha”. Do I even need to enumerate the insidious danger of bi-lingual instructions? Hey, I signed up for a Spanish course at the community college, so they’ve already got me.

You let these foreigners have their way, and soon your kids are talking like Cisco and Pancho instead of like REAL Americans Lone Ranger and Tonto.

Now granted, I’m not that educated on the issue. I was under the impression that English was the language of the United States. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t all government business — from the Oval Office to neighborhood association meetings — conducted in English? If English is not “official”, it’s at least de facto. I mean, can you name me anyone who’s risen to the top of any profession here or is enjoying any sort of success who DOESN’T speak fluent English? Okay, besides Salma Hayek. Still, I foolishly thought that most immigrants were desperately trying to learn English. At least the huge crowds in the English As A Second Language classes at San Francisco Community College would seem to say so. (Although in the early stage of the classes, I’m sure the students appreciate the bilingual signs to the bathrooms. I know I do as I’m sure it’s saved some embarrassment.)

I'm not quite sure how to define American English. But I know Yosemite Sam speaks it.

Anyway, what caught my attention was the specification of AMERICAN English. Not just English, and apparently, not Pigeon English or Australian English or Spanglish or any other flavor of English. But AMERICAN English. Okay, that’s touching a raw nerve. You think that growing Hispanic population is threatening our ability to keep speaking our native tongue? Let me tell you about the British. After nearly thirty years over here, Andy still has the plummiest English accent this side of a Merchant Ivory adaptation of an E.M Forster novel. He’s married to an American, he works surrounded by Americans. But like most immigrants, at least according to what I’m hearing from the Texas Republicans, he’s not only clinging ferociously to his language, he’s forcing native-born Americans to adapt to HIS needs. You think I’m talking just his accent? No, I’m talking a whole different language than the “American English” the Texas GOP wants to make official.

Can I tell you how many times I’ve gotten to the grocery store and stood in confusion because I can’t remember the American words for the foods Brits call Courgettes and Aubergines? It’s an outrage, I tell you.

Here’s where the Brits are far more dangerous than even those insidious Hispanics: they don’t just speak a different language, they further confuse matters with a secret subset of that language.

I'm a college-educated American. And my husband has forced me to talk like the Artful Dodger. See, these are the dangers of not designating American English as our official language.

Yes, I’m talking about Cockney Rhyming Slang which Andy and our predominately British cast of friends lapse into without warning. You can find all about CRS here, but in a nutshell, it was an argot developed by underworld denizens of London’s famous East End to confound cops and informers. The basic premise is that you come up with a rhyme for a word. Like Apples and Pears for Stairs and Plates of Meat for Feet. Then you really confuse matters by sometimes (but not always) dropping off the rhyming bit. Thus Andy often announces it’s time for bed by saying he’s going to “take me plates up the apples to Bedfordshire”. (Bedfordshire, not being rhyming slang, but just another weird Britishism.) Now some Cockney Rhyming Slang is as quaintly Victorian as a Dickens novel. Say Syrup, which is short for Syrup of Figs (Wig), Barnet, short for Barnet Fair (Hair). Butchers, short for Butcher’s Hook (look). Put it all together and it will make your head spin: “Take a quick Butcher’s at the Syrup on that bloke. Better to have no Barnet.”

But just when you think you’ve got the hang of it, Rhyming Slang changes with modern references, which somehow all Englishmen transmit to each other by osmosis. So you have Becks and Posh for Nosh, which itself is an English slang word for food, comparable to “eats”. (And if you don’t know who Becks and Posh are, this whole post is lost on you.) The same site I referenced before has a pretty good Dick’n'Arry (Dictionary) of terms, but I still can’t keep up with it.  As cute and quaint as you might find this, it’s only funny until you find yourself yelling at Bill O’Reilly on the screen and accusing him of “telling Porkies” (Porky Pies, Lies). Or, worse yet, understanding when your husband talks about his “Trouble”, he’s referring to YOU (Trouble and Strife, Wife).  

And there will always be some people who will get around the rules. Probably by looking like this.

Yes, these foreigners must be stopped. I’m here to tell you, it’s a slippery slope and I’ve been pushed down it.   My question is: what’s the enforcement? Deportation seems a little harsh for slipping into Cockney Rhyming Slang or any other non-sanctioned form of English. After all, the non-native born in my life do provide many things, not least of which is a certain amusement factor. Fines, too, would be draconian. How about a re-education program? Okay, all violators will be sentenced to American English Immersion. Since there may be some question as to what is “American” English, I say we expose them to a broad spectrum. They have to navigate Marge Gunderson’s “Ya sure, ya betcha” in Fargo, then master Valley Girl in Clueless, pick up some Southern Fried English with Billy Bob Thornton in Slingblade and take in a dollop of surfer-speak from Jeff Spicoli in Fast Times At Ridgemont High… I think you’re catching my drift. I hope all my British friends and relations are taking notes here. There will be a test. And if I have to become a Texas Republican to see this gets enforced, I’m going to do it.

As a household without children (unless  you count terriers who are perpetual four-year-olds), our house has been called a “death trap for children.” Luckily, not by the parents of children that we invite to our house regularly. And there are no people more special than the people we  invite to what we call “The Trifecta” or “The High Holy H0lidays” which are Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter. We always, for the last several years, have managed to round up the usual suspects. Who are mostly British. There are Rob and Susi (Brit/American), Julian and Vickie (Brit/Brit),  Jan and Andrew (Scot/Scot), and us (Yank/Brit). At various points, relatives and cousins started showing up, but never enough to tip the balance  over to more Yanks than Brits. Now, with various couples having children, the balance has tipped even further.

A young child being taught to belly up to the bar. And order a Pellegrino. In a Cognac glass.

Luckily, these are great parents. Or maybe not great parents by anal retentive standards. But great parents in terms of a more Darwinian approach to parenting. Or maybe it’s the Doris Day Que Sera Sera approach to parenting. Yes, what will be will be.

Our Scottish friend, Andrew, is always served dessert on a Highland Laddie plate. Because, no, that joke NEVER gets old.

Not that we didn’t try to mitigate some of the life threatening dangers in our home. The terriers were sent away for a special Easter at the dog sitters. We did extinguish all open flames. Bottles of corrosive acid were put out of child reach.

However, the three year old did figure out how to open the latch to the basement gate, toddle down the spiral stairs that could have landed her on carpet covered cement, climb up on a bar stool and help herself to a half pound of peanuts in a crystal dish which she carried back up those stairs. Okay, she could have gone into anaphalactic shock from the peanuts. She could have cracked her skull falling down the stairs. She could have broken an arm climbing up the bar stool. She probably poured herself a double measure of Glennfiddich.  But she apparently didn’t. And she survived.

Another child being taught to play the tambourine. At the bar. Shortly before he fell off a barstool.

Her little brother, at one point, was propped up on a bar stool and fell off. Only to be stopped from impact one inch from the floor, by a quick grab of the ankles by the alert father. But I always say, it’s not really a party until a child falls off a barstool.

Stereo Andrews and babies.

Luckily, the 3 month old had no near death experiences. There’s still time by Thanksgiving.

A proper English trifle (made by a Scots woman). This is a sacrament in the British Isles.

Meanwhile, we adults enjoyed good wine, good food, good company and an incredible trifle. If you aren’t British, you probably don’t understand the importance of trifle. It’s more than alcohol soaked cake, smothered in cream and custard. It’s really a sacrament. There was a moment of awed and hushed silence as the British thanked the supreme being for a Scottish woman who made trifle with her own fair hands.

Meanwhile, no children were harmed in the making of this Holiday.

Que Sera Sera.

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After more than 20 years married to a Brit, I’m still amazed at their eating habits. Not only do they eat strange stuff like Marmite and Lucozade, but they give it bizarre names. Like Spotted Dick, Toad in the Hole, Rumbledy-Thump and the the ever amusing Drowned Baby. Add to the confusion, the tendency they have to call every dessert, whether it’s cake or ice cream or a fruit tart, a “pudding”.

I’m still not used to Andy calling the evening meal “Tea”. It’s especially odd when he comes home and asks me: “Have you given the doggies their Tea?” One day he’ll find me serving Darjeeling to the terriers while Oscar wears a bowler and Lucy a large floppy gardening hat.

Oh, I could go on and on. And I’m just talking about the English here. Let’s not even bring in the Scots and their haggis, which is sort of an offal and oatmeal pudding cooked in a sheep’s stomach.

But the strangest thing to me about British eating habits, is not so much what they eat, but what they don’t eat. Every country has food that the rest of us think is odd. Ever seen grilled grasshoppers in Thailand? (Surprisingly good and crunchy.) Or abalone liver served in Japanese restaurants? (Not so good.)

No what is odd about the Brits is what they WON’T eat. Not just a thing or two, but whole food groups. Mainly vegetables. Any former student of a British Grammar School (which is sort of the American equivalent of an Advanced Placement School) will not, under any circumstances, eat beets. Now I can understand not eating beets the way the British cook them — boiled until they are a pulpy pink mess. But the way I was taught to cook them: choosing the tenderest organic beets of all colors and slow roasting them until the sugars caramelize. Well, it just criminal to avoid those. However, Andy cannot be persuaded to try one. In fact, if there is a speck of beet juice anywhere that is allowed to touch any of his other food, he can’t eat that. Recently, he announced he didn’t even want to smell beets on my breath. So beet cooking is going to become a stealth activity at our house, reserved for those occasions when he has a business trip. I’m planning to grow beets in my organic garden. I’m wondering if the beet ban will extend to any vegetables grown within a 2 foot radius of a beet.

While beets have got to be the most avoided vegetable in England, it should be noted that they aren’t really that keen on vegetables in any form. I grew up in a household where dinner was cooked by color. You always had an orange vegetable, a green vegetable and maybe a red or yellow one to balance it out. The British are quite comfortable having a dinner that is, at best, predominantly brown, at worst, a pale gray. Those pub dinner signs in England that advertise “meat and two veg”? By veg, they usually mean beans and potatoes. I once had a pub lunch and complained that I’d only been served one veg. I was told that the slice of bread was my second one.

We do quite a number of festive dinners which somehow tend to be dominated by our British friends. So far, the only colorful vegetables I’ve been able to get down a majority of them are peas and carrots which are unfortunately, the least nutritious and least interesting of all vegetables.

Oh, I’ve tried the health argument, the aesthetic argument and every other argument to promote vegetables. The British rebuttal always comes down to roughly the same thing.

“What can you Yanks tell us about food? You’re a nation that eats peanut butter.”