Food for Thought

My niece got two chickens last night and named them Original and Extra Crispy. Sometimes, it frightens me that my brother reproduced, but someone had to. I suppose. She's probably the best thing to hit the Stewart line since James VII of Scotland became James I of England. My brother wants me to stop spelling his name the traditional way as well. I was trying to keep him anonymous as "Mark" but I will switch to his choice of "Marc" to keep him happy.

Late at night in Orkney and nothing to eat except two packs of aforementioned 'biscuits'. Until I pulled out the four, very flat, honey buns I had snagged at White's truck stop on our way to D.C. At the time, Marc scornfully wanted to know what I needed them for: I reminded him of that as I tossed him two that night in Orkney. They had been in my backpack across the Atlantic and through Amsterdam, so they were VERY flat; but, boy, were they good.

4 o'clock in the morning and we were both wide awake with the thrill of the day. Our tour of Orkney started at 9, and breakfast was at 8. We drank the entire supply of coffee and tea left in our room and even tried a biscuit, but one of the towels turned out to have a better flavor.

Breakfast at a B & B always started the same way. No matter how hungry we were, the English tourists beat us to the dining room. Three plastic containers of cereal were always set on a sideboard and the English loved cereal. As far as I could tell, for we never tasted any, it looked like cheerios, cornflakes, and then something colored very brightly. We just waited for the real food. It was invariably bacon, eggs and fruit. We never figured out why you would need to start the meal with the cereal. It's like going to a $2 all-you-can-eat buffet, and ordering $4 worth.

We  went to Scotland in late March/early April for the prices, and because we couldn't wait until summer. But no amount of time in Roanoke prepared us for latitudes above Oslo, Norway in early Spring. And we were on an island. I had forgotten that the wind is perpetual on an island. England, Scotland, Orkney, Shetland: islands in the coldest sea below polar bear territory. The outdoor scenes in the Harry Potter movies were filmed in the Highlands. We were north of that. How the English went on to conquer India and Africa is beyond me...what a public relations job that must have been. Queen and Country wouldn't have begun to cover it.

So we had escaped losing life and limb to the North Sea to face a mild day of hail, snow, rain and sleet. We had this mixture everyday for at least five minutes, every four hours or so. Then, everything would magically clear and whatever we had come to see would unveil itself. It was, truly, magic.


Our fear that our tour was canceled due to the weather (it doesn't happen) was unfounded. Our guide was a very happy 55 year old about to marry a 26 year old Canadian who had taken his tour several years before. He said it made him 'peppy'. We were the only ones on the tour, except for an extremely quiet English woman who looked as if she had been born in the neolithic ruins of Skara Brae. Maybe it was the cereal.

The Scottish along this tourist route were very excited about seeing tourists so early in the season, especially this far north. Everyone we ran into either wanted to vacation in Florida or had vacationed in Florida, or was related to someone who, etc...

The first attraction was a site innocuously called Maes Howe. It was damp and we walked a half mile across a mud field to get to it. I'll save the suspense and relate we both came home with bronchitis and signs of exposure; but it was worth it. At Skara Brae, we walked straight into the village, which was built into a hill of discarded refuse, dirt and oyster shells. It was a bit like touring Hobbiton where all the Hobbits had stepped out for a cup of tea and would be right back.

By this time, the night's storm had past and the sky was sparkling and a brilliant turquoise. It seemed to be a characteristic color of Orkney. The ocean was the same color with lapis blue in the deeper areas. It looked just like the pictures of the Caribbean, only ten minutes up to your knees in this water would kill you. An impulse buy of wool sweaters at John a' Groats saved us. (The northernmost point of mainland Scotland.) American wool is short and itchy and works ok with cotton or silk underneath it. Of course, it requires the earth-harmful cleaning method of dry cleaning. Scottish wool is from long-haired sheep, soft as sable AND washable. It is waterproof as well. But don't stick it in the dryer. My sweater is now infant-sized because of a mistake.

We had lunch at the gift shop/museum while our guide entertained us with tales of his arch-rival who owned the competing tour bus. I wandered around in a daze all day...I was finally here. I couldn't hear anything the tour guide or Marc said. I didn't say anything that I remember. I think I babbled at the guide once, expressing my desire to stop somewhere. I know exactly how Harry Potter felt walking into Hogwarts for the first time. Occasionally, I would twirl around on my axis to get a 360 view and I felt as if I had been drinking champagne all morning. I saw my hand extend the credit card a couple of times and then it was over for the day.

We called home from the grocery store at a rate I estimated later would have made a sizable down payment on Princess Di's wedding gown.

Next: Skye

Against the Grain

The boy orphan cat, Minkins, came in last night and let me know that my service animal, Eddie, wasn't his only momma. They are such a comfort now that he is gone. And Ratface is leaving my chocolate alone, although Echo inadvertently overdrew my account yesterday. She doesn't like the new catfood I am playing with.

But, to continue from yesterday: Mark and I landed in Kirkwall, The Orkneys, Scotland, in one piece, full of caffeine and adrenaline and hungry as tigers. Only I knew the truth. The friendly family unloaded their car and walked us to our Bed and Breakfast at about 9 o'clock at night. As we were walking, Mark turned to our friend and asked, "Where can we get something to eat?" I said, "I haven't told him yet." Our friend said, "Breakfast is about 8 in the morning."


Most of small-town Europe is what Americans would consider 'strict' about their food. There are times that food is served and times where you, if you haven't eaten, are out of luck. The Scottish would never dream of ruining their country with an all-night McDonalds, for instance. Or an all-night anything, for that matter, except for a pub. And the pubs operate on the assumption that beer and ale is part of a food group. And I agree that kidney pie is not something I would want to slide down on top of a belly full of beer, anymore than I would want to wash a plate of chitlins down with some Tennessee whiskey. And that far north, vegetables aren't food, as such. If it ferments, it belongs in the ale.

Now, my brother prefers meat and chocolate, but he would gladly have eaten a cabbage sandwich at this time, if it had been available. The knowledge that no food of any kind was available was a stunner. And he isn't that crazy about beer or ale. He didn't know about mayo, mustard and ketchup, yet, either. I told him, evil one that I am, that biscuits would be in the room. Our Orkney friend laughed and waved good bye.

To the English, a biscuit is what an American would call a cracker or Melba bread. Not a saltine, but a sometimes noxious compendium of grains, dried and hardened, and best left to horses. Most taste like rye bread. After the invention of biscuits, the English decided there were better things to do with grain. Much better things.

In our room, we did indeed find the ubiquitous electric kettle, instant coffee, packets of tea and two small (thankfully) packets of biscuits.


 Tomorrow: What'll You Give Me ? Or the continuing foodie adventures in Scotland. 

Sturm and Drang

It's 80F here in Roanoke, VA and it snowed a bit in Scotland this morning. If wishes were fishes, we'd all cast nets.

I was attempting to have a meaningful relationship on the North Sea with a good cup of coffee, when I was interrupted by a storm. 36 hours out of Roanoke, and I couldn't smoke. Well, in my pursuit of these, I found out from the friendly fellow behind the bar that everyone else was below decks, ready to evacuate to the life rafts or to stabilize the ship further, or both.

We had a funny moment when I was screaming my name over the sound of the engines, the sea, and crashing cars in the hold, and he was trying to tell me what he was called. ("Stewart! Stewart!" "Steward! Steward!") He must have been really pissed I wouldn't go below and I was slightly less pissed at not getting my coffee. When I realized what he was trying to get me to do, I froze. There was no way I was letting go of MY rail, either.

Then the ship did a belly flop and the stabilizer disappeared. We slipped behind the protection of an island and all unpleasant motion ceased. When my brother, Mark, and the other passengers reappeared, the captain wanted to know why I was sitting at a table, staring at a coffee cup. The steward managed to stay out of trouble and my slight hearing loss from too many rock concerts in high school was explained. And I got my coffee. Free.

While below, Mark met a family from Orkney bringing their new dog home. The dog's name was Storm, and Naomi, the 10 year old, wanted nothing more to do with that dog. Another thing about the Scottish: they are so self-conscious about presenting their country as the greatest tourist destination in the world, they go overboard (no pun intended.) Every dog I saw in Scotland was groomed to the teeth. The people in the villages and rural areas owned Border Collies, and people in the City owned white Scottish Terriers. We saw no labs, German Shepherds, Irish Setters, Poodles, or any other type of dog  the entire 10 days we were there. All horses were native to Scotland or England. It was a bit of a mind-blower. 

On the other hand, the country is so geared toward tourism, that the Scottish will just about put you up in their own home to get you to stay. Which they did. We spent the entire time in Bed and Breakfast homes across the country. We could not have had a lovelier or cheaper time anywhere. We had to be careful not to make jokes like, "I'm so hungry, I could eat a bear!" while we were there. It was not taken as a joke.

The food: I like food. I like to eat, cook and admire food. I like it to be different. My brother Mark, on the other hand, would have eaten nothing but McDonald's if I would have let him.

Next in the series: How Not to Eat in Scotland

Douglas Adams Said

that there is a melancholy time in Sunday afternoons, between the hours of 2 o'clock and 4 o'clock that he called The Long, Dark Teatime of the Soul. I would follow that in America with the pre-prime Heart Attack Hours. More Americans die of heart attacks on Monday morning than any other time. Most of Sunday evening is spent contemplating Monday, back at work, and freaking about the kids' homework and the weekday schedule.

So here I am, sitting in this coffee house, listening to the Beatles' "Baby You Can Drive My Car" and watching twilight encroach on Botetourt County. There is that lemony color on the horizon that is caught perfectly in early Autumn.

What a timely place to placidly contemplate my destruction in an icy sea several years ago. My intro to the Scottish: they are all like my father. Same sense of humor, timing, money, everything. I always thought it was an El Paso, TX thing. It's not. It's Scottish.

So, here was this friendly man refusing to give me another Americano, or let me go outside to smoke. Not that I could have made it to the door; it was uphill at this time. And he wasn't refusing to help me. He felt keeping his hands on the rail in front of him was a smarter move. Here is the Dad think: the waiter said, "Do you see what I am standing in front of?" Yes, indeed, I had noticed and ignored the glass liquor bottles on the pretty shelves behind him. He said, "I can see letting my hands go for one of these, but for coffee? And if we make it, there will be a lot of people below decks who will be needing this more." Score one for his logic. Only another friend of Bill W. would have understood.

That made me another curiosity. He gave the foam-filled window another sidling, wild look and said, "If you don't need a drink after this, the first coffee is on me." I told you the Scottish were cheap. But, as I look back on it...what else did he have to offer at the time? I didn't drink booze and maybe he was married; or in a hurry to get back to Norway. And he was going to be plenty busy if we lived.


I asked him his name, which I will protect in case I get to go back to Orkney and he asked me mine. I just loved telling the Scottish my name was Stewart. Since most Americans associate the name with Mary, Queen of Scots, the queen of bad luck in her struggle with Queen Elizabeth I, Mark and I thought the name would be funny to the Scottish. Look. Stewarts touring Scotland. Ha ha. Which is as funny to the Scottish as telling them a joke that has to be followed by the words, "Get it?" or nervously saying, "Ha ha" afterword.

Most of the money trickling into Scotland, despite their lovely country and hard efforts to keep it a clean and sustainable resource, is from tourists from the States looking into their Scottish ancestry. Nothing can be more boring to the Scottish.


Tomorrow: How to Entertain the Scottish

Stick Your Face Out the Window

The Cats have noticed that Eddie is gone and are taking advantage of unsupervised time at home. What a shocker. At least they changed the sheets this morning. They like sleeping in the sunspot in the afternoons and rolling around.

Here comes the time of year I love best. My brother and I were cruising Scotland in late March of 2005. Orkney, near the Arctic Circle to be exact. Higher in latitude than Oslo, Norway. Yeah. In late March.
We had gotten there the night before in a very large, modern ferry (Norwegian) through one of the worst storms seen in the North Sea that year. Norwegian ships built for storms have 'stabilizers' to control the ship in the choppy North Sea. They look like the blades on an Hawaiian outrigger...you know; those thingys off the side to keep the ship from capsizing.

I only know what they look like because I didn't hear the general announcement and panicked screams in the lounge. I was smoking outside. A native of Orkney was standing there with me smoking, and getting some air (it takes talent to do both simultaneously) when this raucous, BLAWWWWW went off in our ears and the deck heaved. I thought Moby Dick had us.

He casually turned to me and said, "We're sinking. You'd better get inside."

It's not that I couldn't hear him, which I couldn't. We were standing in the gentle, warm draft venting from the ferry's enormous engines. If I stepped out of that zone, my face was whipped with sleet and driving rain. I kept having to clear the ice forming on my glasses, thanking God for the 'sports protection' layer I had so thoughtfully ordered the year before.  I will admit, I was thinking more of my horseback riding 'skills' than anything else then.  


It was simply that the words, "We are sinking." activated a part of my brain that has rarely been tapped. At first, I thought he was speaking Norwegian. But he had plainly been speaking English the moment before. Then he shouted, "Are you daft?" Then, he screamed it. I ran away from the maniac and shot through the door of the lounge to get away from the nut and noticed that I was on the ship alone, except for my pursuer.

who ran past me like the speed of light and disappeared further into the ship. No, wait. There was one guy behind the bar, holding onto it while the ship tilted, swayed and jolted like like we were coming into LAX on a 767 during a monsoon. The engines were so loud, I thought I was on the 50 yard line at Daytona, or wherever. You get the point.

He was the guy who had been feeding Marc and I 'Americanos' since we hit the ship. (Black, decent coffee. Scotland is very, very, very far from South America and the Scottish are cheap.) So I walked up to the bar and held out my cup hopefully, "Americano, please?"

It was hard to hear his response over some crashing, and I looked behind me and  video games were on the floor, you know the big ones the size of old pinball machines? I couldn't see how that was possible, as they appear to have been chained to the wall, but I wasn't taking much in at the moment. We had had a hell of a journey across the Atlantic to get to that point; I just wanted coffee and cigarettes. Then, I noticed that the expensive jewelry shop next to the gaming room was missing some displays and windows.

Anyway, the guy kept shaking his head 'No' and I kept insisting and pointing to the coffee machine. Apparently he was curious about me. He sidled around to where I was holding onto the bar and shouted friendly-like at me, "Did you grow up on the ocean?"

and pointed toward the window. That's when I caught a glimpse of a stabilizer. I really couldn't tell the difference between it and and deck and the storm surges at this point. I can just say I have seen one. He moved closer and I thought he was flirting with a tourist, and remarked, casually, as if I was to keep it secret, "If we go down in this water, we'll die as soon as we hit, with the temperature being what it is."

Tomorrow: my introduction to the Scottish.

The Art of Letting Go

I have to let go of my worries today...for most things, it's a melancholic grief that passes in time. On the other hand, there is the State Attorney General and the Governor. What a shock to realize my tax dollars are being used to investigate where and what a grant was used for at the University of Virginia. All that nice money whooshing down in the circular motion we all know (except for those taxpayers in Virginia who still don't have indoor plumbing. Yes, it's true. No toilets, no running water in the home.)

The Washington Post said, "The attorney general's logic is so tenuous as to leave only one plausible explanation: that he is on a fishing expedition designed to intimidate and suppress honest research and the free exchange of ideas upon which science and academia both depend -- all because he does not like what science says about climate change." (Wednesday, Oct. 6, 2010) 

Pell Grants are almost non-existent. The 'dumbing down' of America started long ago; and Cuccinelli thinks there is enough money to investigate something that two noted Universities (Virginia and Pennsylvania) and all the countries that signed the Kyoto Accord think is a legitimate study; i.e.Most sentient beings on the planet, except the U.S. The object of the study is not important: the fact that he seems to have nothing better to do, and nothing better to do with my money, is.

But maybe he is taking a page from his boss, Governor McConnell, who thinks losing a major source of revenue for the State of Virginia is a good idea. Not that I think selling booze is a great idea in the first place. However, we all know Prohibition didn't work. But I have visited states where the sale of booze has been privatized: you can buy half gallons of Jim Beam in the grocery store along with your Wheaties and toothbrushes.

I like Canada's idea...put ALL alcohol products in ABC stores (beer, wine, booze) and none in the grocery stores. Same with cigarettes. Booze and cigarette manufacturers spend billions on pretty colors and advertising. I am not saying they target children (they assure us they don't. Why would they lie?) but by the time your kids turn 16, 18 and 21, they can find the Coors, Bud and Marlboro supplies by themselves in the dark. And someone to buy it for them, no matter their age. That's why we couldn't buy beer in Canada on a band trip...

But that would put a crimp in the Governor's retirement plans. He NEEDS that money! The problem is: I DO TOO! Donate mine to the schools so Ellen can stop buying pencils and notebooks for her classes.

I hope this blog has been helpful. Our closest printed information source is in D.C., Roanoke!

It's a good thing sometimes, that everything I let go of has claw marks in it.

"There Is Only One of You In All of Time"*

This is for my service animal, Eddie. He headed to his winter pastures on September 15, 2010. He had a good long life surrounded by a world that was, for him, filled with miracles. He is running in a place where it is always spring or fall. The wind is moving swiftly through the grasses and he is following the herd. Every once in a while, he and Cheyenne stop and roll in the cow patties, or eat some horse manure. Boogie can run circles around them, despite her size. Until Marc and I begin to dream and we call them to come home for a while and rest at our feet.

I am grateful today that I can sit in this coffee house and let the tears go. I carry his chip around with me and he seems always to be in the back seat, with his nose sticking out of the window.

But now that he is a Spirit Dog, he can be everywhere at once.

Who could be luckier than me?

*Martha Graham