Trumped Up: The Donald vs. Scottish Turbines

"Discontent makes rich men poor."  

(Benjamin Franklin)

I don't usually take sides in local political issues in Scotland. As a foreigner I feel it's my duty to listen and learn. But as this hullabaloo centers around a man whom I grudgingly call a fellow countryman, I feel the need to speak up.

Donald Trump is developing a new golf course. He is apparently unaware of the fact that Golf was invented in Scotland and the best courses in the world are already here. But that's just my opinion. Here's the rub: He says that the government has no right to build green energy wind turbines which are planned to be installed miles offshore from his golf course because they will spoil the sea view.

I have several problems with his ludicrous argument. Firstly, the turbines are going into the sea, miles away from his view for rich people. Second, despite his innumerable wealth, Donald does not actually own the sea (or, in fact, the government or the Aberdonian voters). The government can build whatever the voters like in the sea off Scotland's shores. Third, and I feel this is slightly obvious, wind turbines are not ugly and, in my humble opinion, are nice to look at in their own right. Not that it matters, since they're going MILES off shore into the sea . .  but I repeat myself.

In addition to buying giant newspaper ads trying to convince local Aberdonians that wind turbines are evil, The Donald had just written a letter to the Scottish government arguing that wind turbines will foil Scotland's chances of independence from the UK. This brings me to my fourth, and soapyest-box of points: Mr. Trump, you have absolutely no business meddling in Scottish politics. The Scottish people are fully capable of deciding their own future in regard to golf, independence and green energy without any help from your PR minions. You cannot simply tell the government of Scotland "You're Fired!" You can't even vote them out because you're not a Scottish citizen . . . unless you want us to question your birth certificate too.

Scottish Food: From the Braw Bangers to the Bellywashers

(Braw = good, Bangers = sausages, Bellywasher = pint of beer)

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.

-Robert Burns, Address to Haggis

Ah, Scottish food. Where to begin? It is the subject of so many myths that perhaps it is best to first lay a couple of those to rest.

Myth 1: Scottish food is the same as English food (i.e. terrible). Now that’s just untrue and unfair. Scotland has historical ties to France and therefore the Scottish people have long been exposed to fine sauces and lovingly prepared roasted meats. That they completely missed the French cooking lesson on green vegetables is the fault of the climate. While pub grub in Scotland shares many a dish with pub grub in England, Scottish cuisine has its own unique style. Perhaps most importantly, Scotland has top notch seafood and beef to rival the best the in the world!

Myth 2: It’s all haggis all the time. I don’t know anyone here who eats haggis on a regular basis. Apart from Burns Night (the birthday celebration of Scottish poet Robert Burns, which includes haggis, neeps [mashed turnips], tatties [potatoes], a lot of Scots verse and an energetic albeit drunken chorus of “Auld Lang Syne”), I have never once seen a Scottish person eating haggis. Haggis is comprised of unsavory bits of meat spiced in such a way as to conceal their origins. This traditional poor-food sustained the penny-pinching, poverty-ridden Scots through the centuries. But just like chitlins and liver in America, prosperity brought with it better tasting foods that are now the norm. Is haggis easy to find? Sure, tourists eat it all the time. You can even buy it canned at the supermarket (gross!). However, you’ll find it about as common as Rocky Mountain Oysters in the American west. Does everyone know where to find it? Sure. Does everyone eat it? No way . . . unless it’s stuffed inside a chicken breast, as in dish called “Balmoral Chicken”.

Below are some lists of my favorites, least favorites, and local treats only to be trusted at quality establishments. If you find yourself venturing to Scotland any time soon, I encourage you try some of the good stuff!

The Good Stuff: Scotland Does Lots of Food Very Well

Fish – salmon and haddock. These are locally sourced and the best I’ve ever had. Salmon in America is flown in from Alaska or (surprise, surprise) Scotland. Before I moved here I didn’t know what salmon (or lovely, white haddock, for that matter) was supposed to taste like. I was missing out!

Summer Berries - I did not know the taste of Heaven until I tried a Scottish summer strawberry. And blueberries, blackberries, and raspberries - oh my! I like these with a little cream cheese on top of a toasted crumpet. To die for.

Baked goods:

Scotch Pies – These can contain meat, veggies and even pasta. Thain’s bakery in Aberdeen is famous for the best pies in the city. My favorite is the lasagne pie (strange, I know, but good). It’s full of macaroni, meaty red sauce and cheese. Delish! The macaroni pies (full of macaroni and cheese) are also quite nice. While many Americans find carb-on-carb a little strange, pies make very handy fast food when you’re on the go.

Pastries, scones and butteries – They just love baked goods in this country. Fresh scones with butter and jam are very popular. One local favorite is a flat scone made with more butter than you want to know about called an Aberdeen buttery. I prefer regular scones, but both are very tasty.

Cheese – Scottish cheddar, particularly from Orkney and Shetland, is to die for. Yes please!

Macaroni and Cheese – Imagine the best mac & cheese you’ve ever had in America. Now try to imagine it with the best cheddar you’ve ever tasted instead of Kraft flavorless orange shreds. Mac & cheese is very popular here and considered a proper dish at pubs and cafes. It’s a great choice for vegetarians and carnivores alike.

Roast beef, chicken and pork – The Scots, like the English, love a proper Sunday roast, sometimes called a carvery. roasted chicken, beef or pork is often accompanied by stuffing and roasted potatoes, carrots, parsnips and Brussels sprouts. It’s like Thanksgiving every Sunday!

Sausages - As a Texan, the only sausages I’ve really been exposed to are Louis Rich summer sausage and Jimmy Dean. The Scots eat more sausages (sometimes called “bangers”) in more flavor varieties than you could ever imagine. Last weekend at the farmers market a local butcher was selling sausage flavored with Iron Bru, a popular Scottish soda (see my “avoid” list). We bought pork & apple and beef & tomato and had a dinner of bangers and mash (mashed potatoes). Both were excellent. I think Paul could eat sausages for dinner every day for a month.

Steak – Aberdeen Angus beef is popular even in America. The Angus cows are plentiful in the Scottish countryside and make for one tasty steak. But don’t ask for any A-1.

Oats – Like oatmeal? The Scots invented it! Porridge, as they call it, is lovely here and oats also feature in baked goods like the popular oat cakes eaten with cheese and deserts like cranachan, a sort of oat parfait with ice cream and fruit. Granola is called “oat crunchy” here and is very good, especially with honey and yogurt.

Whiskey and Beer – Do I even need to explain these? Whiskey, called “uisge beatha” (the water of life) in Scots Gaelic, is plentiful, with well over 100 distilleries in this small country. I suggest trying it, even if you don’t think you’ll like it. A little water helps me appreciate it a lot more. Popular beers made in Scotland include Belhaven, McEwan’s and Brew Dog. Brew Dog is currently the favorite of young hipsters in northern Scotland, as it is made in Inverness.

Foods which are safer in nice restaurants:

Cullen skink – a creamy haddock soup similar to chowder. This recipe is named for the town of Cullen on the north coast of Aberdeenshire and it's done really well in good restaurants.

Stovies – an Aberdeen specialty, this is a meat and vegetable mash. Imagine you took all your leftover roast meat and veggies after Sunday dinner and made it into a paste, then pluralized the name for no good reason. If the original ingredients that went into the stovies were good, so too will be the stovies. If you’re at a chippie or a dodgy pie shop, don’t bother.

Black pudding – I only recommend trying this blood pudding when prepared by a chef and nicely spiced. It can be tasty or terrible. It’s all about where you have it.

Haggis – never eat this in a touristy place.  As with black pudding, only trust a good chef! It tastes even better when kilted men are present.

Foods to Avoid

Vegetables at pubs – if it’s colorful then it’s frozen and flavorless. You’re better off sticking with potatoes at pubs and enjoying quality veggies at a nicer restaurant or cafe.

Scotch eggs – Some people love scotch eggs, which are boiled eggs wrapped in limp bacon and greasy breading. I think they’re gross.

White pudding – If you’ve heard of black pudding (made from blood), perhaps you can imagine what goes into white pudding. It’s made from marrow and fat leftover after butchering meat. No thank you.

Kebab/Chinese/Curry/Burger/Pizza Takeaway Shops & “Chippies” – These are ubiquitous. If 5 international cuisines served in one dingy storefront doesn’t trigger red flags for you, check out the grease leftover at the bottom of your takeout container. There are genuine, lovely restaurants where you can get gyros, shwarma, fried rice, curries, hamburgers pizzas and fish & chips, but never all in the same building. When I want takeaway here I get it from a proper restaurant. Drive thrus are not common in here. I can only think of two in Aberdeen – McDonalds and Burger King, both of which I avoid even in America.

“Bar-be-que,” and “Tex-Mex” – Both these cuisines (often confused with each other and with Cajun) are popular here and there are British chain restaurants selling foods that claim to be American BBQ or authentic Tex-Mex. Take it from this Texan: Run for your life! That is unless you enjoy Cajun-spiced duck burritos with sugary salsa. My general rule (one I copied from Anthony Bourdain) is to stick with the local specialties wherever you are. There are plenty of good things to eat in Scotland, and when I’m homesick for BBQ or Tex-Mex, I make it myself.

Iron Bru – A Scottish soft drink banned in the USA for it’s harmful chemical ingredients. It tastes like Mountain Dew with fat added and looks like orange toxic waste.

Scottish cuisine has a lot to offer and I suggest you get yourself a plane ticket and come check it out!

To Be An Immigrant

To be an immigrant is to be alone

because no single person in your divided world

can know every part of you.

To be an immigrant is to work

twice as hard without the benefit

of “native” understanding.

To be an immigrant is to have your heart broken

over and over again as those you love

spread far apart beyond your reach.

To be an immigrant is to misunderstand

often, and yet understand

what no one else does.

To be an immigrant is to know secrets

that cannot be translated

but must be experienced.

To be an immigrant is to suffer,

and struggle,

and grow.

Lately I have been experiencing frequent cultural hiccups that make up the immigrant’s learning curve. I accepted a job, only to find out that I cannot start work until I receive a National Insurance number (similar to a Social Security number in the USA). I waited in line at the post office to mail a letter that was in a prepaid envelope. (How was I supposed to know? It didn’t say, “postage paid?”) I got terribly lost in a familiar street and gave up looking for the destination, only to discover later that I was next door to it when I gave up looking. These are the daily trials of living in a foreign country. I keep remembering a particular nugget of wisdom from “Eat Pray Love” when an Italian tutor said to Elizabeth Gilbert “You should be very polite with yourself when learning something new.” It’s difficult for me to have that patience. I’ve always been an A student who prided myself on getting things right the first time. But as an immigrant I am bound to get some things wrong because there is a wide range of cultural knowledge one can only learn from experience. And so the girl who hates to get things wrong must do just that and do it with patience for herself. Oh, the irony! I’m very grateful for Paul’s love and support. When I make a cultural mistake and do not want to forgive myself, he offers me the patience and understanding I need. I have gained a profound respect for immigrants around the world who cross language, bureaucratic and cultural boundaries to experience a bigger world. My ancestors left Scotland knowing they would never see home again. Luckily, travel and the Internet make it possible for me to visit the people I love, near and far. Nobody appreciates Skype more than an immigrant!

Song of the Day: "With a Wonder and a Wild Desire" by Irish American band Flogging Molly

The Best Christmas Carols You've Never Heard

Heap on more wood!--the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We'll keep our Christmas merry still.

(Sir Walter Scott, Marmion)

Some might call me a Christmas music snob. I consider myself a devout purist. Years ago I set aside Frosty and Rudolph in favor of holiday tunes of an ancient variety embraced by our ancestors. Christmas revelers in 16th century Europe sang a mixture of religious and pagan hymns at Yule tide, none of which included “Do They Know It’s Christmastime at All?” or any references to Comet, Cupid, Donder or Blitzen.

Before you call me a humbug, let me say that I absolutely love Christmas music. It’s just that the music that warms me most at Christmas time is that of the oldest carols. These songs roll back the centuries and connect us to our ancestors, who huddled around fires and roasted the last fatted pig to get themselves through the winter. And so in the spirit of merriment I present to you the best Christmas carols you’ve never heard. So give yourself a break from Justin Bieber’s rendition of “Let it Snow” and indulge your ears with these ancient melodies. I made all of these youtube videos myself so it’s safe to click on them. Merry Christmas!

Célébrons la Naissance, 16th century French carol

Rosa Minstrels

Riu Riu, 16th century Catalan (Spanish) hymn

Anuna, Celtic Origins

Il Est Ne, Le Divin Enfant, 17th century French carol

(Sometimes heard in English as “He is born, the holy child”)

Diane Taraz, Hope! Says the Holly

Gaudete, 16th century Latin carol, believed to have originated in Scandinavia

The Boar’s Head Carol, 15th century English

(This one was in my mother’s piano book but I’ve never heard it played in the USA)

The Cheiftans, Bells of Dublin

Texas in my Rearview Mirror

The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.

-Maya Angelou

For the greater part of my life, I have had a troubled relationship with my homeland. My Scottish DNA never adapted to the Texas heat. I melt like an ice cube in Hades and sunburn quicker than you can say, “Pass the Coppertone.” The allergens, bugs and politics irritate the sanity right out of me. I spent years dreaming about living somewhere else – somewhere cold, free of bugs and of self-righteous hatred for those who are different. You know what they say: Be careful what you wish for or you just might get it. Now I’m living in Scotland, my dream destination. It’s plenty cold and I’m not allergic to everything that grows. I get to enjoy learning a different cultural style and trying out new foods, new hobbies and new ways of thinking. I feel connected to my ancient foremothers and forefathers who were forced to quit this verdant land under genocidal circumstances. In some small way, my being here reverses their forced emigration.

And yet, I miss Texas. I find myself becoming an enthusiastic connoisseur of bar-be-que and tacos, foods I never cared much about before. I get excited when I see Texas on the news. I’m regularly tempted to drop Spanish words into conversation, which are never understood here. (If the Scots think Mexican food includes fried chicken with bbq sauce in a “fuh-jie-tuh” then they certainly don’t stand a chance of understanding my frequent use of “no me gusta.”) On my recent visit with my family, I found myself appreciating the Texas sun, wide open spaces and even occasionally country music (quite a shock as I’ve always hated it). My English friend, Jan, once said to me that when you’re back in the place where you grew up as a child, you can relax into a state of being that needs no translation. I think it takes living away from one’s hometown to understand the bliss that can come from a visit to the place where one has universal understanding, and one’s cultural translation muscles are allowed to atrophy.

I don’t have a desire to live in Texas again, especially considering that the very air closes up my lungs and sends me straight to the allergist. But living away helps me love and appreciate my home state as I never have before. I have become the Texas Ambassador to Scotland, enthusiastically importing Stubb’s bbq sauce for all who are deemed worthy of its glory, telling everyone who asks that yes, Texas really IS that big; It’s bigger than France! I find myself far more proud of my state when abroad than I ever was at home, despite Rick Perry’s frequent attempts to make me hide my face in shame. In the immortal words of Mac Davis, “I thought happiness was Texas in my rear view mirror . . . but now happiness is Texas gettin’ nearer and dearer.”

Photo: Paul and me goofing off in cowboy hats.

Song of the day: Texas in my Rear-view Mirror by Mac Davis

Academic Ancestry

I’ve discovered family ties to two famous Brits and I couldn’t be more proud!

Eight years ago I lost one of my dearest friends to Lyme’s disease. His death hit me hard and I felt as if a part of my own being had been severed, leaving an angry wound and a soul-deep longing for my beloved friend. Then I found a piece of prose written by Henry Scott Holland that gave me more comfort than any other words have ever done. It’s an excerpt from a sermon that has become one of the most famous writings about loss. It’s called “Death is Nothing at All.”

Death is nothing at all.

It does not count.

I have only slipped away into the next room.

Nothing has happened.

Everything remains exactly as it was.

I am I, and you are you,

and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.

Whatever we were to each other,

that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name.

Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.

Put no difference into your tone.

Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed

at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.

Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.

Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.

Let it be spoken without an effort,

without the ghost of a shadow upon it.

Life means all that it ever meant.

It is the same as it ever was.

There is absolute and unbroken continuity.

What is this death but a negligible accident?

Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?

I am but waiting for you, for an interval,

somewhere very near, just round the corner.

All is well.

Today I discovered that those words, which have meant so much to me over the years., were penned by a relative. Henry Scott Holland is a distant cousin. He wrote speech as part of a sermon during his tenure as Canon for St. Paul’s Cathedral in London. I have visited St. Paul’s many times and always find peace there, wrapping the stillness of the building and the voices of the choir around myself like a thick blanket. One of my ancestors, Salvator Muscoe, cut the stones for St. Paul’s, so perhaps it is not such a mystery that I find the place so meaningful when family connections abound.

I’ve spent the summer labouring over my Masters dissertation, and during the stolen hours when I’ve found time for “fun” research (genealogy), I have discovered another well known academic in the family tree. My ancestor Philemon Holland was a well-known Elizabethan scholar. He translated the classics into English during the century when the English middle-class was learning to read for the first time. Thanks to Philemon, we have the works of Erasmus, Suetonius, and Plutarch preserved in English. His books are still available on Amazon to this day. As I’m struggling for academic achievement, I’m proud to know I come from a family of scholars, especially one like Philemon who used his talents for the public good. Now back to the books! I’ve got to make Grandpa Holland (and cousin Holland) proud!

Going Native

I think it's happening . . . I'm starting to go native. It became noticeable when my word choices changed. I've started saying "boot" instead of "trunk" and "shop" instead of "store." Those are the most noticeable but there are smaller changes in phrasing that I've noticed too. I've started saying "just now" instead of "right now." I used to consciously change words when speaking to my British friends in order to be best understood. Now I find myself having to consciously choose to say "parking lot" to my mom instead of "car park." But perhaps the biggest shock came today, when I unconsciously thought (not spoke - thought) the word "hoose" instead of "house." That's the first time local Scots slang has ever appeared in my head. I'll be saying "fit ye doin?" next. No wonder I've always been a quick study at foreign languages. I'm a linguistic chameleon.

Next month I'll be making a long trip to Texas, and even though I'm really chuffed (excited), I've been thinking of what I'll miss in Scotland. Besides missing my Paul, I will miss the sea, the rain, the emerald green of grass that only occurs in rainy climates. I'll miss crumpets and cool weather and buildings that are beautiful old buildings.

America holds most of the people I love and has a tremendous piece of my heart. But Scotland has also become my home. I'm a cultural wanderer, at home everywhere and nowhere because no matter where I am, part of my heart (not to mention my vocabulary) is somewhere else. This divided heart is the immigrant's curse. So many Americans are the product of the courage of immigrants from all over the world. They broke their own hearts, severed forever ties to their homes and families at a time when there were no blogs. They made a dangerous and expensive crossing to a place they'd never been in hope of making something new. And here we are, children of their courage. Every time I'm homesick I gain a little more respect for my ancestors' sacrifice.

I'm slowly learning how to make home portable, to take it along wherever I go. When I met Paul I knew I was at home. I think I have become a citizen of the world. Luckily, my world has planes, telephones and blogs. I miss all of you in America and hope to see you soon! And I will miss all of you in Scotland while I'm there.

Song of the Day: Isle of Hope, Isle of Tears by Sean Keane. It's about the first immigrant who passed through Ellis Island. She was an Irish immigrant named Annie Moore and she never saw Ireland again. She took home with her to America.

Photos: My parents and me at Glenbuchat Castle, My Dad, Paul and me at Kildrummy Castle.