Eight is More Than Enough

Yesterday, a litter of eight was born to a Southern Californian couple, the latest and most extreme example of collect-em-all American fecundity.  The media, typically, has swarmed on the story of these octuplets; culturally, we have an odd habit of raising these multi-birth families up as some sort of heroes.  We give them shows on cable, we ooh and ahh and sympathize with the parents and make jokes about diapers, but generally we love these natal freakshows (here in America, we adore a good freakshow).  Few people seem to look at the situation critically, and those who do are often derided as unwholesome, uncaring, or anti-family.  It's a good thing then, that I have no qualms about being an unwholesome, uncaring, anti-family asshole, because I have a few serious problems with a society in love with quints, quarts, septs, or whatever else these kids are called.

There are over six and a half billion human beings on earth, with Americans, at last count, being the most conspicuous and voracious consumers of natural resources.  Every American uses the equivalent resources of between ten and twenty third worlders.  So eight new Americans is the equivalent of between eighty and one hundred and sixty humans, slowly but inexorably gnawing the world to pieces.  Think that analogy is tenuous at best?  Then you simply haven't been paying attention to the facts.  the human population is grossly overburdening the planet.  We live like we do today, Americans in particular, by mortgaging out future: our habits are completely unsustainable.  Global warming, species extinction, mass starvation, water shortages, genocide; all spring from the bottom line problem that there are too many of us.  The conflict in Darfur?  Too many people, not enough water or land.  The 'war' in Gaza?  Too many people, not enough land (or compassion).  The ridiculous pollution levels of China?  Too many people, not enough readily available clean energy or transportation.  The baseline problems are all unified by this one ineluctable truth, that there are too many Homo sapiens living on earth, and the situation is growing exponentially worse.  Of course, scientists and theorists who identify this issue and try to approach it constructively are treated like the fat kids at the dance...no one wants any part of that mess.

The western world seemed to give a collective shudder years ago when China implemented its one child policy; it was almost anathema to our democratic, Judeo-christian sensibilities.  I never thought I'd hear myself saying this, but China was absolutely right.  If people the world over limited themselves to one offspring, our population would be in remission in a few generations.  Even two children per couple is a zero sum game, two producing two.  I'm not saying that the urge to keep breeding isn't a biological imperative, but shouldn't we start counting ourselves as more than the sum of our instincts?  The post industrial world in particular has no need of large families anymore, parents don't require a steady stream of cheap farm labor like they did once upon a time.

And children aren't a consequence any longer, either.  With the advent of modern contraception, people can have their cake, and have sex with it too.  So we have a ready made solution available for over population, should we accept it.  Which, of course, we don't.  Even here in America, Obama just rescinded a part of his stimulus package that funded the distribution of contraceptives to low income individuals, because of conservative objections(boy, those republicans must really love having more wellfare kids running around, huh?). But Sub-Saharan Africa is really the  prime example of a region in dire, dire need of readily available birth control, both to stem the spread of AIDS, and limit the famine and conflict arising in areas of scant resources.  More than anything else, education is required; people need to understand what's at stake, and people need to be more intelligent about their own reproduction rights.  Of course there is the traditional enemy of intelligent thought to contend with: religion.  But that's another can of worms for another day...

So you can begin to see why, when a family has eight children, at one go, in America no less, I shudder.  This is not heroic, it's borderline criminal.  The situation in clearly the result of fertility drugs; humans are not built to carry or birth eight young under ordinary circumstances.  Now, ignoring for the moment the money spent by the researchers and the couple themselves, I'm not unsympathetic to the parental urge.  But what about adoption?  What about doing some good for some poor child?  For that matter, what about the well being of the octuplets themselves?  Though these kids all survived birth and are stable thus far, the odds were not with them.  As I said, humans are not supposed to have eight children at a time, it's an unhealthy and unsafe prospect.  Why are these not called to task for endangering their progeny?  We frown upon mothers who smoke or drink during pregnancy, why not on those who 'try' to bring unsafe numbers of fetuses to term?  It's an ugly question, on an ugly topic, but it's not going away any time soon.

I don't reserve all my vitriol for the octuplets, clearly; they aren't symptomatic of the greater issues of overpopulation, just a small tip of the iceberg.  Talking about the issues of reproduction are touchy, and we have an innate, sentimental, and evolutionary attachment to the miracle of birth.  But sometimes, we need to look at the bigger picture.  And we need to make difficult choices.  For my part, I've started with the issue of these octuplets, and I think I have a solution.  I call it 'baby Thunderdome': eight tots, one playpen, one bottle of formula, one prison-grade shiv.  Darwin handles the rest.

The River Cottage Cookbook

One of the highlights of the Christmas season this year was receiving a copy of Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's River Cottage Cookbook.  The book, for the unfamiliar, is a weighty tome, part cookbook, part how-to, part memoir, detailing the practices and eating habits of an ex-top London chef's life in the English countryside.  It's an exceptional book.  Though I've not yet attempted a single recipe, I've been pretty enthralled by the book so far.  Actually, the recipes are the least interesting aspect of the volume for me; it's the rest of the book, the true meat of it, that has proved the most captivating.

More than a cookbook, River Cottage really excels as a homage to and instruction manual for home agriculture.  The book is divvied up into quarters: gardening, livestock, fish, and hedgerow (what us yanks might call a hunting and gathering section).  Each chapter begins with a lengthy preamble about the pleasures and requirements of  gardening, raising, slaughtering, catching, canning, pickling, and serving your own food.  This book has reached out to a deep and primal place in my soul, the loam-brown farmer's heart within me; I want my own pigs, I want my own bacon.  

It's been a long standing fascination of mine,  though one mostly unarticulated.  But ever since reading The Omnivore's Dilemma, I've been more and more consumed with the local food movement.  I was thrilled this summer, in Oxford, to live across from a cover market, replete with fruit sellers, fish mongers, and butchers, all offering fare from the surrounding countryside. 

 

It's a model we don't seem to have anymore in America, and one I feel is sorely lacking.  Fearnley-Whittingstall's book takes the movement one step further, placing the production line squarely between the backyard and the kitchen.  It's gotten me excited.  I'm already a proponent and consumer of game, and though I'm not quite prepared to run out and get my own flock of spring lambs, a modest garden is a good start.  Perhaps with a basket full of my own produce in front of me, with a venison tenderloin waiting in marinade, I'll be ready to tackle those recipes. 

Out of Africa (and into the White House)

Today marks the first full day of command for our new President, Barack Obama: Hail to the Chief! Mr. Obama's election has been lauded by many the world over as a triumph of intellectualism over ignorance, of decency over dogma, and of multiculturalism over the antiquated face of homogenized America.  For, you see, Barack Obama happens to be America's first black President.  He just also happens to be our 44th African-American President.  Let me explain...

6 million years ago Orrorin tugenensis roamed the tropical woodlands of eastern Africa.  Tugenensis was a bipedal ape, and, putatively, the first hominid: your ancestor, mine, and Mr. Obama's.  From the humble origins of this chimp-like, quasi-arboreal primate, a whole line of world conquering apes descended.  Austrolopithicus afarensis, Homo habilis, Homo ergaster, Homo erectus, Homo neanderthalensis, Homo sapien; though the progression was not a linear one, the lineage is undeniable.  Homo sapien, the world-spanning super-adapter, has strong roots on the dark continent, a fact reinforced not only by fossil records, but by genealogical analysis as well.  From Africa, our ancestors (possibly ergastor, possibly later species) began their great diaspora, first to the Middle East and the Indian Subcontinent, then into Southeast Asia, and up into the Medditeranian.  From there, hominids spread into Northern Europe, China, Siberia, and the Russian interior, swaddled in skins, with the grease of mammoth, reindeer, and rhino ribs on their lips.  They launched primitive watercraft out into Oceana, and farther into the Pacific.  In the grip of global ice age, men crossed the Bering Sea into the Americas, following the coast south, trailing game into the wilderness of the virgin continents.  Finally, Europeans sailed west to North America (as well as across the rest of the globe) in what would amount to the last and most vicious phase of humanity's global dispersion.  So what does it all mean?

Well, ultimately it all comes down to semantics.  If I, as a citizen of the United States of America, believe the 'out of Africa' theory of human evolution, and I quite clearly do, then I can indirectly trace my own ancestry back to Africa.  Ergo, African-American.  My vintage may be somewhat more venerable than that of a Guinean or Nigerian immigrant, but what's a few hundred thousand years, more or less?  I may be as white as a sheet, pasty even (due to a multi -millennial over-stop in Ireland and Lithuania) but genetically, I am nearly identical to my Nubian brothers.  Sure, the melanin in my skin may have kicked it down a notch, and my stomach has adapted to process lactose a little better (thankyouthankyouthankyou), but really, I'm separated from my African forebears only by superficial differences.  At the end of the day, even the concept of race is being eroded by new research into our shared human genome.  Black, white, asian: we're all African under the skin, be it African-American, African-Irish-American, African-French-Hatian-American, or any one of the multitude of combinations that contribute to our national diversity.

I don't delve into this subject to be glib.  And I certainly don't seek to diminish President Obama's victory; the history of blacks in America is long and sordid, and Obama's success represents a very real triumph over years of inequality and segregation.  If anything, I bring up this topic because now is the perfect time to start addressing racial issues at their deepest and most basic level, now when the dialogue can be so immediate and open.  Obama may be our first black President, physically, culturally, but he's not our first African-American leader, just the first openly, obviously so.  In truth, he's African-American, I'm African-American, and if you're reading this as a US citizen, you're African-American.  We're all parts of the same chain of humanity, separated only by visible, largely arbitrary divisions, linked by so much more.  We're all genetic, anthropological brothers and sisters, and the pride of Obama's Presidency shouldn't be the pride of one race, one culture, or one creed, but the pride of all men and women for their fellow man.  So come on with me now: say it loud, say it proud, I'm African-American and I'm proud!

A Change is Gonna Come

We stand today on the brink of a long awaited and sorely needed new dawn for America.  It's difficult to be cynical on such a day; it's difficult even to revel in the schadenfreude of an outgoing presidency and a newly-irrelevant political party.  On a day like today, the scales fall from the eyes of even one as jaded as myself, and for a brief moment, the raw possibility of the moment is electric.  Never have we, as a nation, needed such a moment so badly.  Never have we been so fallen, and not since the Civil War have we been so divided, one from another.  Today sees us pulled up from the nadir of our course as a people, and to pass the word 'hope' about is neither hyperbole nor triteness.  Hope is a palpable thing today.  Hope for an end to our foreign wars.  Hope for the end of torture.  Hope for health care for every citizen.  Hope for a new era of equality.  Hope for a green future.  Hope for a change in trajectory and an escape from the last eight years, years of ignorance, fear, and the gradual slide towards tyranny.  Today, then, is a very important, a very hopeful, day indeed.

For the last few months, I've been less concerned with the inaugeration of Barack Obama than with the departure of G. W. Bush.  The man, and by extension his administration, has represented everything wrong with modern America: the willful ignorance, the arrogance, the divisiveness, the sheer, unfathomable greed.  Bush has been a specter and a bogeyman for anyone who cherishes the environment, personal freedoms, open discourse.  I hate him of course; truthfully I hate what he has meant for this country, and what his continued political survival has meant about this country.  Despite what Bush may think, history will in no way look favorably upon his terms, and I firmly believe that as the full scope of his actions are with time revealed, he will be recognized for the stain he truly is.  

It's a sign of the the moment then, that as I sit watching the inauguration, Bush is now so far from my thoughts.  It takes a remarkable magnitude of good will to overcome the bitterness in my heart, yet here I am.  I, like so many people the world over, am dazzled.  I am won over.  I am drifting on the current of hope which has sprung forth after so long being stifled.  The happiness, the very sense of well-being engendered by this moment is somewhat inebriating.  Even Rick Warren, a blight on an otherwise pristine ceremony, is hardly dimming the gleam.  This is the very thing we need to speed the forgetting, to speed the healing.  What but this moment could eclipse the mistakes of our recent past?

 I don't look to Obama as a messianic figure, and I don't step into this new era with my defenses lowered.  I firmly believe in the corrupting influence of politics, and I ardently believe that sacrifices are made in the name of the greater good; Washington grinds down square-pegs into round ones, inexorably.  Yet how can one not give themselves up to the gestalt spirit?  How can one not abandon, even momentarily, their skepticism, in the face of such overwhelming joy?  Today, we usher in a new President, but more than that, we usher in a new age for America.  It's a time when hope can flourish, when the better angels of man's character are not detriments, but strengths.  It's a time when the sins of the past are washed clean in the rising tide.  We wade today in that tide, in the waters of hope.  And for once, we wade together. 

The Zapovednik Principle

Between the cover story on gold (did you know all the gold ever mined in the history of the planet would only fill two olympic swimming pools?) and a sobering examination of endangered species in America, this month's National Geographic has a small article by David Quammen on Russia's Kronotsky Reserve.  Quammen happens to be one of my favorite writers, a personal hero really, and though the story is short, and perhaps dwarfed by the spectacular photos, it brings up  a few interesting concepts.  

The Kronotsky Nature Reserve is a volcanic area on the Kamchatka Peninsula (a region all too familiar to Risk players the word over, gateway to the conquest of North America!).  The reserve harbors a fairly large and stable population of brown bears, as well as a network of geysers, calderas, and hot springs, and by all accounts, as well as the beautiful photos, the area is breathtaking, and breathtakingly unique.  For this reason the Russians have designated the Reserve a 'zapovednik': a national park so protected that access is restricted to all save a handful of scientists and wealthy tourists.  Essentially, the Russian's deem the Kronotsky region too fragile, too ephemeral, to even risk the transformative, some would say destructive, consequences of human visitation.  It's the sort of dramatic step that could only be taken by a culture with a tradition of strict top down control, such as the former Soviet Union. 

It's an intriguing theory.  And one that's wholly un-American (not that that's necessarily a bad thing).  We as a nation approach nearly everything with a democratic demand for freedom, and equal and unreserved access.  It's in our very character that we demand the tangible proof of our actions.  Yet unfortunately, this attitude is in direct conflict with our efforts at wilderness preservation.  Snowmobiles race through Yellowstone, cars wind through Glacier National Park on the Going to the Sun Road.  While use is curtailed in many state and federal parks, the concept of designating an entire wilderness area completely off limits to humans (or nearly so) is nearly unthinkable for our nation.  The zapovednik, as pure a means of preservation as can be hoped for, is not an idea Americans would be likely to accept.

And perhaps they shouldn't.  On the face of it, the concept of designating our country's more pristine and untrammeled spaces verboten seems like a terrific idea, at least for the flora and fauna of the regions.  But there is a crucial flaw with this line of thinking.  As much as I am an earth-first sort of individual, one has to acknowledge that today, and in the future, the wild and natural places of the world continue to exist solely because we humans allow them to.  We have crossed the thresh-hold from living as a species in nature, to living as a species with nature.  If we as a people reconsider our choices for even a minute, there is no reason Yosemite or Denali or the Everglades would even continue to exist.  They could all very well be subdivisions or oil fields in the blink of an eye (and we sure came close with the Arctic Wildlife Refuge and the Bush administration, may crows peck his eyes).  These places, bastardized though they may be, all exist because we want them there, at least enough of us do.

At that is the flaw of the zapovednik: it could not work in a democratic nation, at least not in one at current levels of education and appreciation.  As it exists, it's an elitist system, allowing access only to the fortunate few, but even if it was off limits to every single living soul, what sort of investment would people really have in it?  The knowledge alone of how special a place a preserve might be seems like cold comfort to a society used to getting instant gratification.  Although National Parks and wilderness areas may be a shade of their one time authenticity, at least visitation allows people to have an investiture in their nature.  It's the sort of sacrifice we have to live with; a bear or a wolf is of little use to people unless it can be seen and photographed.  But, even if that's the best we can do, it's certainly better than nothing at all.  And unfortunately, that's a very real alternative.

Sea Kittens? Seriously?

PETA really needs to knock it the fuck off.  I'll be the first person to admit I admire the motives behind the movement; I believe animals should be treated ethically, and I support animal rights.  But sea kittens, PETA?  Kindly go fuck yourselves.

I'm referring here to PETA's latest propaganda campaign, which involves - I shit you not - renaming fish 'sea kittens', in hopes of drumming up sympathy for our benthic brethren.  Observe the following: http://www.peta.org/sea_kittens/index.asp .  The basic premise of the website, and the campaign, is that fish, in general, have feelings and emotional lives akin to those of our household pets, and should be treated with similar accord.  Now, I acknowledge that fish feel pain, and I recognize that they are not merely Cartesian automatons but rather living things capable of suffering.  And I also realize that PETA is targeting children, girls in particular, and the whole concept is youth oriented.  But seriously?  This is fucking ridiculous.

With this whole nonsense, PETA is doing more harm than good, both to itself, and to environmentalism in general.  These people need to think before they act, and specifically think about choosing their battles a little better.  I won't say fish aren't worth defending: yeah, at the the end of the day, getting hooked probably sucks.  That's why I'm not a big fan of catch and release fishing, it seems needlessly traumatic, and for the sole pleasure of the angler.  At least eating a fish lends its capture a bit of purpose, a bit of dignity.  But as far as the cold-blooded, ancestral workings of the piscine brain?  No, fish are not capable of the higher functions of mammals, and that's not conjecture, that's scientific fact.  That sort of comparison if just begging to be picked apart and derided, and so I dutifully have.  Individual rights aside however, there is plenty to fight for in regards to fish.  Like the fact that we are swiftly eating them to extinction.  Not all fish of course, but certainly the delicious ones, like tuna.  Don't fight for the tuna by saying they are the kittens of the sea, cause that is ridiculous bullshit that no one is even going to want to believe.  Fight for them with the bare truth, that they will be gone if fifty years because every asshole in the world can have a cheap tuna salad sandwich at any time of the day.  That's real, that's immediate, that's not juvenilia.  

But even assuming this sea kitten nonsense is solely aimed at children, have the good people at PETA ever actually met a grade schooler of the twenty-first century?  Do not pander to children on important issues; kids today are more mature than ever before, and they need to be dealt with  with a certain amount of respect.  Children are vital in the green movement, and they are prepared to take on responsibilities and change the way they (and their families) live.  But you cannot treat them like infants.  They will see right through it, and if they don't, then their parents will.  And no one likes having blatant propaganda target at their children.  

More than anything, this little stunt is embarrassing.  No one gives a shit about fish.  I wish they did, honestly, but this isn't a perfect world, and to pretend that people are magically going to equate flounder with fido is self delusion on a grand scale.  This is what I mean about choosing your battles carefully.  Fight against fur, fight for better livestock conditions, fight for greyhounds or whatnot, but when you start to spout gibberish about lovable eels and gregarious groupers you make yourself seem like a crackpot.  And treating animals ethically should not be a crackpot endeavor, it should be a serious concern.  With this sort of stunt, PETA burns through goodwill engendered by those of us working hard to instill some modicum of respect in people.  PETA makes a mockery of themselves, and they distract from the serious nature of the issues they themselves advocate.  I mean, sea kittens? Seriously?  Fuck right the fuck off.

Comfort Food for a Cold Winter's Day

The sun's out today; it's clear and bright, bitterly cold, and ice from a storm two days ago still rimes the trees, glinting and splintering the afternoon light.  It's gorgeous, really, but inhospitable too.  I took the dog for a walk an hour or so ago, and the wind was like a knife across the fields, the snow on the ground blinding.  More weather is coming in this weekend, threatening to settle the cold even deeper in our bones.  It's the perfect occasion for a stew.

I'm a big fan of soups and stews, not least because of the laziness and imprecision one can get away with.  I'm a journeyman chef at best, but provided a big pot and a few hours, I'm at my culinary zenith.  The stew I'm preparing now is a simple one; and with stews, I feel the simplest are the best.  It's a minor twist on a classic and unpretentious beef stew: venison stew with winter root vegetables.  Beef stew meat can be easily substituted for the venison, and in fact venison's role in the dish brings up the recipe's sole wrinkle, which is how beefy you actually want it to taste.  Under ordinary circumstances, I use beef bullion to add flavor to the stock, as I find venison's own taste somewhat unsuited to the pot (venison is best enjoyed for what it is on it's own, and is an underpowered flavoring agent in a stew).  Still, since this recipe has so many other flavors going on, one can lose the bullion and still be left with a strong and indeed unique product.  As I'm trying to forgo most types of meat this month, and bullion is an animal product, I'm leaving the beef out, and things will be just fine.

I also have an inordinate fondness for root vegetables, and the real stars of this stew are the carrots, potatoes, turnips, and parsnips.  I favor the parsnips most of all, and think the peppery hint they bring is overlooked too often.  It's critical not to overcook the veggies, but to allow them to keep their essential characters, instead of collapsing into general stew-mush.  Chunk the tubers up in mid-size pieces, large enough to cook slowly, but not so large that one chunk of potato constitutes a whole mouthful.  Is important to get two or three different flavors in every bite.  

As for the meat, make sure to remove all the fat you can if using venison, as the tallow turns hard and unpalatable in cooking.  If using beef, leave a certain amount of fat on the bits, as it renders out into the stock much more easily.  For seasoning, I rely heavily on celery, Wostershire sauce, and, recently, Old Bay seasoning, which adds both salt and a bit of a punch to the taste.  If using a liberal amount of Old Bay, you can leave out the bay leaves, as the seasoning has enough bay in it.

Ingredients: 

about one pound stew meat, or steak meat cut up

2 large Russet potatoes (retro, yes, but good for stew)

2-3 carrots

2-3 parsnips

2 good size turnips

one bunch of celery

one large yellow onion

2-3 Bay leaves or a few teaspoons Old Bay seasoning

4 tablespoons of Worstershire sauce (I like Lea & Perrins, good for Bloody Marys too)

3-4 beef bullion cubes (optional)

salt & pepper 

flour

a little olive oil or butter

Begin by dicing and sautéing the onion in a little oil or butter in the bottom of your stew pot; when translucent, add the meat, and brown.  When meat is browned, add enough water to cover and bring to medium heat.  After half an hour or so, add the vegetables and seasoning, add water until just covered, and bring to a low boil for another half an hour.  Then reduce to a simmer, adding water as needed to keep the level steady, and depending on how much stock-to-substance you want.  With flour and warm water, make a paste in a separate bowl, and wisk in as a thickening agent, as desired.  Allow to simmer at least an hour, preferably two, then serve, preferable with good bread and butter, and a nice dark beer.  

There you go; nothing fancy, nothing innovative, just good comfort food, dictated by the season, and seasonal availability.  Best enjoyed on a snowy night, with friends.

Giving the Devil His Due

Two days ago, President Bush announced the proposed creation of three Pacific marine monuments, vast preserves on a scale previously unheard of.  The act is certainly welcome, a feat of environmental defense to be lauded and emulated by the coming administration; in quantity and quality, the mostly pristine waters represent an ideal model of conservation.  Yet, here in the eleventh hour of the W administration, when an act like this can be effective whitewashing, it's important to be cautiously optimistic, and to remember the true nature of the Bush presidency, which for the last eight years has been incredibly detrimental and destructive to the causes of ecological preservation.  

It's certainly no secret that the Bush Whitehouse has been one of the most unsympathetic, even downright hostile, regimes ever in regards to the natural world.  It's important here for me to point out that such a blatant anti-conservation mentality isn't simply a matter of Republican politics; it was on Nixon's watch, after all, that the Endangered Species Act of 1973 was created, as well as the Clean Air and Water Acts.  Even Bush senior's term saw 235 species added to the ESA, and that was in just four years.  In the eight years of W's administration, how many have been added? Just 64.  Bush's government (I would never suppose that Bush himself ever did anything on his own initiative, he's not that capable or interested) did everything it could to actively weaken the Endangered Species Act and promote business and extraction industry interests over those of the United States' natural resources.  It's almost as if the regime has had a personal vendetta against environmental well being. The front line in the broadly drawn battle has, for the last few years, been visible in the fight to list the polar bear as Endangered, the first such instance of a climate caused listing.

The Bush administration fought the listing through legal avenues and, some would say, through political bullying, and though the polar bear did eventually win protection, that masks the fact that this sort of battle was waged again and again throughout the eight year presidency, less visibly, and with less success for the cause of conservation.   

And now, as we mercifully and thankfully stand on the brink of a new presidency, Bush leaves us not with the bitterness and justified outrage that his term in office deserves, but with an act of benevolence almost unprecedented in scale in the annals of preservation.  I'm really almost angry over the move; I want my bitterness and outrage unclouded.  I don't want to have to hear 'yes, but' from now on when the issue of the Bush administration's environmental crimes are brought up.  But ultimately, I'll take what I can get.  The cause of conservation is often triage on a grand and tragic scale, and while my righteous indignation is difficult to part with (I do indignation so well), it's even more difficult to ignore a step in the right direction, even if the step was taken by the enemy.  Sometimes, all a man can do is grit his teeth, say thank you, and move on.  

Rauchfetzen!

Rauchfetzen! Rauchfetzen! Rauchfetzen! Go on, give it a say...Rauchfetzen! Now, say it again, but this time with a German accent: Rauchfetzen, achtung! Fun, ain't it? 

Of course, I may think saying Rauchfetzen is fun because Rauchfetzen is a beer which I have recently drunk, and am therefore in a state predisposed to laughter.  The Rauchfetzen I speak of is the latest from Harpoon Brewery's 100 Barrel Series, an amazing foray into limited relief craft brewing that I've been lauding since the experiment's inception a few years ago.  Harpoon periodically makes and releases various styles of beer, some traditional, some inventive, in extremely curtailed quantities of, you guessed it, one hundred barrels.  Whether hit or miss (and I will say most I've sampled have been fantastic, or at the very least interesting), after those one hundred barrels are gone, the recipe is consigned to the vaults of memory.  Rauchfetzen Ale is the 25th session in the series, a German-style rauchbeir, characterized by smoked hops, with a clear golden hue, and fairly light carbonation.

This may not be a beer for everyone; it is exceedingly smoky in flavor, a bit like drinking a beer whilst  standing directly beside a hardwood fire.  Of course, that's the sort of flavor I can get into, and I find the taste a great character note on what would otherwise be a sort of flat style.  See, I'm not actually a big fan of German beers, though that may see like sacrilege. But because of purity laws, true German beers are extremely limited in nature and complexity, and while I like the occasional straight-up Munich style ale and can appreciate the craftsmanship involved, I prefer more exaggerated and captivating flavors.  Rauchfetzen appeals to me because of the twist on the familiar it offers.  It's an excellent beer to drink with a meal, and I'd give my left arm to be drinking a pint in Jacob Wirth's in downtown Boston right now over a plate of wurst, or even over some smoked sausage at a good bbq joint.  Goddamn, I'm hungry now.  And thirsty.  Time, perhaps to go get another bottle of session 25, while the getting it good...

Rauchfetzen!

The Venison Initiative

I shot and killed two deer this fall.  The ethics of hunting, the choices involved, the act itself, the results; these are all vital topics, and ones worth addressing, though they will for the moment await future posts.  Today I'd like to talk about the final act of hunting, consumption, and how and why a freezer full of  of venison is becoming a more and more crucial part of my life.  

As the planet's most high functioning omnivores, modern man's continued consumption of meat is a decision, not an imperative.  It is, unfortunately, an all too often unexamined decision, one rarely even thought about, much less actively made.  I feel that the blase approach most of us, as members of the developed world, take to the carnivory of our daily lives is inexcusable, an example of willful ignorance of the highest magnitude.  That's why (and this will no doubt surprise some who know me) I have a great deal of respect for ethical vegetarians and vegans.  They have at least looked at the issue and made a definitive choice, and though I don't think vegetarianism is the default moral high ground many see it as, I appreciate and encourage the empathy such a lifestyle displays.  But I've taken up the question of being a carnivore too, have thought about it a great deal, with no small amount of sympathy and information, and still have a freezer full of venison.  

How I justify that fact is, again, a topic for another day, though perhaps one not too far off.  Suffice it to say, for the moment, that that venison represents to me the right decision.  I continue to be a carnivore, but with some serious caveats: I try to limit my overall consumption of meat, I try to severely limit my intake of agriculturally raised meat (including my dear beloved pork), I try to cut out completely meat raised industrially, and for the next month or so the only meat I am going to only eat is the venison that my father and I harvested from the wild.  This isn't an easy choice, though it may seem a moderate measure at best; I really, really love meat.  Bacon alone represents to me a sort of gastronomic bliss, and it's a severe mental act to say I won't touch it again for a while.  Fortunately I enjoy venison a great deal as well, so I'm not really suffering, and of course I'm not entirely certain we shouldn't suffer a little bit for our carnivorous tendencies.  For me the choice to set these boundaries arises from three general issues: health, eco-social fitness, and ethics.

Health concerns are to me the least important of the three, but worth mentioning none the less.  Venison, while still a red meat and therefore worse than, say, leafy greens, is far superior to its agricultural alternatives.  It's low in fat, high in protein, and higher in iron than beef, pork, or poultry.  As wild game, it's one of the few truly organic foods(assuming the deer wasn't devouring crops sprayed with pesticide, which is a concern), and is at least free from hormones and antibiotics.  While I'd hesitate to call health a major issue for me, it is clearly a factor in my thinking, and rightly so.

What I call eco-social fitness is even more important.  The choice to eat venison, and only venison, has an impact both ecologically and socially, theoretically for the better.  Ecologically, the whitetail deer in Connecticut exists in populations far above the historic and natural norm.  This is a direct result of predator removal and land use issues caused by man; we killed off the wolves and the lions and planted corn and shrubbery as a buffet.  In some areas hunting has a direct beneficial influence on population fitness, and at the very least, the number of deer insures that hunting, as I at least currently practice it, is a sustainable pursuit.  On a larger scale, the fact that the meat I eat is locally produced means that one less ration of beef gets shipped from the midwest (or lamb from New Zealand, a bigger, and unfortunately more delicious, issue), and the carbon footprint I leave is ever-so slightly smaller.  The local aspect of venison consumption has social repercussions as well.  Though not supporting regional agriculture per se (perhaps tangentially as crop pest removal), I did have my deer professionally butchered at a nearby meat locker, in that way supporting a local economy in an ecological way.

Yet the most important issue at stake for me is ethics.  There are many who would say that the act of killing is by its nature unethical, and that argument is in some ways sound.  As I mentioned, I have a great deal of respect for people who critically examine the subject and choose to abstain completely.  For my part I see hunting, and by extension killing, as justifiable practices, under certain circumstances.  I see death as a natural culmination of life, and if not wanton or cruel, I see killing as both forgivable and enlightening.  For my part, killing a deer is a way to connect to place, a way to interact with the natural world in a time when such opportunities are in short supply.  I see myself filling a predatory niche once occupied by the eastern gray wolf, and though that vision is ultimately bullshit romanticism, it is at least environmentally sound.  Assuming then that death is an inevitability, my main concerns are with dignity and suffering.  I try to approach killing with respect for the animal above all things, and though just how I go about that is difficult to put into terms, it's easy to counterpoint with the simple phrase 'factory farm'.  Most animals raised in the US and intended for consumption are utterly bereft of dignity, in life or in death.  With suffering, however, they are overwhelmed. I won't get into the details of intensively raised feed animals, save to say that the scale of pain and misery inflicted is indeed industrial.  I will say how the deer I shot lived, and died: freely, and quickly.  I won't go so far as to say that the deer died instantaneously or painlessly; in most ways death is, and should remain, an ugly and disturbing thing, lest we get too comfortable with it (which, as a society, we have).  But as an alternative to starvation, predation by coyotes, wasting disease, or many of the fates likely to befall a wild deer, I say that an accurate slug from a high-powered rifle is merciful.  Nothing wants to die, not the deer I shot, not me, but in the grey reality of the world, indignity, suffering, are death are not avoidable.  What I can do, what I choose to do, is mitigate those things, to be as natural, to be as, dare I say, humane as possible.  A freezer full of venison may be an odd expression of that sentiment, but if nothing else, perhaps it's a step in the right direction.  

Return of the Native

This evening, as I sat reading, I noticed something out the window, out of the corner of my eye. I looked up in time to catch a dark brown shape running across one of our frozen ponds. I saw it only for a second before it made the woods and vanished under low pine boughs.  It was no dog, certainly too small and dark for a coyote. Unmistakably feline, but too large for a house-cat, and tailless.  Bobcat.  Wonder of wonders.

I threw my jacket on and slipped into my boots in moments, and creeing out on the crackling ice of the (mercifully shallow) pond,  found the fresh tracks.  The cat had crossed Route 6 and hit the ice at a run; the prints in the snow were smudged from slipping.  I followed up the bank and there found clearer proof: tracks just slightly smaller than our dog, Blitz, clearly clawless, with the fore and hind prints falling almost together.  I began to trace the course of the bobcat's path, walking, then jogging along through the trees, till I crested the hill.  Below, the tracks continued on into the swamp.  It was getting dark, the pink of dusk bleeding out a darker purple, and the cat was gone.  I stood for a minute, listening, watching, but there was nothing there but a line of prints in the snow.  I turned back.

In the grand scope of miracles, seeing a bobcat on a January evening is insignificant.  For me, however, seeing a bobcat was another milestone.  Bobcats aren't common in Connecticut, and I saw my first in the wild just over a month ago, as it crossed the road in front of my Jeep.  Yet the importance of these bobcats to me isn't their scarcity, but rather their sudden, seeming abundance.  I went 27 years without seeing a bobcat in the state, and now, miraculously, I've seen two.  There may not be an instant feline plague at work here, but there is a distinct trend, a trend at work across Connecticut, and New England in general.  A hundred years ago wild turkeys and whitetail deer were almost unseen here, rare almost unto death; today, the second growth hardwood forests of the region teem with them.  Here in CT, black bears are once again appearing in numbers unheard of since the 1800s, and my father, amongst others, has sworn that he's seen a cougar.  New England is in the process of re-wilding itself, and I'm bearing witness to the transformation.  I count myself lucky in that way, to be here for it, to speed it along in whatever small ways I can.  A lone bobcat glimpsed for a second out the window may not seem like much, but tonight, for me, it seems like a symbol of something potent, something deserved: a homecoming.

Sweet...

It's the morning of January third, a new year, and I'm hereby christening this latest foray into public egotism.  Blog.  Ugly word, isn't it? Thick, viscous, redolent of the verbal upchuck that it is.  If nothing else, I see this little venture as an effort to stretch the ol' mental hams, a way to shake off the dust thats settled in my skull after a holiday season typified by twenty-four straight hours of A Christmas Story and enough Harpoon Winter Warmer to drown six out of eight reindeer.  I'm trying to blog myself awake again, as it were (though usually after I blog myself I get sleepy).  Still, a quasi-anonymous, unread post on the internet is at least a start, right? Baby steps...

And as for baby steps, here's a mildly curious one I've taken for 2009: to get off the white death.  You might know it by one of it's street names: horse, smack, monkeydust, Haitian ass-sweat.  I call the harsh white bitch Domino superfine. Sugar.  Sweet, magical, diabetes-tastic refined cane sugar, shipped from Florida, Hawaii, or the DR to make me fat and rot my teeth.  Awesome.  Really, at this point, I'm just trying to ween myself off the few teaspoons I have in my morning coffee.  I like my coffee black in the afternoon, but in the wee hours I need that little kick of sucrose, and though one or two teaspoons a cup doesn't seem earth-shaking, when your morning habit is up to a full French press's worth, things have gotten out of hand.  So, as a small step towards putting my resolutions in order, I'm switching from white sugar to local honey in my coffee.  I did say it was a small step...

Now, theoretically, a teaspoon of golden, syrupy, blog-ish honey is no better than a teaspoon of sugar, at least health-wise, but hey, do I really need both these legs?  No, the real motivation for the switch wasn't health, but rather providence.  Santa, in his wisdom, left my sister one sweet Xmas gift in the form of two hundred gallons of pure honey.  Or, if not two hundred gallons, then at least half a gallon, which is still a ridiculous, ridiculous amount of honey.  It's five pounds worth, in fact, which is almost the weight of an adult human head. 

Yeah.  That's the real Eiffel goddamn Tower, just to give you a sense of scale.  It's a seemingly unfinishable amount.  Fortunately, honey is the one food that never, ever goes bad, but merely crystalizes.  Ten thousand years from now, after the inevitable nuclear holocaust, after the melting of the glaciers and their subsequent re-freezing, after the scourge of the hyper-intelligent cockroach overlords, the mewling, cancerous, devolved ape-spawn that call themselves our descendants will find this jar in the ruins of Bethlehem, Connecticut, and have spoons of leftover honey to sweeten their bitter lives.

Mock though I may the the gargantuan nature of the honey jar, I am actually quite pleased by it.  The honey, you see, is pure Woodbury honey, Woodbury being the next town over.  Not only is the honey delicious, organic, and curative (honey being a natural antiseptic), but most importantly, it's local.  Though the body-esque lump upon which my head resides may not be able to tell apart the complex polymerize strands of saccharine carbohydrates, the economy and even the environment can: the sugar was farmed as a monoculture and shipped long-distance to me via fossil fuels, while the honey was made by multi-tasking little pollinators a scant few miles away.  In broad, eco-social terms, one helps, one hurts.  I feel good about that, though it may not seem like much.  It is a small step, after all.  But it's a sweet one.