Book Reviews: The Gates of the Alamo, by Stephen Harrigan

      I spent my college years living in central Texas, just a few hours' drive from San Antonio and its legendary Alamo, and so I witnessed that state's peculiar fascination with itself first-hand. Many Texans cling tenaciously to their state’s image as a wild western, larger than life, country unto itself. Back in the eighties, a Fort Worth politician once proudly referred to his city as "just a big ol' cow town," a description it had long since outgrown. Frankly, to a non-native, it was all a bit annoying.
      So when I was given a fat book to read called The Gates of the Alamo, I was less than enthusiastic. Here, I thought, is yet another Texas love letter to itself, a rehash of all the corniest myths that Texans hold so dear. But I decided to flip through the first pages and see just how bad it was.
      A good thing, too, because I might have missed a fine historical novel about those early days of Texas, rich in period detail and mercifully lacking in mythology. All the legendary principals appear--David Crockett, Jim Bowie, William Travis, Santa Anna--not in their legendary forms, but as real people with plausible reasons for acting the way they do. Sometimes as heroes, and sometimes not.
      The main characters, however, are all creations of Harrigan's own imagination. Edmund McGowan is an American botanist trying to complete his life's work--a comprehensive study of the plants of Texas--before war with Mexico can interfere. He meets Mary Mott, a widow, and her teenage son Terrell, and finds himself drawn to both of them.
      When Terrell has a disastrous first experience in love, Edmund's strange, self-imposed emotional coldness keeps him from reaching out to help the boy, and Terrell runs off to join up with the Texas republicans against Santa Anna. Mary, afraid that their angry parting will be Terrell's last memory of her, insists on traveling with Edmund to find him and reconcile, but their path leads them directly into the approaching crisis and the siege at San Antonio de Bexar.
      The story of these three alone would be plenty to flesh out a good book, but Harrigan deftly balances the Texan viewpoint with major subplots that tell the Mexican half of the story as well. Blas Montoya and Telesforo Villasenor, both soldiers in Santa Anna’s army, converge on the Alamo in very different ways. Montoya and his men must survive a brutal forced march before they even get to the Alamo, where many of them will be killed in the assault. Villasenor, an ambitious officer, catches the eye of Santa Anna with his bravado after being wounded in battle, and travels to San Antonio as the general’s aide.
      Both Montoya and Villasenor give Harrigan a chance to reveal historical details that only Mexican characters could know at the time. They also allow him to describe some of the more gruesome realities of 19th century warfare, and to present both sides of a thorny political tangle without choosing between them.
Die-hard Alamo buffs will undoubtedly protest the moments in The Gates of the Alamo when Harrigan departs from strict historical accuracy for the sake of story, especially when he allows a lone survivor to escape the siege. Yet he will probably upset others by sometimes sticking too close to truth, as when he reveals some of the less savory character traits of cherished heroic figures like Jim Bowie.
      But these are quibbles for the folks in Texas historical societies to squabble over. Most readers will find little to complain about--just a sprawling, well-researched, and richly populated historical novel to enjoy.

Curmudgeon's Corner (2)

      Smokey Burner, the Broken Stove's resident curmudgeon, is not a happy camper. Actually, Smokey is not any kind of camper because he believes that God had good reasons for giving us houses and recliners, and to forsake these things in order to go lie on the ground in the woods is to question His wisdom.
      Camping, however, has nothing to do with Smokey's unhappiness today. No, Smokey is unhappy today because Smokey is a Steeler's fan, and he just saw his team--a supposed post-season contender--drop a game to the 2nd or 3rd worst team in football, the NY Jest (not a typo). Smokey has a bruise on his arm in the place where he's been pinching himself all morning, convinced that he will wake up in a world where the real Steelers have trounced the lowly Jets and are now 8-2. But Smokey is already awake and must make do with these counterfeit Steelers, obviously a college team that, while everyone was looking the other way, bonked all the Steelers on their head, stole their uniforms, and played the Jets.
      How else to explain how one team could punish the rest of the AFC North but have three road losses to teams with a combined 11-18 record? How else could one team hold Jamal Lewis and Shaun Alexander to a combined total of 95 rushing yards--in three games!!--and then allow Thomas "Who the hell am I?" Jones to rush for 117 yards all by his lonesome? How else does an opposing defense with nine sacks in as many games suddenly come up with seven in just one?

"There's no place like home, there's no place like home..."
Nope.
We're still 7-3.

      Smokey knows that one bad road loss, even to a terrible team, does not end your season, especially if you're still 7-3 and a game up in your division, and you've beaten all of your division at least once already. Smokey knows that despite a shaky offensive line and wretched kick coverage, his beloved Stillers will probably go to the playoffs and might do very well. The Cardinals and Broncos probably, and the Jets definitely, are not good enough to do that. But what does it mean for the Steelers' playoff hopes that they all are still good enough to handle the Steelers?
      Smokey wonders, he does.
      By the way, has Smokey ever mentioned how much he hates "Steely McBeam," the new Steelers mascot? Imagine Tom Cruise transformed into a crazed, Muppet steelworker, who might be distantly related to Bert on Sesame Street. That's Steely.

Smokey does hate him so.

North Carolina Wine. Seriously.

      Donna and I spent today with a couple of friends, touring two of the many fine vineyards that have sprung up in North Carolina’s Piedmont region in the last couple of decades. The area has become enough of a draw for oenophiles, in fact, that five of its vintners have created the Haw River Wine Trail to encourage tourism and promote their wines.
      We couldn’t have chosen a more perfect day for our outing—sweater-weather with a brilliant blue sky to set off the orange, red, and gold fall foliage at its peak. I had almost despaired of having any kind of decent autumn after our long, dry summer, but a bit of rain and a sudden cold snap have made for one of the better leaf shows in recent years.
      We began the day at a winery that’s not officially part of the Haw River Wine Trail, the Silk Hope Winery, though we thought our day might be over before it even began when we encountered a CLOSED sign at their front gate. The gate itself was open, however, so we drove up their long, steep, gravel drive to what turned out to be one of the highest points in the Piedmont, with a beautiful view. We saw the couple of acres of vines and a few steel buildings, but no signs of life; disappointed, we began the steep descent. Cindy had the presence of mind to pull out her cell phone (Donna and I still live in the Stone Age without one) and give the owners a call:

“Are you guys open today?…you are?…great, we’re going to drop by…yes, we are the people who just drove through your roundabout without stopping…” (the rest drowned out by laughter).

      Back at the top of the hill, the owner’s son led us through a tasting of their wines, mostly Chambourcins and Chambourcin blends—I especially liked their “Grand Vista” red, a dry, slightly sharp Chambourcin/Cabernet Franc blend—and of course we ended up taking some with us, both for ourselves and for holiday gifts. He then walked us through the vines, pointing out their varieties and answering Donna the Gardener’s questions about pruning and drought and pesky critters. Us: "What kind of pests prey on grapes?" Vintner: "All of them." On the way out, we performed our good deed for the day by flipping their sign from CLOSED to OPEN.
      Our second and final stop was Benjamin Vineyards and Winery, part of the Haw River Wine Trail. Benjamin is a bigger operation than Silk Hope, catering more to the tourist trade with a larger selection of sweet, dessert wines and a kind of country-cutesy gift shop. They also had some very good dry and semi-dry wines, however, including both oaked and unoaked versions of their Chardonnay and a very interesting Chardonel, which I had never tried before.
      Unfortunately their Chambourcin was sold out, so we didn’t get a chance to conduct a “head-to-head Thunderdome match” with Silk Hope’s Chambourcin, but I think if—to paraphrase Tina Turner—“two wines enter, one wine leaves,” then Silk Hope Winery would be the Road Warrior to Benjamin Winery’s Master/Blaster.

Mr. Beer, the Sad Clown of Homebrews (but in a good way)

      O.K., I know you serious homebrewers will scoff, but I believe that with a little creativity, you can turn out a pretty decent half-batch (2.5 gallons) of beer with one of those beginner's kits from Mr. Beer. Yes, yes, Mr. Beer is the brewing equivalent of paint-by-numbers, but you can put together a pretty good wort by mixing their pre-hopped, condensed beer mixes with their unhopped malt extracts for added fermentables, and then adding your own favorite flavorings and additional hops. They even offer liquid yeasts. The benefits include a quick brew time, a smaller amount of wort to cool (which cuts down on contamination), and smaller batches mean you can try out more varieties--a big plus when you're the only beer-drinker in the household as I am.
      I've come out with some very serviceable ales from Mr. Beer ingredients, including a tasty Honey Maibock that included some orange zest for flavor, and my personal favorite, a hoppy Barleywine-style ale (pictured here). My main caveat is to avoid the "Booster" packs they sell to add fermentable sugars to their beer mixes. It makes for a very cidery flavor. The unhopped malt extracts they sell, or just plain honey or brown sugar, make for a better beer.

RECIPE
      To make the Barleywine, I used two cans of Mr. Beer's "Cowboy Lager" beer mix (which already has some hops in it), one can of their "West Coast Pale Ale" unhopped malt extract, then added 1 ounce of Cascade hops pellets and 1/4 ounce of Hallertau. I pitched it with a liquid ale yeast (also from Mr. Beer), and fermented it for not quite 3 weeks. My very lazy hydrometer measurements indicate that it turned out to be around 8% ABV. I have no idea about the IBU's, but it's definitely hoppy. I batch primed it and bottled it in some old Grolsch swingtop bottles (I hate capping), and left those at room temp for another 2 weeks. The longer they lager in the fridge, the better they'll be, but they're already pretty good.
      So if you're ever in a big hurry and want to go from start to fermenter in about half an hour, keep some Mr. Beer ingredients on hand and use your imagination...and your honey, and orange zest, and pureed raspberries...

Music Methadone

      About a week ago now, I pressed the power on my old JVC tuner/receiver, and instead of the robust click-clack of the electronics and then the amp coming up, I heard only a feeble cluck--then nothing. I tried CPR, but no. "He's dead, Jim." A moment of silence, please.
      Unfortunately, for various reasons, I won't be able to replace it for maybe a couple more weeks--the moment of silence drags on and on. My CD's, DVD's and satellite TV all run through the receiver; one remote runs the whole show. When I rehooked the satellite and ran audio through the TV's speakers for the first time this century, it sounded as if the show were being narrated by someone standing in the closet, in the next room, speaking through a handkerchief. Someone with a cold.
      I have some mp3's I can listen to, but compressed files run through headphones can't compare to the full digital glory that until recently pumped through my bookshelf B&W's. In desperation--as a sort of music Methadone--I've pulled my vintage 1990 boombox out of the closet to play my CD's. Like a retired veteran called back for his third tour of duty, it soldiers on once more. It sounds like crap.
      I can beat this, man. I don't need the receiver; I can quit anytime I want. I just don't, you know, want to. Like, if I want to watch the game, man, and the announcers are like, totally craptastic, I can turn off the TV sound and put some tunes on over the picture, or, dude if you could just score me a little receiver, man, I could crank up the subwoofer and play Halo in like, Sensoround with butt shakers, or I could...oh man...are those, like, purple lizards coming out of the walls?

Sweetheart of the Rodeo

      Back in 2000, Donna came home from the book and music megalomart waggling a CD jewel box at me, saying, "You've got to put this on right now." She had been desultorily sampling new music at one of the headphone stations at the store when she was gobsmacked by the opening measures of an old-school, whiskey-soaked, closing-time ballad--two big a capella beats, "Want to..." before the band crashed in on the downbeat, "...get it all behind me, you know everything reminds me...."
      The song was "Set Out Running" and the singer was Neko Case. In 2000 she was little known outside the already fading alt-country scene, but now she's the Lady Empress of the indie world and a darling of the critics. We saw the "Furnace Room Lullaby" tour at the Cat's Cradle in Chapel Hill that year; when she came back in 2006 to support "Fox Confessor Brings the Flood," they had to book her on back to back nights. Her dark, brooding, minor key tunes tend more toward the lyrical than the narrative, and without access to her personal and enigmatic world of symbols the listener gets more mood than meaning out of some of her denser songs. But that voice.
      You can read more than you'd ever want to know about her at Wikipedia and MySpace, but you'd do better just to listen to this.

Curmudgeon's Corner

      Smokey Burner, the Stove's resident curmudgeon, was watching the Today Show this morning, which he almost never does because he has little patience for the kind of surface-level, Cliff's Notes version of news and self-help pieces that they do on the morning shows. In less than five minutes Matt and Meredith had managed to tick him off enough to change the channel. It should be noted that, by definition, the Curmudgeon is easily ticked off.
      In the middle of one of the five-minute segments on healthier living that they must run in one form or another pretty much every day, complete with visual aids (a psychiatrist's couch to represent depression, and piles of luggage to represent the vacations you should allow yourself to take), the visiting health expert addressed the fact that married men have longer life expectancies than single men. Smokey had heard something to this effect before, so he wasn't surprised until the "expert" said, "Unmarried men have a 250% higher mortality rate than their married counterparts." She said nothing to clarify that bizarre statement, and no one asked her to. In fact, Smokey thinks Meredith asked,"Why is that?" rather than what she should have asked, which is, "Whuh-huh?"
      What is that supposed to mean?! Smokey is pretty sure that all men, married and otherwise, have a 100% mortality rate. Are there two and a half times as many single men as married men? Did she mean single men are two and a half times more likely to die before age sixty? or seventy? She never said. And no one seemed to care that she had tossed out this totally meaningless statement in the middle of her tightly scripted presentation.
      Now, Smokey knows these shows happen live, and poor Matt has probably sleepwalked through more five-minute "healthy living" segments than he's got short, crispy hairs left on his head, but come on. We know these are fluff pieces, but even fluff should at least make sense.