Genetic ache?

I was listenting to a PBS review of the movie Juneau tonight--it's apparently a sensitive, important film about a young teenager who gets pregnant and places the baby for adoption, then goes right back to her boyfriend and her teenage life. The reviewer most identified with the baby and the "plight" of adopted children. They always feel, she said, a "genetic ache," no matter how wonderful the family who raised them. It's the kind of talk that raises my hackles as the mother of four well-adjusted adult adoptees. My kids and I have talked about it and none of them have much interest in finding the biological parents--one fears finding "poor white trash" and another is resentful of a mother who did drugs and may have caused some problems. Only one has said he'd like to "see" his family from a distance but doesn't want to meet them. Why do people persist in believing that happily adopted children still long for that biological connection?
We did a book one time, a sort of memoir, by a man who didn't know the identity of his father and felt pushed by his mother's creeping Alzheimer's to find out before it was too late. It was as though his whole being depended on identifying that mythical, long-gone figure. I simply don't understand it, and I often wish that people who take a look at happy adoptees. I guess it's like anything else--happy people don't make good copy. Wish I could think of some way to write about those happy adoptees, but my version would come out a memoir of some wonderful kids. Oh, they weren't perfect--I can recount a lot of low points, tense moments, etc., but the good outweighed the bad. Both girls went through that teeenage "I hate my mother" phase (boys are wonderful because they don't do that) but that passed. I think we were a normal, essentially happy family--especially for a single-parent family. So, hogwash to the genetic ache.
I've decided I want to write a book about Scottish settlers in Texas--and therein lies a brick wall. There is no information. Only today I learned it might be a stone wall--the masons who built the state capitol and the Tarrant County courthouse were Scots. But who were they? Did they bring their families? How did they adjust to life in Texas? I have no idea where to look for those answers, but I'll keep trying.
I do know that Scots did not come in colonies, like, for instance, the Germans. They were far too much determined individuals. That, of course, makes them even harder to trace. But look at all the Scottish names at the Alamo. There's a story there, I know it. I just have to keep chiseling, like a stone mason.
I made chicken burgers for supper tonight. Never had them before, but both Jordan and I decided we probably like them better than turkey. The recipe called for adding fresh basil to mayonnaise; lacking fresh basil--who would have it in February?--I added a cube of pesto and some chopped dill pickle. You put a bit of that into the chicken and slather the rest on a piece of bread. It was actually sort of hard to eat but delish. Jacob did not like it, but he loves to suck on a piece of lettuce and get the dressing off. He's got a sour tooth--loves lemons and that lemony salad dressing that Jordan and I make.