The Kentucky Derby and other unrelated things

 

Since before I can remember, I was taught to be proud of my Scottish heritage. For years I have regularly paid my dues to be enrolled as a member of Clan MacBean. When my oldest son and daughter and I went to Scotland, we visited the MacBain Memorial Park in the hills above Dores, with a glimpse of Lochness. The land is part of the original clan homelands, purchased as a memorial in the sixties by Hughston McBain of Marshall Field & Co. in Chicago and then the McBain of McBain. Colin, Megan (see? Their names are even Celtic) and I proudly signed the guest book kept at the pub in Dores.

That 23andMe indicated I have English and Irish blood but not a drop of Scot didn’t bother me at all. I know better. I am a MacBain, with a park in Scotland. I thrill to the discordant notes of the bagpipe and the beat of the drums—and I’d love some year to go to Tattoo in Edinburgh, though I think perhaps that ship has sailed without me.

Still, tonight, I watched the streaming of the memorial service for James Hughston McBain, late the McBain of McBain, who died at the age of 93. Bagpipers and drummers made a ceremonial entrance before the service. Probably James McBain had many non-Scottish friends in Tucson where he lived, but I noticed a few tartans thrown over the shoulders of some women at the service. The pipers and drummers wore a variety of tartans, though I don’t think I saw one McBain plaid. Even the minister had a plaid stole. Fittingly given the Scottish heritage, it was a Presbyterian service. A nice Saturday reminder of both my faith and my heritage.

On another odd note, I read an article today about the history of containers for restaurant to-go food. There is, for instance, a man who has the world’s largest collection of pizza boxes. They are all brand new and grease free. The most prized are those with the winking chef, a jolly man in a toque with dark eyebrows and mustache, his fingers raised in an okay sign. You’ve surely seen him on any number of billboards, etc. But where does one store an extensive collection of pizza boxes. And to me this just says some people will collect anything.

The article went on to a discussion of Chinese take-out boxes, those intricately designed, folded things of waxed paperboard with a wire handle. Those were designed in the late nineteenth century and have changed little since then. When I was a kid that’s what every Chinese meal came in, though how I know that is a mystery, because my British father, a beef and potatoes man, would never have eaten Chinese. Today those boxes have a pagoda on them and printing that is meant to look like Chinese calligraphy. We won’t discuss authenticity.

And finally there are sushi boxes, which must wring the heart of every environmentalist. If made of wood, they might be priceless designs. Not so much so, made of plastic. Today’s black sushi boxes, often with red and gold flourishes, are an imitation of the artistic Japanese lacquered dishes with mountain scenes, flowers, and brocade. Think about that the next time you pick up sushi at the grocery store.

Jean and I watched the Kentucky Derby tonight and cheered mightily for the longshot who won but who obviously did not like being in the winners’ circle or his blanket of roses. I am always a bit on edge watching that two minutes, fearing that someone—mostly some horse—will go down. Today’s race was without incident, and I am glad. The build-up to the show was not as much fun as I expected—when I wanted the camera to pan the crowd and show us all the crazy hats, instead we got a lot of meaningless talk. And one time when they did pan the crowd, we got  a group of men who had obviously had too many mint juleps. But the race itself was exciting, and we were pleased for the winner.

Kentucky Hot Brown

My Kentucky Hot Browns were not as good as I hoped, though Jean is always an appreciative audience for my cooking experiments. Doubt I’ll try that again. Anyone want some leftover Mornay sauce?

Sweet dreams, and Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers out there—and all the many women who have taken on the mothering role though it was not biologically theirs.