My first grade teacher, Mrs. Barwin, was a kind caring woman. She ended up being the calm eye in a hurricane of scary-ass nuns that would begin just the next year in second grade with the cruelest, most sadistic nun of them all—Sister Peter Ann. But first grade was different. It was a time of wonder and learning things like phonics, the Byzantine spelling/pronunciation rules that define the English language. 

We also began our initial explorations into the world of science and one of the first things we had to learn about was the planets. In fact, we were required to stand up and recite the nine planets in order from tiny, fiery Mercury nearest the sun all the way to distant, dark, and even tinier Pluto. I distinctly remember learning about the planets because I had to work with the girl who sat behind me. Her name was Sheila and there were two very distinct things about her: her dirty blond hair was reminiscent of mild electric shock and the fact that she picked her nose and ate it. Even at the tender age of seven, I knew that this was wrong—at least as far as the field of gastronomy was concerned. Even to this day when meeting someone named Sheila I am given to pause …

As for the planets, Pluto was my favorite. It was discovered in 1930 by an American astronomer, Clyde W. Tombaugh, at the Lowell Observatory in Arizona and named by an 11-year-old English girl. At 1,400 miles in diameter, it’s slightly smaller than the earth’s moon. It takes Pluto 248 years to go around the sun and one day on Pluto is the equivalent of 6.5 days on Earth.  

Why the fuss over Pluto? Stay with me. In 2006, scientists demoted it to a “dwarf planet.” After 76 years of stardom it was no longer one of the great nine. If you’re keeping score, a dwarf planet is obviously smaller than a planet but it’s so small it can’t clear objects out of its path. I will not expound on the mild anguish I experienced over glowing childhood memories of my favorite once-proud Pluto being dashed in an instant. For the record, Pluto is also called a plutoid--a dwarf planet that is farther out in space than the planet Neptune. The term plutoid may also be used to describe certain college age dating social behavior. 

Fast forward to last year. I’m writing a piece on the wines of Alto Adige and am doing some quick research on Gewürztraminer. In Alto Adige the village of Tramin is fondly regarded by the locals as a spiritual home of the grape. To confirm that and more, I reached for my copy of Jancis Robinson’s brilliant book, “Wine Grapes.” It’s co-authored with Julia Harding and Jose Vouillamoz and first published in 2012. Wine Grapes is anything but portable weighing in at a hefty 6.7 pounds with 1,242 pages. It’s arguably one of the greatest wine books ever written. What better source to reach for when looking up the quick and dirty on Gewürztraminer?

I immediately turned to the table of contents—itself an act of maturity. In the past I would have bravely albeit ignorantly tried to find the “Gewürztraminer” listing by blindly ploughing through the book’s pages. But experience told me that this would be a waste of time. Using the index in a book is not unlike the point where you finally stop and ask for directions; when your consequences software is so keenly honed that you can experience future potential agita that will be dished out by your significant other or anyone else in the car--all in the blink of an eye. 

Finding the entry, I quickly turned to page 408 for the Gewürztraminer listing only to find the following brief snippet: “See Savagnin.” I was a little concerned at this point. I quickly paged through the book (screw the table of contents at this point) past Sabato, Sagrantino, a lengthy entry for Sangiovese, past Saperavi and Sauvignon Blanc, finally grinding to a halt at Savagnin on page 966 (Can you say William the Conqueror?). There under “Origins and Parentage,” I read that with DNA testing, Gewürztraminer has been proven to be an aromatic mutation of Savagnin Rosé (Galet 2000). Jancis goes on to write that “Gewürztraminer has become by far the most widely planted variant of Traminer (Savagnin Blanc).”

There you have it. With a single DNA-laced stroke the once noble Gewürztraminer has been stripped of its title and demoted to AA status (not even AAA!). Such is cruel fate. The salt on the wound? The village of Tramin obviously never was the spiritual home of the grape. Because after all, it’s a mutant form of a grape you’ve never heard of. Cruel fate indeed.  

Is Gewürztraminer the Pluto of Vitis Vinifera? You decide. 

It’s holiday time again and that means we’re about to careen smack into the new year with little, if any, semblance of control. But before then, we’ll have to navigate the perilous tinsel-filled waters of office parties, dysfunctional family gatherings, crowds, traffic, and general holiday mayhem. Fear not! What follows is sage gift giving advice that will hopefully allay the madness and make your holiday shopping easier. But first, some sage advice for overall gift giving:

Rule # 1: if all else fails, give a bottle of bubbly. Champagne, sparkling wine, Prosecco, and Cava are like a quartet of sparkling seasonal elves whose only purpose is to make your gift list shorter. Prosecco, the DOCG variety and not the mass-produced dreck, is a personal favorite because of the deliciousness-to-value ratio. Beyond that, for the boss or the target of your future affection, a bottle of grower-producer Champagne fits the bill perfectly. Pierre Peters and Egly-Ouriet are personal favorites.   

Rule #2: Give yourself a gift. Before everyone and everything gets completely out of control, remember to get yourself something. A great bottle of restorative spirits is just the prescription needed, whether it be a top shelf Cognac, Malt Whisky, or Rum. Italian Amaros are my personal favorite and aside from the ever-restorative bottle of Fernet Branca always on my shelf, I heartily recommend Braulio. It originates from the Valtelinna region in Northern Italy and is both overtly herbal and bittersweet. An ounce or two (or three …) is guaranteed to help guide your nimble fingers over the keyboard as your order away online. Remember: avoid brick and mortar if at all possible.

Rule #3: Get a book! A good book is one of the best gifts to give and receive. Here’s a dozen I’ve read over the last year. All are entertaining, informative, and highly recommended. 

 Wine Grapes, by Jancis Robinson, Julia Harding, Jose Vouillamoz

The one and only time I met Jancis Robinson was several years ago at a memorial dinner held for the late Robert Mondavi at the artist formerly known as COPIA. I was a member of the sommelier team and met Jancis just as she was leaving at the end of the evening. I only had time to say hello and ask when she would release an update of her book, “Vines, Grapes & Wines,” published in the early ‘90s. She looked at me as if she suddenly had a strong urge to tase me. In fact, if there would have been a taser app for the iPhone at the time, I’m sure she would have made quick use of it. Instead, she smiled tightly and said that something would be coming out “in a couple of years.” Fast forward to last year and her new amazing tome, Wine Grapes. Weighing in at a hefty six-plus pounds and over 1,400 pages, it could be the most profound book on wine ever written—and sure to satisfy any and all wine geeks on your gift list. Suggestion: given the heft and lack of portability of the book, you might consider a gift download for your lucky recipient.  

One Summer: America, 1927, by Bill Bryson

I’m a huge Bill Bryson fan and his new effort doesn’t disappoint. In One Summer, Bryson spins his narrative magic describing in detail the months that made up the summer of 1927, a short period time crammed with remarkable characters and events including the likes of Lindberg crossing the Atlantic, the Sacco-Vinzetti trial, the secret origins of the Great Depression, Al Capone, Jack Dempsey, Babe Ruth, Charles Ponzi, Herbert Hoover, and much, much more. After reading it, I’m once again struck at how much there is to learn about American history. 

Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman! by Richard P. Feynman

Nobel-winning physicist Richard Feynman was one of the most brilliant scientists of the 20th century. For better or worse, Feynman was an instrumental part of the Manhattan Project that created the atomic bomb ending World War II and ushering in both the Cold War and the atomic age. Aside from his work in physics, Feynman was also an outstanding teacher/lecturer at Cal Tech and he penned multiple books comprised of his thoughts on everything from explaining the basics of science to gambling in Las Vegas to working on physics problems while sitting in strip clubs. Surely You’re Joking, is one of Feynman’s best and most entertaining volumes.  

Everything’s Coming Up Profits: The Golden Age of Musicals, by Steve Young & Sport Murphy

This book is to be filed under the category of strange, wacky, and delightful--as in an entire musical genre you’ve probably never heard of.  While great musicals such as “My Fair Lady,” “Oklahoma,” and “Carousel” are widely known (even if not nearly as popular as they once were), for several decades running the same talents—literally from writers to performers—crafted hundreds of stage musicals for the big corporations of their day; from John Deer Tractors to the Ford Motor Company to the Maiden Form Bra.  That’s right, full-blown staged musicals with casts, plots (sort of), bands, and full scores, where stars of the stage (and sometimes screen) belted out tunes about the beauties of selling the newest, shiniest tractor, pickup, or bra.  Steve Young, long-time writer for the David Letterman show, and industrial musical vet Sport Murphy, chronicle the history of the industrial musical through the decades. Everything’s Coming Up Profits is a perfect coffee table book filled with delightful period illustrations and photos.  

“Music has Charms to Soothe a Savage Breast”

                                                                           William Congreve

Music has been called the universal language. It’s the aspect of our culture that arguably moves us more than anything else--other than sex. Mankind cherishes and values music so much that snippets of several of western civilization’s musical highlights, including the song “Johnny B. Goode” and the first movement of Beethoven’s 5th symphony, were sent into space along with the two Voyager probes in 1977 in the hopes of ultimately reaching extraterrestrial life and demonstrating that we as a race are intelligent. Ahem.   

What happens when music goes wrong? Sure there’s plenty of what can generally be considered bad music and much of it from the 1970’s, which by the way was my formative decade. Catch a mere smidge of any of these truly bad songs and you may be stuck with it for the rest of your day and auditorily maimed, so to speak. Yes, even a mere five second exposure to the likes of “MacArthur Park,” “Take a Letter Maria,” “Honey,” or “Muskrat Love” is enough to stun the naked mind. I apologize for even bringing up these cursed tunes and hope you will read on.  

Beyond simply bad music like the songs listed above, there are other times when musical mismatching of monumental proportions takes place; where the performers, the performance, the music, and/or the context is so epically wrong as to defy all logic, much less lofty imagination. These are special musical moments indeed and here are three of my favorites. Read on, listen, and prepare to be sore amazed.

Exhibit A: The Leningrad Cowboys Play, “Sweet Home Alabama,” with the Russian Army Chorus

It’s doubtful that you’ve heard of the subject of our first sonic implosion. If by some chance you have, then you know that the Leningrad Cowboys were and still are a Finnish band known for their exaggerated hairstyles and costumes. The Cowboys are further known for performing a wide range of popular '70's and '80’s covers, not to mention some very slick polka tunes. Beyond that, the band also has a cult following for their filmed concerts, in particular the “Total Balalaika Show” first released in 1994. The film is of a 1993 performance of the group in Helsinki accompanied by the 160 member Russian Alexandrov ensemble and chorus. The highlight of said concert, even above an inspiring rendition of “Stairway to Heaven,” has to be Lynyrd Skynyrd’s 1974 ode to southern rock, “Sweet Home Alabama.” Know that the Cowboys are a pretty decent cover band that manage to do justice to anything they play. But the combination of their remarkably outlandish hair and outfits with the minions of straight-laced Russian lads in staid brown uniforms belting out “Sweet Home Alabama” is impossible to describe. It must be experienced:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKD7g56DNN0

Exhibit B: Lawrence Welk and “One Toke over the Line”

Even in my naïve youth I could sense an incredible rift in TV reality played out weekly on early Saturday evenings on our local Albuquerque ABC affiliate. Precisely at the 7:00 hour, just before the listening audience was about to go face down in their TV dinners due to a combination of starch, fat, and various medications, conductor and accordion player extraordinaire Lawrence Welk and his band of renown offered up 60 minutes of what can only be called well-scrubbed sonic dry wall. Each week Larry and the band would play perky tunes so removed from musical reality that their source had to be a portal into some bizarre alien universe or the result of a cruel government anti-youth plot.  

Likewise, I’m sure that Welk struggled with all the music/noise born in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s, when musicians began to plug their instruments into wall sockets and play louder than proverbial hell. And let’s not even mention the long hair, the outlandish clothes, and the steaming morass that defined the morality of the times. Every now and again Welk and his band would bravely foray into the murky waters of rock and roll and always with mixed results at best. The finest example surely must be their 1971 rendition of Brewer and Shipley's ode to marijuana and excess entitled, “One Toke over the Line.” It’s a song I remember from high school, a song that’s definitely forgettable--unless you tried to embody the spirit of its lyrics, in which case remembering anything other than your name became a major sport not to mention the power-eating of junk food. 

Did Lawrence and company realize what the song was about, especially with Welk himself calling it a “modern spiritual”? And did bashful Dick Dale and perky Gail Farrell really get what being, “one toke over the line sweet Jesus,” meant? Probably not, but then we are the benefactors, yea the grateful recipients, of this momentous occasion in the history of musical short circuitry. Watch, listen and enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t8tdmaEhMHE

Exhibit C: the Portsmouth Sinfonia Performs “Also Sprach Zarathustra”

By now the initial bars of Richard Strauss’ tone poem, “Also Sprach Zarathustra,” aka the opening theme to Stanley Kubrick’s, 2001: a Space Odyssey, is one of the most ubiquitous pieces of classical music known to mankind. It’s right up there with the Blue Danube waltz and the Taco Bell Canon. You might assume that a piece such as Also Sprach, which is scored in C Major with a lot of open chords, a simple melody, and tympani (kettle drums) going boom, boom, boom, might be a piece of cake to play. After all, how hard could it be?  You would be wrong. The very fact that so many different instruments in the orchestra are all playing the same pitches and the same chords at the same time, lives and breathes disaster for ensembles at practically any and every level of expertise. Just ask the principal trumpet player who has to end the opening segment by blowing his or her brains out on a high “C.” Lovely.

Enter the Portsmouth Sinfonia, an orchestra founded in 1970 by a group of students at the Portsmouth School of Art in the U.K. The only requirement to be in the orchestra was that players either had to be non-musicians; or if they were musicians, they had to play an instrument that was completely new to them. The ensemble started off as a lark but soon gained notoriety with concert appearances and a film. They eventually attracted the attention of musician Brian Eno, who produced two albums with the group. Even though the orchestra disbanded in 1979, their recording of Also Sprach is legendary. Without further ado, I give you a performance for the ages.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wpFQLw5_N2o

The holidays are upon us; that means the unforeseen and unexpected need for gifts for people who you wouldn’t normally give anything to much less hang out with--as in your boss, a just-paroled relative, or your ex. With that in mind, I’d like to make a blanket gift recommendation in the form of a bottle of bubbly. That’s right, a gift bottle of sparkling wine (or better yet Champagne) says “happy holidays,” or “I kind of like you,” or even “hasta luego” like no other. And let’s face it, if the recipient of your generosity doesn’t appreciate a bottle of bubbly they probably have issues and you wouldn’t want to hang out with them anyway. Ah such a magic time of the year!

Speaking of the holidays, I have a holiday ritual that I’ve maintained for many years (it’s a birthday ritual too). It’s nothing remotely exotic or strange and in fact it’s really quite simple: I always give myself a Christmas much less a birthday present. My thinking is that other people don’t know what you really want for Christmas (or your birthday) and if you let them know with any lack of subtlety it will only serve to annoy the hell of out them. So to preserve the peace, maintain sanity, and to just make yourself fell all warm and fuzzy inside, buy that little special something for yourself. For me these delightfully self-inflicted gifts tend to be books, because there’s really nothing like diving into a good read. Here’s a half dozen of my favorites. All are guaranteed to please.

1. Kitchen Confidential, Antony Bourdain: Long before his exit from the food channel and entry into the lifestyle travel universe, Tony Bourdain was an accomplished chef at Les Halles in New York. Kitchen Confidential is a personal memoir of his ascent from CIA grad to chef with all the stops in between. Aside from a great read, this book should absolutely be required reading for anyone hallucinating opening their own restaurant or considering attending a culinary school. The term “reality check” doesn’t even begin to do it justice. The chapters “A Day in the Life” which profiles the insane schedule of a chef on a typical Friday, and “The Level of Discourse” which breaks down the complex and monumentally obscene pirate dialect of the kitchen are must reads. 

2. A History of the World in Six Glasses, Tom Standage: I’ve given away over a dozen copies of this book and it should be on every beverage professional’s shelf. There are only six chapters in the book: beer, wine, spirits, tea, coffee and Coca-Cola. Standage, a contributor to the Economist, offers a unique perspective of world history and the great civilizations in the context of these six beverages. Read and enjoy. 

3. The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid, Bill Bryson: Many are the times I’ve been on a flight and been shushed or on the business end of ugly glares because of my repeated snorting, laughing, and guffaws while reading a Bryson book. The Thunderbolt Kid is my favorite among them all. It’s a gentle, funny and completely irreverent memoir of the author growing up in Des Moines in the 50’s and ‘60’s. Delightful.

4.  Coming to My Senses, Alyssa Harad: Harad’s beautifully written book details her love affair with perfume and gives us a glimpse into the unique and complex world of scent. After reading it I’ve come to believe that the perfume world has much to teach us in the wine world. Coming to My Senses is a good start. This my favorite book of 2012--highly recommended. 

5. Cooking with Fernet Branca, James Hamilton Patterson: A completely skewed and wickedly funny novel that defies description. And yes, it does have recipes calling for Fernet including one called “Alien Pie.” I will say no more. 

6. The James Bond series, Ian Fleming: The recent release of Skyfall with Daniel Craig breathed new life into the now fifty-year-old run of James Bond movies. But before Sean Connery ever uttered, “Bond, James Bond,” to Ursula Andress or some other galactic babe on the big screen, there were 14 books detailing the exploits of the world’s most famous MI6 spy. If you’ve just seen the movies and not read the books but always wondered what the big deal was all about you’re definitely missing out. Fleming created the spy novel genre and owned it until his premature death in 1964 at the age of 56. All the Bond books clock in at under 250 pages so they make great airline reads. The precision and detail of Fleming’s writing, especially with food and drink, are simply a joy. From Russia with Love, Goldfinger, and Thunderball are my favorites. Suggestion: go on eBay and pick up a complete set of all the books in the old original Signet paperbacks from the ‘50’s and ‘60’s. It’s surprisingly inexpensive. And remember, it’s vodka and always shaken and not stirred. 

I transferred to a different school early in the first semester of eighth grade, moving from a small very conservative Catholic school to a much larger public junior high. Rather than be traumatized at the move mid-stream, I was elated at having escaped the clutches of a nun who could best be described as, “not completely nailed down.” Aside from having a chance to play trumpet in band again, the best part of my new school experience was English class with Ms. Prenkins.

The lovely and brilliant Emily Prenkins was the kind of English teacher every kid dreams about.  She was just a few years out of grad school and young enough to be able to speak meaningfully and empathetically to us students trapped in the pubescent hormonal wilderness, yet old enough to be able to share the wisdom of adulthood without all the baggage. During that first semester, Ms. Prenkins sought to bring out the creative voice in all of us. She coaxed clumsy poetry out of the lumbering football players who otherwise lorded over the back of the classroom. She pushed us to write short stories and to ponder the mysteries of Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine. Going to school may have been drudgery, but going to Ms. Prenkins’ English class at fifth period right after lunch was the highlight of any day.

However, there was a cloud on this sunny horizon in the form of Ms. Prenkins’ tummy, which gradually began to expand as the fall progressed. I have to say that if left to us boys to take notice it, would have come to our attention just before the birth of the child. Thankfully, the girls were quicker to pick up on it and soon whisperings of Ms. Prenkins “being with child” as they like to say in the good book filled the school halls. Thus it was no real surprise when she announced the week before Halloween that she was indeed pregnant. What was a surprise—more like a shock--was that she would be going out on maternity leave after Christmas break, and would be taking the entire second semester off. The class took it hard and for days after we, her devoted fifth period acolytes, were stunned. Ms. Prenkins did her best to console us and ushered us through the rest of the fall curriculum as best she could.  

The holidays came and went with the usual December Albuquerque bitter cold, biting winds, and a dusting of snow. The Monday after New Year’s came too soon and with it the realization that the angelic face of Ms. Prenkins would be absent at fifth period. We filed into the classroom after lunch that Monday waiting for the substitute and hoping for the best but fearing the worst. Would the sub be some dotty spinster just this side of retirement or a hatched-faced disciplinarian hell bent on making all of us suffer for 55 minutes five days a week? We sat in nervous, expectant silence probably not unlike what Mr. Prenkins had gone through in the waiting room just days before (it was a girl). 

Nothing could have prepared us for what, or who to be precise, came strolling through the door several minutes late. He—not she--was tall and lanky, wearing cowboy boots and sporting large, thick glasses. He had a receding hairline destined to arrive at a captain comb-over phase at some point in the future, and a large mustache groomed somewhere between a handlebar and Tucumcari. He breezily said good afternoon to us and then sat down heavily at the front desk, picking up the copy of our textbook and looking at it as if it was the first time. It probably was. He spent the next 5-10 minutes perusing its pages, snorting and mumbling now and then. Finally, he tossed it on the desk with a loud thud. “What a load of crap,” he proclaimed, with disdain for all and sundry to hear. “How do they expect you to learn anything from that?”  We stared back with the expression of dazed livestock. “My name is Mr. Daniels,” he announced. “I’m your teacher this semester. Now I’ve heard all about Ms. Prenkins; in fact, I know her.  She’s a wonderful teacher. But my style is different. I feel it’s my job to teach you English to the best of my ability and that has little to do with what’s in this book.”

All of us shifted uneasily in our desks. Mr. Daniels suddenly seemed dangerous. There was no telling what he had planned. Visions of inquisition-like torture and caning filled my inner visage. But he soon remedied the mystery by announcing that we would all be learning English as a language that semester from the best source in civilized history—William Shakespeare. The collective groan from the class was immediate, involuntary, and more than audible. Mr. Daniels smiled in response. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Shakespeare’s a dead guy. He’s been dead for over 400 years. What could he possibly have to teach us in the 20th century? The answer is a lot.”

​Imagine 30 young minds suddenly filled with fleeting images of frisky actors leaping across the stage in brightly colored tights and sword fight skirmishes between skinny ,fancy-ass talking guys. To say that we were worried would be a monumental understatement (the sword fight thing didn’t seem so bad to me). Mr. Daniels then reached into a cardboard box behind his desk and began passing out weathered copies of the complete works of Shakespeare. 

Once the books were in our hands, he had us turn to Twelfth Night to Act II, scene V. Then Mr. Daniels stood up tall in front of the class and began to read from the scene with the projected, sonorous voice of an actor who had done plenty of time on stage. His voice had the menacing depth of Darth Vader combined with polished locution of a career politician. In mere seconds, we stopped reading along and stared agawk at him as he finished with Malvolio’s famous lines:

"In my stars I am above thee; but be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em."

A vacuum of silence followed his reading of those lines. “That,” he announced, “is great English. By the end of the semester you’ll know more about the English language that probably most of your parents. You’ll know the ins and outs and the hows and whys we speak the way we do, because no one has ever written in the English language better than Shakespeare—and no one ever will. And all that starts today.”

Mr. Daniels then proceeded to take Malvolio’s famed lines apart, explaining how they revealed the comedic flaws of his character, how they fit into the overall plot of the play, and how they were relevant to life in Shakespeare’s time. He explained it all with the utmost simplicity so it was easy to understand and yet with great intensity and urgency, as if to say all of this stuff really mattered and we had better pay attention. We did so in rapt silence. 

Next Mr. Daniels outlined his vision for the semester. If we agreed to his plan, we would follow the rules of the “establishment” as required by covering various parts of the text book. We would also have intermittent quizzes on said material. But the bulk of the class time would be spent on learning scenes from Shakespeare and--get this—actually acting them out. That last bit proved the tipping point and suddenly our collective angst, frustration, and fear bubbled up and all over the linoleum floor in a messy goo.

“We can’t do that!”

Shakespeare is soooo boring!

“This is STUPID!”

“You can’t make me do that.”

“I’m telling my parents.”

“I can’t memorize anything!”

“I’m afraid of talking in front of other people.”

Through the firestorm of protest, Mr. Daniels simply smiled and nodded as if he was truly enjoying our reaction. When the ruckus died down he said, “I know, I know.  I’ve heard it all before. But if we don’t do something different to learn English this class will be just as useless as practically every other class you’ve ever had. And I’m not going to be part of that.”

Mr. Daniels spent the rest of that first day talking about life in London during Shakespeare’s time; how filthy, downtrodden, and incredibly difficult it was with the average life expectancy less than 18 years; how most people lived a desperate existence filled with poverty, hunger, and disease. Among this squalor and suffering, were the theaters where anyone could take respite from their bleak life for a few moments to be entertained with news of the day as well as comedy, drama, singing, and dancing. He went on to explain some of the conventions of language of the time, the witticisms, and the references to events of the day as well as Greek and Roman mythology--and he did it all in his drawling easy-to-understand way. It was like getting a crash course from your next door neighbor’s dad on the history, politics, and sociology of Elizabethan England—in less 30 minutes. And that was just day one.

The next day Mr. Daniels put his plan into action. He divided our class into four “troupes,” as he called them, with some 8-10 of us in each. He passed out mimeographed sheets (love that smell!) that listed our assignments for the first several weeks in terms of plays and specific scenes. We then headed to the four corners of the room with Mr. Daniels rotating through the groups assigning characters and scene managers. Our troupe’s first assignment was from Twelfth Night, the same play he had read from the day before. I landed the part of Sir Toby Belch, the play’s major-league carouser and disturber of the peace. I do want to mention that the part of Olivia was to be played by the lovely Joanna Garcia, on whom I had a huge crush. I was secretly thrilled. 

The group next to us had been assigned Romeo and Juliet, and there, towering over everyone even when sitting down, was Glen Turner. Glen was really tall with the physique of a human tongue depressor. He was a shy lad and routinely did everything within his power to be invisible, which was impossible given the fact that he was at least six inches taller than the rest of us. But that day Glen was utterly inconsolable. He had just landed the part of Romeo in the balcony scene and the part of Juliet would be played by Grace Ann Warren--one of the cutest girls in the entire school.

The following day the four troupes started to work through their assigned scenes. Mr. Daniels would first help by reading through some of the text to explain the language, and then coach us, the “players,” on how to say our lines. From there, we would work on the parts, script out the scenes, and try to figure out what props we needed to make them work. All the while, Mr. Daniels went from group to group watching and coaching, always praising and never criticizing anyone unless they weren’t trying. He was especially attentive to Glen Turner, who threatened to implode at any moment. 

In the days and weeks to come, Mr. Daniels really got into his element. He pushed, soothed, and threatened; he pleaded, wheedled, and cajoled, forcing any and every one uttering a line in front of the rest of the class to not screw around and to really go for it. I have to say that when it was my turn to play the part of the ever-mischievous Sir Toby, I thought I might soil myself at the prospect of saying my lines in front of the rest of the class. But after some initial faltering and Mr. Daniels’ prompting and encouragement, I found my squeaky teen voice and began to get into the part. The other kids did likewise, even the oft-traumatized Glen Turner though he took longer than most. 

Once we were past that initial set of scenes, Mr. Daniels had to start telling everyone to tone it down and not be so “danged melodramatic” as he put it. Despite our best efforts to over-act at every opportunity, it was easy to see that he was delighted. At his suggestion, we began to fashion our own rough costumes and bring things from home to use as props. “Be creative!” he urged and one day when a kid in the class showed up with a shopping cart “borrowed” from a local supermarket he was simply giddy. Sword fights were enacted with gusto complete with plastic swords and cardboard lances. The girls started to get into the costume aspect of it all and a competition of sorts began to see who could design the laciest, frilliest maiden get up of all.

Needless to say, we were hooked. Beyond that, we totally got Shakespeare. The plays and the language became as real for us as anything we could possibly watch on TV. We got how a feud like the one between the Montagues and the Capulets could become unthinkably destructive. We learned how an individual in power like Richard III could be utterly evil and destroy everyone around them for their own ends. We also learned how love could be incredibly fickle from the crazy relationship between Beatrice and Benedick in Much Ado about Nothing. As time went on, there was less and less of the textbook and quizzes, and our memories of the fall semester with Ms. Prenkins also began to fade with sword fights, heroic deeds, and swooning maidens taking their place.

I’d like to say that the semester ended in a triumph like the movie, School of Rock, with our class staging a spirited performance of The Tempest in front of a live audience. That’s far from true. Just before spring break, the administration caught wind of Mr. Daniel’s “studio.” After the break we came back to fifth period all set to work on new scenes only to find a large, aging spinster sitting behind the desk. She waited for us to file in and once all were seated she announced in a withering tone that she was the new substitute teacher and that Mr. Daniels had been “reassigned.” We squawked loudly in protest but Mrs. Cranky Pants, who looked like a former professional wrestler, would have none of it. “Open your textbooks,” she barked. We meekly complied, our youthful thespian spirits quashed.   

Mr. Daniels was never seen or heard from again. Rumors flew back and forth on whether he had been fired or had quit in dramatic fashion. We conjectured that he moved on to “infiltrate” other schools and classes in the much same way as ours, but no one could ever confirm that for a fact. Regardless, his spirit lives on. I’m reminded of him from time to time when I teach a class or make a presentation to a group. He taught me to care—desperately—about my students and to do whatever it takes make sure they get what I’m teaching. He showed me how to coach and how to constructively criticize. He was also the first to teach me how to stand up in front of group and deliver the goods when it’s on the line. Most importantly, he gave me a love of Shakespeare that continues to this day. If I could only take one book to that proverbial desert isle, it would be an easy choice—a copy of the complete works. And I would be a happy man.

In the food world there are chefs--and the rest. On one side we have the likes of Food Network personalities. But then there are the real chefs who’ve worked in actual kitchens and can cook. Molly Stevens is the latter and definitely the real deal in every sense of the word. Molly studied and worked in top kitchens in France and the U.S. She now leads classes at major culinary schools in the U.S. and Europe, including the French Culinary Institute in New York, the New England Culinary Institute, and L'Ecole de Cuisine La Varenne in Burgundy. 

I first met Molly in 2002 while writing for Fine Cooking Magazine. She contacted me the following summer about doing wine pairings for her book about braising. I accepted immediately. Within days, a FedEx box showed up at my door with several hundred pages of text. I took my time reading through the draft, making notes about potential pairings in the page columns. What quickly came to mind, was that there are lots of people who write about food and cooking, but precious few who can write as well as Molly. Her writing voice is clear and concise, and her passion and dedication to the craft come through loud and clear. I have rarely come across anyone else who can so deftly and easily explain the do’s and don’ts of technique, the various cuts of beef, or how to shop for poultry and meat. Needless to say, writing the pairings for her book was a dream assignment and all too quickly completed. The finished book, All About Braising, came out in 2004. No surprise that it won a James Beard Award. It’s also easily one of the best winter cookbooks ever written. Carla and I have worked our way through more than a few of the recipes. My favorite among many was for Straccoto, an Italian pot roast that we enjoyed for Christmas dinner two years in a row. 

Molly contacted me again in the summer of 2010, with a manuscript for her follow up book on roasting. Repeat same process as before: great text, wonderful writing voice, and unmatched instructive advice on everything concerning the art of roasting. In short order, I test drove two of her recipes for strip steak and simple roast chicken. I have to confess to being monumentally inconsistent with both in the past, but using Molly’s recipes I was quickly turning out a perfect medium rare steak and oven-roasted chicken every time—easily worth the price of the book. All About Roasting is now out and I recommend it highly. If you’re a rabid home cook or if you collect cook books (or both), All About Braising and All About Roasting are both must-haves. Bon appétit!

http://www.mollystevenscooks.com/