Cooking

f

       This is spaetzle. I learned how to make it the winter before last, in Germany. My parents' friend, Christoph, who taught us all how to make spaetzle, would not, I think, be pleased with this effort. No matter what I do, I always make the noodles too large. Nightcrawlers, I think he called them. This spaetzle has spinach in it (for nutrition) and is cooked with bacon and onion (for deliciousness). It's also good with beef stroganoff, cheese, or lentils and carrots (which is how Christoph made it). 

      I have always liked to cook, but moving to Geneva has sent me into another culinary gear. Eating out here is expensive and, frankly, not that great. Eating in is expensive, too, but we have to eat somewhere. Plus, unlike cleaning, which I can generally do without, cooking is relaxing and fun. I've learned how to make spaetzle, coq au vin, crême brulée, chocolate mousse, tartiflette, fondue, raclette (which is hardly cooking), French onion soup, Paris-Brest, and my latest favorite . . . fish tacos. 

       Most weekends, I find myself cooking for some kind of company -- A birthday party, Luc's Bible study, Drew and Johanna's youth group, the winners of the Olay auction item: "Dinner with the Americans," sometimes even my own friends. I am all for cooking for company: Company gives me an excuse to try new recipes, make dessert, and buy these really yummy cracker appetizer sticks that taste like olives and rosemary. I like to set the table with our gold glass goblets and the BIG dinner plates. Events for kids aside, in Geneva, having friends over for dinner is usually a dressy occasion. A meal of several courses is expected, and the guests bring flowers or bottles of wine. I like it. Recently, however, I developed a yearning for a casual dinner, the kind where you call up a friend and say, "If you're not busy, why don't you come over for pizza." Maybe it's more that I developed a yearning for that kind of friend. 

       If there is one thing I have learned in the past 20 months, it is that in Geneva, You're On Your Own (see "The Gold Star" from 9/23/12). If you want the kind of friends who don't mind if you serve them pizza, it is your job to find them. So I racked my brain for our most "casual" friends, and settled on two families. One has an American dad and the other lived in the U.S. for seven years, so I figured the idea of pizza night might not fall completely flat. I warned them that it was only pizza (from Dominos) and drinks. Very casual. Nothing fancy. i.e. Don't bring me flowers because I'm not making dessert and there will be no cracker sticks. I was a little nervous anyway. Other than another American family who once had us over, I have never actually heard of anyone in Geneva inviting adults over for pizza. Not only that, but after 6 p.m. on Friday, Dominos will not let clients in the door to pick up their take-out. The pizza must be delivered, and you do not want to know what delivery pizza for three families would cost in Geneva. Nobody around here eats dinner before 7:30 or 8 p.m., so the pizza was going to be kind of coldish, too. I did break down and make some carrot and celery sticks, and another mom said she'd make flan.

       As I had advertised, the pizza was nowhere near as impressive as coq au vin, and our paper plates, paper-towel napkins, and everyday drinking glasses were not as beautiful as the usual guest-ready table. Our guests, however, were excellent sports. One even said she thought it was a good idea. The other mom said that her daughter later told her it was the best pizza she'd ever had. (I'm glad she likes cold take-out). I was thankful to see that, while I may not yet have the kind of close and relaxed friendships I did in Cincinnati, I at least have some friends who are willing to give it a try.

         Last weekend we again had company for whom I did not cook. Eric was the chef, an unprecedented event that had its inception in his running group of three guys. One of them suggested a challenge in which each man would cook dinner for the three families, doing all shopping, preparation, and cleanup without help from his wife. For some men, this may be no big deal. For Eric, it was a nail-biter. He can travel the world, give presentations to company presidents, and evaluate advertising copy with one hand tied behind his back (although why he would need that skill, I'm not sure). Company dinners, however, are not his metier. 

       These runners/chefs decided to call themselves the Men of Men. I'm not sure what the name means. Is it Men of Men in the sense that the Bible calls Jesus King of Kings and Lord of Lords? Are they saying that of all the men in the world, they are the ultimate exemplars? (I could get on board with that.) Or is it Men of Men like one might say "Men of Faith" or "Men of Integrity"? They are describing a quality that they possess. Or is it, rather, more like saying Men of Topeka or Men of Crossroads Church -- a means of identifying their particular group? I didn't ask. Who am I to mess with a great idea by questioning its title? It would be like complaining that the diamond ring came in the wrong color box.

       Familiarity may breed contempt, but it also breeds comfort. I could whip up a taco dinner -- even for company -- with hardly a thought. If I had to give a presentation on the future of beauty care to a company president, however, I might be a little nervous. I might not know where to begin. This is how Eric felt about the tacos. He did a good job, though, with no help from me (but a little from Lucas, who made the shortcake for dessert and generally provided moral support). He even used the gold goblets and big plates. His guests brought not only wine, but energy bars (this is a running group, after all). This weekend is Men of Men dinner #2, and Eric is delighted to be finished with the hard part. Now he can watch his friends sweat.

The Men of Men. Eric has borrowed the gear from our usual chef.

Why We Didn't Mow the Lawn and What We Did Instead

      Spring arrived in Geneva this week. Before we left for Easter Break, the mountains were snow covered, the evenings were dark, and the yard was dormant. Now the sky stays light through the evening, the flowers and leaves have exploded into color, and we walk through the sunny wood looking at the melting snow on the mountaintops. That's what Eric and I did Sunday afternoon, anyway. He was the only one I could drag along on my Adventure of Exploration along a side of the Rhone we haven't visited before.
       The Adventure was not the reason we didn't mow this weekend. Nor, really, was the fact that the ground was sodden -- which it was from day after day of rain. This is why we didn't mow the lawn:

      All the wildflowers are just too pretty! I think we're going to have to pull out the blades and cut them down this weekend, though. Otherwise, the grass may be too long to plow through.
       In addition to providing some needed beauty and light, the advent of spring has also brought on a spate of spring cleaning. The problem is that with the bright, beautiful sunshine coming through the windows, I can see the smudgy, streaky windows themselves. So we did the windows. Vinegar, newspaper, the lot. Then, sitting on the couch in a satisfied exhaustion, I happened to look at the ceiling and see wispy clusters of spiderwebs hanging all along the wall. The living room is usually Luc's responsibility, and he does the kind of job one might expect from a 13-year-old boy, which is to say that the room looks better when it isn't quite so sunny. I trotted downstairs to get the feather duster and tackled the webs. In Switzerland, the houses are very solidly built, from concrete blocks that provide excellent insulation. Unfortunately, the preferred method of treating the indoor edge of the blocks is to paint over them with textured cement, which is then whitewashed. Pictures do not hang well on this material (as our broken drill attests). All marks show up on this material. If you brush your hand on this material while walking downstairs carrying a laundry basket, you will end up with bloody knuckles. Furthermore, this material is non-dustable. The spider webs just stick in the texture as unattractive grey balls. I was about to give up on having a clean house and go find something more fun to do when I had an unfortunate brainstorm. I hauled up the vacuum cleaner, put on the dusting attachment, and sucked all the webby dust from the walls. It worked so well I took care of the lint on the laundry room walls as well. I'm now a martyr to clean walls. I also showed the children how to use the dusting attachment to manage the corners and crevices in their rooms. They are as disappointed as I in its efficacy -- living in dust was far less work.

* * *

       When not dragging reluctant family members on hikes or discovering new ways to torture them with cleanliness, I have been leaving them in peace and hiding out with a book. I have found the perfect combination of fun and edification by reading Martha Grimes mystery novels translated into French. I will know how to call for a medical examiner or explain that I found a corpse in the woods, should the need arise. For inspiration and interest, I am also reading Faithful Women and Their Extraordinary God by Noël Piper, which tells the stories of five different women. So far, my favorite is the story of Lilias Trotter, who was rejected by mission boards because of her heart condition, but took off for Algeria anyway, not knowing anyone there or a stitch of the language. I love that she fell in love with both the landscape and the people and her creativity in finding ways to get to know the Muslim women. I love it when people love what they do, especially if it's a calling I never thought about. Purportedly for educational purposes (but mostly for enjoyment), I am reading Ivanhoe aloud to Lucas and Johanna every day after lunch. To me, the chance to read aloud would be reason enough to homeschool. I do have to agree with Mark Twain that Sir Walter Scott could have cut way down on the verbiage in Ivanhoe, but I disagree with Twain's dislike of his books. There's nothing like a mystery knight, a disinherited son, an evil templar, and even Robin Hood to start the afternoon off right. This year, we've read Tale of Two Cities (which made us all cry), The Moonstone (which kept us all in suspense for weeks), and Tom Sawyer (which made us all wish we were young scalawags in 1800s Missouri). I think we will have time for one more before school finishes (not until the end of June!). Any suggestions?

* * *
 
       I did promise cooking in this blog as well, but I need to go . . . cook dinner (or the vegetable portion at least; Lucas is working on a meal inspired by Epic Mealtime which, clearly, will include no vegetables). The cooking news will have to wait.

It's the Little Things

       The child of a friend of mine recently remarked that her family had been to Paris so often that it was becoming kind of boring. Oh the trials of the expat life. I like to think that we are not spoiled by the incredible opportunity we've had to see this part of the world -- that we still find the opportunity an incredible one. On the other hand, on our recent trip, the things that we enjoyed the most were perhaps not the ones I would have expected.

Luc's Favorite Thing*:

Our hotel in Brussels was kind of a dive (comme d'habitude), but it had a great game room. Luc discovered a new enthusiasm, played about 30 games against his dad (one against me, one against Johanna, and a few against Drew -- we all preferred to read and watch), and wore a blister on his left hand.

Jo's Favorite Thing:

Johanna loves almost all younger kids, but cousins are extra-special. 

Drew's Favorite Thing:

Mini-Europe in Brussels is definitely a tourist attraction, and a kitchy one at that. None of the highbrow tour guides I looked at even mentioned it. Nonetheless,  there was something enchanting about seeing scaled-down landmarks from all the EU countries. You could also press a button to hear the national anthem of each country. I think Drew is standing in front of Stockholm, Sweden.

 Eric's Favorite Thing:

Eric and I took a run along a canal in Amsterdam. He is always looking for scenic places to run, especially ones where he doesn't have to cross streets.  (He says crossing streets breaks his rhythm . . . I never have a problem with that; I'm always thankful for a break.) The pathways along the canals are ideal. Flat, too. 

 My Favorite Thing:

We have a lot of amazing cities around us over here, but we're a little short on family. It was a huge blessing to spend Easter out in the Brussels countryside with Eric's brother, his wife, and their kids. We also got to visit the Dutch cheese lady, who makes her own gouda. And we ate Cheese-Its, watched Dora the Explorer, and laughed a lot.

*Disclaimer: These are my impressions of my family's favorite things. I didn't actually ask, as that might have upset the theme of the blog. I'm the mom, though, so I'm probably right.

Sorry

       On more than one occasion this past weekend, I would have appreciated a "sorry." I didn't need any recompense. All I wanted was an acknowledgement that indeed, my family had been subjected to an inconvenience and someone cared, just a tad.
       The first incident happened in our hotel in Amsterdam, which was called the Best Western Blue Square. It was not called this because it was on Blue Square, I think, but rather because the building itself was, indeed, a blue square. This fact made it easy to find from afar, so I appreciated it. We stayed there two nights, and no one cleaned our room. The hotel was very busy, because apparently everyone in Europe had decided, along with us, that visiting Amsterdam in the freezing cold would be a smart spring break plan. I didn't actually mind that the room wasn't cleaned; it's not like anyone cleans my room at home every day. The only reason that I mentioned the fact at all was that we needed more soap. The lady at the front desk willingly supplied the soap, but she didn't say sorry about the room. I do realize that it wasn't her own personal fault or responsibility, but in her position, I think I would have apologized anyway. In fact, I think I apologized for bothering her about the soap -- just out of habit.
       I didn't think much about that encounter until the second one. We had a 10-hour, 3-train marathon from Amsterdam to Geneva, and on the second train, someone was in our seats. When we compared tickets, we found that we had the same seat numbers. Since they were already sitting there, we found other seats, which worked fine until the people whose seats they were showed up a few stops later. One of the women (the one who was supposed to be in Eric's seat) told us that double-booking happens all the time on German trains, which seems uncharacteristically sloppy for a country I always think of as very organized. At this point, we presented our problem to the conductor. She did find us other seats, and they were in first class, which was very nice. She did not, however, apologize, not even when explaining that yes, we would need to drag our seven suitcases through narrow aisles past irritated Germans all the way from the first car on the train to the last one. Again, clearly it was not this woman's fault that someone had planned for two people to share the same seat. But as a representative of the company, I think she might have tossed off a casual, "sorry about that."
       My husband tells me that I say "sorry" too often, and he is doubtless right. But to me, apologizing is not the same thing as admitting guilt. It's simply showing some concern for another person's inconvenience and sympathizing with their plight. What's so difficult about that?
       The story gets better -- or worse. After we moved to first class, a different conductor showed up and suggested that we relocate (with all our luggage in tow, of course) to a compartment. It was only two cars away, so we said okay. Eric by this time was becoming slightly annoyed at having to hoist the heavy suitcases onto the overhead rack, but he handled it with a smile. Another conductor gave us tiny packets of gummy bears. No one, however, said "sorry." Perhaps they thought that someone else had already handled that part of the job. At one point, a fourth conductor showed up, checked our tickets, and explained that we were in the wrong seats. We counter-explained that we had been told to move here because our correct seats were full. He huffed, said "That's not right" (us? the seat assignments? the situation?), and left, looking disgusted with us.
       Despite Conductor Four, we enjoyed our new seats until Basel, where the German train was transformed invisibly into a Swiss train, with Swiss train conductors. One came to check our tickets, and I explained that we were sitting there because someone was in our real seats, and the German conductor had told us to move here. The Swiss conductor told us that we would have to pay extra, because this was a first-class compartment. My initial thought was that he was joking. He was not. Eric, in a very rare moment of almost losing his temper, told this new conductor that we had dragged our suitcases all over the train because someone made a mistake with our booking, and he didn't think we should have to pay extra for the inconvenience. The conductor did not say "sorry." He said that on a Swiss train, if you have second class tickets, you have to pay extra to sit in first class, even if there are no second class seats. Eric was about ready to move into an even more rare moment of actually losing his temper. It turns out, though, that I have recently had extensive experience with the phenomenon of rigid Swiss-ness. The Swiss have good hearts, but they cannot think outside the box. If there is a rule, they must follow it. They cannot be flexible. They do not have that gene. I may have mentioned before that I have some sympathy with this black-and-white view of the world, being a bit rigid myself. I told the conductor that we understood the rule, but would it be possible for us to just stay in our seats until the next stop, when we would be getting off anyway? After all, they usually don't kick people off trains until the next stop. He couldn't break the rule, but he was just able to give us the 20 minutes we needed to finish our trip. It was all he could do to allow us those 20 minutes, though. His parting words were: "But just until Olten. After that . . . ." Good thing we didn't need anything after that. 

The Aliens Visit the Old Country, Part 2

      We spent part of this Easter holiday returning to our roots -- or the roots of some members of the family, anyway. That is to say, we spent a day in the Netherlands, in Amsterdam. Amsterdam is famous for bicycles, canals, legalized marijuana, and the Red Light district. Our rundown: It was too cold to ride bicycles, the canals were unique and beautiful, we skipped the drugs (both the ones in on display museums and the ones for sale in coffee shops), and the only thing we saw in the Red Light district was the Oude Kerk. If we really wanted to get a feel for Holland, Amsterdam was perhaps not the best spot. The city didn't feel very Dutch to me -- whatever that means. We stayed, for example, in a Middle Eastern neighborhood. This turned out to be a good thing, because we arrived in town on Easter evening and found restaurants and stores open anyway. We were also able to eat Turkish pastries with feta and spinach for breakfast -- yum (though Eric really wanted some sweet Dutch pastry).
       One day is not really enough to do justice to Amsterdam (much less to get a feel for the country as a whole), but we did our best. We began (after the spinach and feta) with a visit to the Verzetsmuseum (Dutch Resistance Museum). The museum tells the story of Holland during the Nazi Occupation from 1940 - 1945. As Eric's granddad was part of the resistance, it was one of the main sights we wanted to see in Amsterdam. The three extremely kind ladies behind the counter spent about 20 minutes trying to make it work for all five of us to gain admission with a family ticket, even though, at 16 1/2, Drew is no longer a child (mom's note: for payment purposes only). Some members of the family were disappointed that the museum focused on all kinds of resistance, rather than just the organized kind. I thought it was fascinating and well-done. We heard about one woman who expressed her displeasure with the Nazis by naming her baby daughter after all the female members of the exiled Dutch royal family, and another couple who rescued Jewish babies from a daycare by sneaking out when the tram was passing so they couldn't be seen by watchers across the street. During the "Hungry Winter," when ration cards provided for only about 350 calories per person each day, the Dutch also ate tulip bulbs -- the museum had recipes.

Outside the Dutch Resistance Museum

There was some information about the organized resistance movement; this chart shows some of its leadership.

        Activity number two was the obligatory walk around the city to see canals, neighborhoods, and famous buildings. (We also had lunch in an Italian restaurant.)

I loved the canals and the narrow brick buildings.

The Oude Kerk, Amsterdam's oldest church. 

      We continued our multicultural Amsterdam experience with dinner at an Indian restaurant, then we visited the Anne Frank house. Johanna read The Diary of Anne Frank for French class this year, so the annex where Anne and her family hid along with several others was an essential part of the visit. I had read mixed reviews of the tour, but I found it informative and moving. I was surprised to learn that at first, Anne's father had trouble finding a publisher for the diary. Now it's been translated into 67 languages and has sold more than 30 million copies; sometimes it's difficult to tell what's going to be a hit, apparently.

The line outside the Anne Frank House. Do I hear a "Thank you, Mom, for pre-purchasing our tickets online"?
 (No, but I'm sure they're thinking it, right?)

This picture and the one below are of the street outside the Anne Frank House. I do love that architecture.

       The little we experienced of Holland made me think of Sweden. Both countries seemed very modern, compared to Switzerland, and very multicultural (Amsterdam even more so than Sweden). In both countries, I felt comfortable and welcomed as an anglophone . . . and even as an American. Both countries embrace tolerance. In both museums we visited in Amsterdam, we felt like there was such an effort to understand and accept all points of view that the atrocities of the Nazis and those who collaborated with them were almost minimized. Eric never did get his Dutch pastry, but he was delighted to find that the city was still traditional enough to sell zoute drop. It's the one candy he doesn't have to share; we may all have some Dutch in us, but no one but Eric has enough to enjoy salty black licorice. Yuck.