Following a request for the recipe, as copied from Food Network, here it is.
Peel, chop, and steam one small butternut squash until tender. Mash till smooth. Rachael Ray just bought an 8 ounce packet of frozen butternut squash puree from Trader Joe's and defrosted it, so I guess you could also do that. We don't have Trader Joe's (or indeed any decent supermarkets) over here. I've also used sweet potatoes in place of squash, and they work really well -- very earthy.
Finely grate one small onion (or half a large one). I use my Microplane grater, which gives a lovely onion slush. Add the slush to 3 tablespoons of oil or butter with a sprinkle of dried thyme and cook for a couple of minutes. Add 3 tablespoons of flour to make a roux, and stir over the heat for a couple more minutes. Gradually add 2 cups of vegetable stock (I used the water from steaming the squash and some stock powder), stirring constantly to form a smooth, thick sauce.
Stir in the mashed squash, a cup of grated cheese (cheddar, Jack, something flavorful and melty), salt and pepper to taste, a splash of milk, and a pinch of grated nutmeg. Stir well.
Add cooked pasta -- about 12-16 ounces for 4 people (or however much you normally use for 4 people). Mix well. Pour into a baking dish, sprinkle with more grated cheese, and heat through in an oven or under a grill/broiler until the top is golden brown and slightly crispy.
You can of course add things like chopped mushrooms and pepper or (ugh!) ham to the mix. Serve with a salad or green veggies.
Eet smaakelijk!
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Don't get me wrong, I love train travel!
To borrow a phrase from the wonderful Stephen Colbert, I'm putting British trains on notice. We've just booked tickets for two journeys in the next 10 days and both have left me incredulous.
Journey 1: London Liverpool Street to Norwich. When booking these tickets online, we discovered that we can book and pay without any problems, but actually getting the tickets is a little more tricky. There are three delivery options: 1) Use a Fast Ticket machine at stations (no cost); 2) Mail in 3-5 days (5 pounds); or 3) overnight delivery (10 pounds). Being somewhat reluctant to fork out additional cash on top of the ticket price and credit card fee, I opted for the Fast Ticket machine -- only to discover that there isn't one at London's Liverpool Street Station. So, if you're travelling from there, you have to pay a minimum of 5 pounds to get your tickets in advance. When Anglia Railways had the franchise, you could pick tickets up at a dedicated Anglia service point on Platform 10 -- fantastic. Now, the irritatingly named "One" organization (which somehow managed to be awarded the service) have removed that -- and indeed any levels of service -- from Liverpool Street. Bastards.
Journey 2: Cardiff to Carmarthen. Now, my problem here is not the cost (fairly typical for the generally extortionate British trains), but the time the journey will take. The distance is but 60 miles. The journey time? A staggering 2 hours and 10 minutes. Direct! That's less than 30 miles an hour! I presume our train will look something like this:
Either that, or it's going via Aberystwyth.
Journey 1: London Liverpool Street to Norwich. When booking these tickets online, we discovered that we can book and pay without any problems, but actually getting the tickets is a little more tricky. There are three delivery options: 1) Use a Fast Ticket machine at stations (no cost); 2) Mail in 3-5 days (5 pounds); or 3) overnight delivery (10 pounds). Being somewhat reluctant to fork out additional cash on top of the ticket price and credit card fee, I opted for the Fast Ticket machine -- only to discover that there isn't one at London's Liverpool Street Station. So, if you're travelling from there, you have to pay a minimum of 5 pounds to get your tickets in advance. When Anglia Railways had the franchise, you could pick tickets up at a dedicated Anglia service point on Platform 10 -- fantastic. Now, the irritatingly named "One" organization (which somehow managed to be awarded the service) have removed that -- and indeed any levels of service -- from Liverpool Street. Bastards.
Journey 2: Cardiff to Carmarthen. Now, my problem here is not the cost (fairly typical for the generally extortionate British trains), but the time the journey will take. The distance is but 60 miles. The journey time? A staggering 2 hours and 10 minutes. Direct! That's less than 30 miles an hour! I presume our train will look something like this:
Either that, or it's going via Aberystwyth.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Memories
After discussion about the "good, but not that good" Purple Hibiscus petered out at book club last week, we turned to the topic of memory. One attendee asserted that people were getting lazier about what they remembered. As proof, she cited the memory palaces that medieval monks used to construct to remember information -- a memory-based act of will that allowed the transmission of culture through the ages. I don't really see this as evidence that we aren't trying hard enough to remember things; medieval monks just didn't have to contend with TV or the Internet and had a simple filter on what they learnt and thus remembered. We don't. We're constantly bombarded with information, most of it unwanted. If monks had had to contend with pictures of cats in sinks and the the various conspiracy theories about Tom Cruise, their memory palaces would have filled up in days, not years.
My belief is that our brains are designed to hold only a certain amount of information. Once you've reached that limit, some stuff drops out -- and you have very little control over what stays and what goes. For example, I cannot remember the mobile phone number I've had for the past four years, but I can, unfortunately, recall the theme tune to Terry and June. I can't remember the names of people I've lived with in the past, but do know the results and key incidents of the first football match I went to see.* OK, so the latter does have special meaning for me, but the theme tune to Terry & June has no emotional resonance -- I hope.
I don't think anyone really wants to admit that there's a limit on what you can know. And there's always the argument that there are a lot of people -- usually academics -- who know an awful lot more than other people. But I don't think that's true. They normally know a lot about a subject that you know very little about, which is why you hold their knowledge in high regard, but you'll know equally much about topics that they like to disdain -- such as the plot lines of Friends or who shot JR.** Different topics, but not different amounts.
I don't think my fellow attendee was convinced by my argument, but I'm pretty sure I dropped in her estimation. Having the past 15 years of celebrity gossip at my fingertips does not, apparently, equate to knowing some stuff about medieval history. Shame.
* Norwich vs Tottenham, December 27, 1980. It was a 2:2 draw, a keeper was stretchered off, a black dog ran onto the pitch, and Fashanu (Justin) scored from a penalty.
** Sue-Ellen's sister, Kristin.
My belief is that our brains are designed to hold only a certain amount of information. Once you've reached that limit, some stuff drops out -- and you have very little control over what stays and what goes. For example, I cannot remember the mobile phone number I've had for the past four years, but I can, unfortunately, recall the theme tune to Terry and June. I can't remember the names of people I've lived with in the past, but do know the results and key incidents of the first football match I went to see.* OK, so the latter does have special meaning for me, but the theme tune to Terry & June has no emotional resonance -- I hope.
I don't think anyone really wants to admit that there's a limit on what you can know. And there's always the argument that there are a lot of people -- usually academics -- who know an awful lot more than other people. But I don't think that's true. They normally know a lot about a subject that you know very little about, which is why you hold their knowledge in high regard, but you'll know equally much about topics that they like to disdain -- such as the plot lines of Friends or who shot JR.** Different topics, but not different amounts.
I don't think my fellow attendee was convinced by my argument, but I'm pretty sure I dropped in her estimation. Having the past 15 years of celebrity gossip at my fingertips does not, apparently, equate to knowing some stuff about medieval history. Shame.
* Norwich vs Tottenham, December 27, 1980. It was a 2:2 draw, a keeper was stretchered off, a black dog ran onto the pitch, and Fashanu (Justin) scored from a penalty.
** Sue-Ellen's sister, Kristin.
Baggy, and a bit loose at the seams
This has been the most bizarre summer, weather-wise. July's heatwave made way for August's torrential downpours and chilly temperatures, necessitating the unearthing of jumpers, cold remedies, and fluffy bed socks. Today, we watched incredulously as wave after wave of rain swept across Amsterdam, obliterating nearby buildings from our sight. Apparently, we've had about 10 inches of rain this month; today's downpours must have nearly doubled that.
Please note: I'm not complaining (for once). I much prefer this weather to July's enervating heat; I avoided the rain on the way home and did a couple of extra sets of weights at the gym this morning, rather than venturing into the deluge outside; and I'm making butternut squash mac 'n' cheese for dinner tonight -- perfect food for a rainy day.
And I'll follow that with a double episode of My Name Is Earl, the final of America's Next Top Model -- yes, I gave in and continued to watch it, despite knowing who wins -- and then turn in for a mug of cocoa with my Nintendogs and this charming fellow, my Bagpuss hot-water bottle:
The most important,
The most beautiful,
The most magical,
Saggy old cloth cat in the whole wide world.
Please note: I'm not complaining (for once). I much prefer this weather to July's enervating heat; I avoided the rain on the way home and did a couple of extra sets of weights at the gym this morning, rather than venturing into the deluge outside; and I'm making butternut squash mac 'n' cheese for dinner tonight -- perfect food for a rainy day.
And I'll follow that with a double episode of My Name Is Earl, the final of America's Next Top Model -- yes, I gave in and continued to watch it, despite knowing who wins -- and then turn in for a mug of cocoa with my Nintendogs and this charming fellow, my Bagpuss hot-water bottle:
The most important,
The most beautiful,
The most magical,
Saggy old cloth cat in the whole wide world.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Sunday afternoon film club
The past few weekends have been spent at home. As PJ grinds his way through another berry-collecting adventure, offing various samurai lords on his way to restoring peace to his village, I watch movies. Black and white movies. And not my usual Cary Grant/Katherine Hepburn romantic comedies. Oh no. These are art-house classics, albeit art-house lite. British kitchen sink and Ozu, rather than Fellini and Fassbinder. "Darling", a grim look at what it was like to be beautiful in 60s London. "The L-Shaped Room", a grim look at what it was like to be beautiful and pregnant in 60s London. And today, "Late Spring", a grim look at what it was like to be the beautiful, devoted, unmarried daughter of a widowed father in post-war Japan. The latter was beautifully shot, hugely restrained in terms of dialogue and plot -- it played for 5 minutes before I could ascertain whether I'd turned the subtitles on properly -- and very touching. (It also inspired me to cook Japanese food this evening.) Mind you, I did have to pretend to PJ (when he appeared shortly before the end of the movie) that he'd just missed the battle with the giant, time-traveling robots that are essential to his enjoyment of any movie, and particularly Japanese ones.
The film club will be suspended for the next two Sundays, due to trips to Norwich and Cardiff. Showings will resume with "Early Summer", a grim look at one woman's resistance to familial pressure to get married in post-war Japan. I can't wait!
One question though: Why are these films so bloody expensive? I can get the latest blockbuster, complete with several hours of special features and commentaries, for less than a tenner, but a 90-minute, 60-year-old art-house classic with nothing in the way of interviews or documentaries costs 20 quid. It makes no sense!
The film club will be suspended for the next two Sundays, due to trips to Norwich and Cardiff. Showings will resume with "Early Summer", a grim look at one woman's resistance to familial pressure to get married in post-war Japan. I can't wait!
One question though: Why are these films so bloody expensive? I can get the latest blockbuster, complete with several hours of special features and commentaries, for less than a tenner, but a 90-minute, 60-year-old art-house classic with nothing in the way of interviews or documentaries costs 20 quid. It makes no sense!
Black goo
There are some English foodstuffs that simply don't translate to Continental Europe: HP sauce, decent teabags, and malt loaf. I love squidgy Soreen malt loaf, coated in a thick layer of butter, but rarely get to eat it now. So, it was time to turn to Delia and her recipe for sticky malt loaf.
First step: Buy some treacle and malt extract. The health food shops here in Amsterdam are fantastic, a veritable treasure trove of weird ingredients, like the afore-mentioned malt extract and treacle.
Step two: Whip up an odd, dark brown yeasted dough. The only sweetness comes from the treacle and some sultanas. Definitely odd. Then leave to rise for several hours.
Bake, then glaze with honey.
The end result? Pretty damn good. It's an almost savory fruit cake, which sounds unpleasant, but is actually rather addictive. And, as I discovered this morning, it gets squidgier the longer you leave it (if that's possible).
First step: Buy some treacle and malt extract. The health food shops here in Amsterdam are fantastic, a veritable treasure trove of weird ingredients, like the afore-mentioned malt extract and treacle.
Step two: Whip up an odd, dark brown yeasted dough. The only sweetness comes from the treacle and some sultanas. Definitely odd. Then leave to rise for several hours.
Bake, then glaze with honey.
The end result? Pretty damn good. It's an almost savory fruit cake, which sounds unpleasant, but is actually rather addictive. And, as I discovered this morning, it gets squidgier the longer you leave it (if that's possible).
Gourmet cuisine
Fish sticks au gratin, courtesy of Minnesota. Surprisingly good, especially when teamed with roast broccoli -- the best way of eating broccoli. 3 potatoes, some milk and cheese, and a pack of fish fingers never tasted so good.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Norwich 5: Barnsley 1
That's more like it, boys! We're now second in the table, leap-frogging ahead of Crystal Palace (sorry, Jo!) but just behind Cardiff. Ipswich, amusingly, are down at the bottom, a grim 21st. A few more results like that before Christmas and we'll avoid relegation for sure. Of course, we'll probably also lose Earnshaw to a better-paying club, but let's not worry about that just yet.
Hurrah!
Hurrah!
Amazing grace
Due to a lapse in concentration, I managed to break one of my contact lenses while on holiday, necessitating a trip to the opticians. I've been using one particular firm for my five years in the Netherlands, and they've been pretty good. However, they still demonstrate the same customer service idiosyncracies of other Dutch companies. I ordered my lens on Monday, got the phone call on Thursday to say it was in, and headed in to pick it up. 99 euros for one lens. Ouch. I dutifully swiped my PIN card, ruefully surveyed the damage, and cursed my stupidity. I then asked if, by any chance, they had any kind of insurance scheme. The chap behind the counter looked at me as if I were mildly retarded, paused to consider my question, and then said "Well, you could pay 32 euros per year and get 50% off your lenses."
I've been their contact lens customer for five years and they've never mentioned this to me before. I could have saved hundreds of euros by now if I'd known about this. When I got my lenses in the UK, the first thing my optician did was practically force me to take out their insurance. But here? No. You have to ask. And you have to ask the right questions: Firms will never volunteer the information that you might need, but will make you keep guessing until you come up with the right question.
It's lucky that I'm such a sweet-natured, patient person; a lesser individual might become extremely riled by this.
I've been their contact lens customer for five years and they've never mentioned this to me before. I could have saved hundreds of euros by now if I'd known about this. When I got my lenses in the UK, the first thing my optician did was practically force me to take out their insurance. But here? No. You have to ask. And you have to ask the right questions: Firms will never volunteer the information that you might need, but will make you keep guessing until you come up with the right question.
It's lucky that I'm such a sweet-natured, patient person; a lesser individual might become extremely riled by this.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
You shan't have a fishie on a little dishie
Or rather, in this case, in a bag of frozen food from your Albert delivery van.
I'd placed our usual monthly order with the supermarket delivery service, and included a large amount of frozen fish: cod fillets (the interestingly named kabeljauw), king prawns, and best of all, frozen scallops (notwithstanding the last time we ate scallops and PJ got sick). I had plenty of recipes planned and was looking forward to having a full freezer. But it wasn't to be. I got home to find PJ mournfully clutching a bag of frozen food for a Mevrouw Huizinga -- full of Indonesian-style "meat" products and no shellfish. He'd phoned Albert and they'd promised the delivery man would return. At 8.30, we were still waiting. At 10.30, we gave up on our scallops and turned in.
With a sense of dread, I called Albert's customer service number -- and to my surprise, talked to a darling rep, Joost. In excellent English, he listened to my plight, apologized several times, and then credited the value of the fish against our next order. Charmed, I hung up -- and then realized I should have asked, nay, demanded!, that they deliver the damn fish on Saturday morning without a delivery charge. Did I phone back? Reader, I did not. I got lucky once with a Dutch customer service rep; there's no point in pushing it twice.
So, anybody want any frozen meat products?
I'd placed our usual monthly order with the supermarket delivery service, and included a large amount of frozen fish: cod fillets (the interestingly named kabeljauw), king prawns, and best of all, frozen scallops (notwithstanding the last time we ate scallops and PJ got sick). I had plenty of recipes planned and was looking forward to having a full freezer. But it wasn't to be. I got home to find PJ mournfully clutching a bag of frozen food for a Mevrouw Huizinga -- full of Indonesian-style "meat" products and no shellfish. He'd phoned Albert and they'd promised the delivery man would return. At 8.30, we were still waiting. At 10.30, we gave up on our scallops and turned in.
With a sense of dread, I called Albert's customer service number -- and to my surprise, talked to a darling rep, Joost. In excellent English, he listened to my plight, apologized several times, and then credited the value of the fish against our next order. Charmed, I hung up -- and then realized I should have asked, nay, demanded!, that they deliver the damn fish on Saturday morning without a delivery charge. Did I phone back? Reader, I did not. I got lucky once with a Dutch customer service rep; there's no point in pushing it twice.
So, anybody want any frozen meat products?
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
PB&J shortbread, part deux
After much cursing and swearing, I can now proudly present my fabulous shortbread. Or, at least, a photo I took of it on Saturday; every last crumb has been eaten.
And the reason I couldn't post this before? I had an ampersand in the file name. We've only just figured that out -- and we both work for a technology publishing company. A case of "Do as I say, not as I do" I fear.
And the reason I couldn't post this before? I had an ampersand in the file name. We've only just figured that out -- and we both work for a technology publishing company. A case of "Do as I say, not as I do" I fear.
Latvian potato cakes
Here it is: the first trial from the new cookbook. And it was pretty damn good, if I do say so. Soft on the inside, crunchy on the outside -- a bit like armadilloes (for those of you who remember Harry Enfield's Dime Bar ads). And, best of all, Blogger's photo service is working again!
Give me a (prison) break
We've started watching RTL 5's new season of American imports: My Name Is Earl, CSI: Miami (with David Caruso and his Sunglasses of Justice), and Bones. All good stuff, nicely timed for our 8.30 dinner time through the week. However, the commercial breaks last 7 minutes and every single one contains a loooooong trailer for Prison Break. It's very, very tedious.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Oooh, he's a very nice man!
That would be Michael Palin, obviously. One of the Dutch channels at the gym has, delightfully, chosen to show his six-parter on his journey through the Himalayas, which meant I stayed on the treadmill for considerably longer than planned. But he was on a train journey to Simla and he was chatting to a historian about colonial rule and getting puris with potato curry from a lovely civil servant on the train and it was all so terribly nice and English that I had to keep watching. Bless. If I had to choose two exemplars of what it means to be a thoroughly decent English chap, I'd pick Palin and Sir David Attenborough. Very nice men.
I also watched the last 10 minutes of one of those programmes about evil children, incompetent parents and the child psychologist who makes it all better. There's nothing like having your prejudices reinforced to put a spring in your step.
I also watched the last 10 minutes of one of those programmes about evil children, incompetent parents and the child psychologist who makes it all better. There's nothing like having your prejudices reinforced to put a spring in your step.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Artery-blocking PB&J shortbread
I never understood the American fondness for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. A staple feature of the books and movies I consumed as a child, its appeal eluded me. Like Hershey's chocolate, grape juice, and Twinkies, it just seemed wrong. Until that fateful day at work when we'd run out of butter and I needed something to put under the jam on my toast. Delicious! I was hooked! PB&J on toast, PB&J tarts, and, best of all, PB&J shortbread.
This recipe was the serendipitous result of our holiday in St Lucia, a bringing together of a jam-filled shortbread recipe from Paula Deen's Food Network show and a peanut butter shortbread recipe in Bread on Arrival, a culinary mystery by Lou Jane Temple. Magpie-like, I also incorporated a peanut butter cookie recommendation for using ground peanuts in the dough to add more peanuttiness, an idea from my copy of The Best Recipe. The first time I tried this, I used the 16 tablespoons of butter in Lou Jane Temple's recipe -- and could feel my arteries seizing up as I just loooked at it. You could see butter oozing from every crevice of the finished product. Subsequently, therefore, I've reduced that by a quarter, with fine results.
As a result of all these American influences, the recipe uses American cups rather than weights for measurement, other than for the butter. If you're a Brit who loves baking, get yourself a set of cups; US cookies and cakes are fabulous, and the cups make life a lot easier!
1 1/2 cups of plain flour (US all-purpose)
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup white sugar
1/2 cup corn flour (US corn starch)
1 tsp vanilla essence
1/2 tsp salt
160 grammes butter (US 12 tablespoons), left out at room temperature to soften
1/2 cup peanut butter, creamy or crunchy
1/2 cup ground peanuts (salted but not roasted)
Raspberry jam (the cheap stuff is fine, not Bonne Maman!)
Chocolate drops, if you really hate your heart and hips. Nestle's peanut butter/chocolate swirls are particularly good here.
Set oven to 325F/170C. Grease and line a 9"x9" cake tin.
Blend the first 9 ingredients together in a food processor till you get a smoothish dough. It probably won't come together in a single ball, but that's fine.
Press half of the dough into the tin and spread with about 3 large tablespoons of raspberry jam. Drop the remaining dough in lumps over the jam to cover. Sprinkle over peanut butter-chocolate drops if you want.
Bake for 35 minutes or until golden brown around the edges. Leave to cool for as long as you can before eating: hot jam can be painful.
I've been trying to post a picture of the batch I made yesterday -- in vain! What is up with Blogger's photo service at the moment?
This recipe was the serendipitous result of our holiday in St Lucia, a bringing together of a jam-filled shortbread recipe from Paula Deen's Food Network show and a peanut butter shortbread recipe in Bread on Arrival, a culinary mystery by Lou Jane Temple. Magpie-like, I also incorporated a peanut butter cookie recommendation for using ground peanuts in the dough to add more peanuttiness, an idea from my copy of The Best Recipe. The first time I tried this, I used the 16 tablespoons of butter in Lou Jane Temple's recipe -- and could feel my arteries seizing up as I just loooked at it. You could see butter oozing from every crevice of the finished product. Subsequently, therefore, I've reduced that by a quarter, with fine results.
As a result of all these American influences, the recipe uses American cups rather than weights for measurement, other than for the butter. If you're a Brit who loves baking, get yourself a set of cups; US cookies and cakes are fabulous, and the cups make life a lot easier!
1 1/2 cups of plain flour (US all-purpose)
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup white sugar
1/2 cup corn flour (US corn starch)
1 tsp vanilla essence
1/2 tsp salt
160 grammes butter (US 12 tablespoons), left out at room temperature to soften
1/2 cup peanut butter, creamy or crunchy
1/2 cup ground peanuts (salted but not roasted)
Raspberry jam (the cheap stuff is fine, not Bonne Maman!)
Chocolate drops, if you really hate your heart and hips. Nestle's peanut butter/chocolate swirls are particularly good here.
Set oven to 325F/170C. Grease and line a 9"x9" cake tin.
Blend the first 9 ingredients together in a food processor till you get a smoothish dough. It probably won't come together in a single ball, but that's fine.
Press half of the dough into the tin and spread with about 3 large tablespoons of raspberry jam. Drop the remaining dough in lumps over the jam to cover. Sprinkle over peanut butter-chocolate drops if you want.
Bake for 35 minutes or until golden brown around the edges. Leave to cool for as long as you can before eating: hot jam can be painful.
I've been trying to post a picture of the batch I made yesterday -- in vain! What is up with Blogger's photo service at the moment?
The Norwegian rain joke
"An American visits Oslo on business. After two weeks, he stops a small boy in the streets and asks: 'Hey sonny, does it ever stop raining here?' The boy looks at him and replies, 'I don't know, sir. I'm only 11.'"
That's pretty much how I feel in Amsterdam today.
That's pretty much how I feel in Amsterdam today.
Stuffed pig's head
Feeling rested and refreshed, we moved on to Riga. Normally, we'd have taken a cab, but we were feeling adventurous (and cheap), so took a train instead, 25 km for the bargain price of 51 Latvian santimes. (I have to question why anyone would set a fare at 51 santimes, though. 50, yes; 55, possibly; 60, fine. But 51? It makes no sense! We had to scrabble through our pockets to find 2 santimes to add to the 20 lati note that was the smallest we had.) Again, the preponderance of stone-washed denim and batwing jumpers made me feel like we'd stepped back into the 1980s. We then traipsed for what seemed like ages through various parks and streets to get to our hotel, necessitating a little nap before heading out to explore.
It must be said that PJ and I aren't the most dedicated of sight-seeers. We like museums if they have a good shop and/or cafe; we enjoy looking at architecture; and we're quite happy to sit in a bar and watch people, but we don't usually feel a tremendous need to check a bunch of sights off a list. I only had two things that I wanted from the afternoon: a visit to the house with cats on it and a Latvian cookbook. Not only did we see the cat house (shades of Danielle Dax, pop-pickers), but the rather nice restaurant below also had a real cat in it and some excellent wild mushrooms on toast.
The cookbook was in the first souvenir shop we went into, and is a gem: lots of recipes involving pickled herring or dry cottage cheese and a recipe for something called "head cheese", which involves taking a whole pig's head, removing the brains, boiling the head with vegetables, removing the skin and fat, and dicing the head, ears and tongue, before boiling again in a bag and then pressing it for 8 hours. While you must admit that it sounds delicious, I don't think that's going to be on my must-try list anytime soon. (One other problem is that many [truly tempting] recipes involve something called manna-croup, defined as the husked grains of manna grass, used for making porridge. I didn't see any supermarkets while in Latvia, so I wasn't able to get any. It sounds like a thickener, so maybe corn starch or polenta would work as a substitute -- any opinions, oh Peace Corps workers?)
We continued to wander the streets, took photos of the key buildings, and then attempted to locate a recommended restaurant for dinner, only to find the block it was on had been demolished. Damn! Feeling lazy, we opted for the deep-fried plate in our hotel's 11th floor skybar, which was jolly nice and had a fabulous bar as well as great views over the city. Sometimes, laziness really is the best policy.
It must be said that PJ and I aren't the most dedicated of sight-seeers. We like museums if they have a good shop and/or cafe; we enjoy looking at architecture; and we're quite happy to sit in a bar and watch people, but we don't usually feel a tremendous need to check a bunch of sights off a list. I only had two things that I wanted from the afternoon: a visit to the house with cats on it and a Latvian cookbook. Not only did we see the cat house (shades of Danielle Dax, pop-pickers), but the rather nice restaurant below also had a real cat in it and some excellent wild mushrooms on toast.
The cookbook was in the first souvenir shop we went into, and is a gem: lots of recipes involving pickled herring or dry cottage cheese and a recipe for something called "head cheese", which involves taking a whole pig's head, removing the brains, boiling the head with vegetables, removing the skin and fat, and dicing the head, ears and tongue, before boiling again in a bag and then pressing it for 8 hours. While you must admit that it sounds delicious, I don't think that's going to be on my must-try list anytime soon. (One other problem is that many [truly tempting] recipes involve something called manna-croup, defined as the husked grains of manna grass, used for making porridge. I didn't see any supermarkets while in Latvia, so I wasn't able to get any. It sounds like a thickener, so maybe corn starch or polenta would work as a substitute -- any opinions, oh Peace Corps workers?)
We continued to wander the streets, took photos of the key buildings, and then attempted to locate a recommended restaurant for dinner, only to find the block it was on had been demolished. Damn! Feeling lazy, we opted for the deep-fried plate in our hotel's 11th floor skybar, which was jolly nice and had a fabulous bar as well as great views over the city. Sometimes, laziness really is the best policy.
Life in a Baltic spa town
Never having been to a proper spa hotel before, I wasn't sure what to expect. Would it be fabulous luxury, with aging, wealthy, overly made-up ladies who lunch decked out in diamonds and leopard-print swimsuits or more like a Soviet sanatorium, with people wandering around in plastic-soled white shoes being denied dessert? Well, a little of column A and a little of column B. The hotel (pictured below) had recently been renovated tastefully -- well, apart from the Casino on the ground floor, which had young ladies wearing stripper-style stacked platform shoes and very short skirts serving drinks. Our room was a good size, the bathroom was excellent (although lacking the usual array of shampoos and body lotions that you get in Western hotels), and we had a balcony with a great view of the fairground below -- and, thankfully, great double-glazing. The breakfasts and lunches that were part of the deal were fine: lots of pickled fish and sour-cream-drenched salads at both, all accompanied by "Hank Marvin plays popular 80s hits on his twangy guitar" music or bossanova classics. The swimming pool changing rooms smelled disturbingly of feet, but the sauna and pool facilities were great -- 5 different saunas and steam rooms, including one where you rubbed yourself down with great handfuls of salt before running through a series of increasingly cold jets. The spa treatments were excellent and highly efficiently organized, if a little more spartan than the day spas I've been to in the UK and US.
And the guests were, well, ordinary. Men with large, taut bellies; women with not-so-taut bellies in skimpy bikinis; small children being annoying as only small children can be; Russians, Latvians, and Finns. Lots of stonewash denim and other 80s fashions. Old people, young people, families, teenage couples, people in wheelchairs, irritatingly attractive 16 year olds. A man in the most appalling floral G-string posing pouch -- thank God I'd broken a contact lens by that point and was wearing my lower-strength glasses. But in general, just ordinary.
The notion of going to a spa resort for a holiday is fairly foreign to the Brits, preferring, as we do, to go somewhere sunny and get drunk for 2 weeks instead. Being pummelled, scrubbed, and sprayed with icy water doesn't sound like much fun, but it was extraordinarily relaxing. We didn't watch TV for a week, although the free Wi-Fi meant that we stayed in touch with any important developments in the world of celebrity gossip. (Kate Hudson and Owen Wilson! Posh's new haircut!). We took long walks (and one run) along the beach, read and played PSP games, had afternoon naps, and generally chilled out. Highly recommended if you just want to get away from it all for a few days.
And the guests were, well, ordinary. Men with large, taut bellies; women with not-so-taut bellies in skimpy bikinis; small children being annoying as only small children can be; Russians, Latvians, and Finns. Lots of stonewash denim and other 80s fashions. Old people, young people, families, teenage couples, people in wheelchairs, irritatingly attractive 16 year olds. A man in the most appalling floral G-string posing pouch -- thank God I'd broken a contact lens by that point and was wearing my lower-strength glasses. But in general, just ordinary.
The notion of going to a spa resort for a holiday is fairly foreign to the Brits, preferring, as we do, to go somewhere sunny and get drunk for 2 weeks instead. Being pummelled, scrubbed, and sprayed with icy water doesn't sound like much fun, but it was extraordinarily relaxing. We didn't watch TV for a week, although the free Wi-Fi meant that we stayed in touch with any important developments in the world of celebrity gossip. (Kate Hudson and Owen Wilson! Posh's new haircut!). We took long walks (and one run) along the beach, read and played PSP games, had afternoon naps, and generally chilled out. Highly recommended if you just want to get away from it all for a few days.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Architecture in a Baltic spa town
We were staying in the small seaside resort of Majori, the most urbanized part of the region known as Jurmala ("seaside"). It had the feel of an out-of-season British seaside town, complete with disconsolate candy-floss and ice-cream vendors, a small fairground, an amusement arcade amusingly named "Bumerangs", and a burnt-out nightclub -- although there were far more people selling pickling cucumbers than you get in Blackpool. However, it did provide a wonderful variety of architectural styles:
From late 19th century clapboard houses tucked away among the pine trees:
to miniature castles:
to lavish, yet sadly deserted, beach-side venues:
and to hulking, Soviet-style brutalist hotels. Mmmm, brutalist hotels!
A tremendous amount of building work was taking place, presumably installing modern plumbing into many of the Victorian-era houses -- originally, their owners would bathe in the sea each morning, rather than using any of that new-fangled hot water. I daydreamed idly about selling the apartment in Amsterdam and buying a doer-upper in Jurmala, conjuring up my own little spa haven just behind the beach. Unfortunately, my clapboard castles in the air were rudely destroyed by the realty magazine that was the only reading material in the waiting area for the pearl baths: Jurmala is home to some of the most expensive real estate in Latvia, with properties going for upwards of 1 million euros. How many pickling cucumbers and candy floss would I have to sell to raise that kind of cash? No Latvian spa for Dumpling this year!
From late 19th century clapboard houses tucked away among the pine trees:
to miniature castles:
to lavish, yet sadly deserted, beach-side venues:
and to hulking, Soviet-style brutalist hotels. Mmmm, brutalist hotels!
A tremendous amount of building work was taking place, presumably installing modern plumbing into many of the Victorian-era houses -- originally, their owners would bathe in the sea each morning, rather than using any of that new-fangled hot water. I daydreamed idly about selling the apartment in Amsterdam and buying a doer-upper in Jurmala, conjuring up my own little spa haven just behind the beach. Unfortunately, my clapboard castles in the air were rudely destroyed by the realty magazine that was the only reading material in the waiting area for the pearl baths: Jurmala is home to some of the most expensive real estate in Latvia, with properties going for upwards of 1 million euros. How many pickling cucumbers and candy floss would I have to sell to raise that kind of cash? No Latvian spa for Dumpling this year!
Friday, August 18, 2006
The obligatory movie tie-in blog post
"Get those muthaf*****' snakes off my muthaf*****' Art Nouveau house!"
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