City blog (well sorta): Big Sur

It's strange to think that almost one month ago we were driving that big red Jeep down Big Sur, but yes, indeed, we were basking in the gorgeous Cali sun.

I do remember that the beginnings of that leg of our trip were rather shaky. The rain as we landed in San Francisco, the interminable trip on the airport train to the car rental place, the reminder that road lighting is optional in much of the US and the fact that the overhead lights in the damn car didn't work... We arrived in a wind-swept Pacifica and all I could think of was that after the blissful sun of New York we were going to be cloaked in fog for the next week.

But the next morning, I woke up to this.



No fog, no mist, just sublime waves crashing on the beach a few metres from our window.

It's hard to resume what we saw in one blog post so I will just leave you with some random impressions.

- our picnic on the deserted beach at Carmel-by-the-Sea framed by beautiful cypress and pine trees, white sand and phenomenal waves. They have a great deli in Carmel by the way.
- the wild avocado flower honey that we tasted at a farm stand in the hills just outside of Pacifica.
- the pumpkin patches.
- Gilroy, garlic capital of the world (no giant garlic, sadly).
- Driving past the esalen retreat and realizing that their hot springs must indeed have quite the view.
- being generally stunned by the raw beauty of California's nature.
- being generally nauseous because of the hairpin turns on Big Sur and the way my SO was negotiating them with the big red near-Hummer.
- vowing that I would actually camp in a cabin next time (sockets a must for hairdryer or you'll have to pay me to deliver on this promise)
- gorgeous, gorgeous Cambria's Moonstone Beach and Robin's fusion restaurant
- the blissfully lazy elephant seals on the beach as well as the zebras (!) grazing on the Hearst ranch.
- the beef of the Hearst ranch which is actually very good with barbecue sauce.
- huge quantities of vitamin water

Our main aim was to reach San Simeon, W.R. Hearst's mountain retreat near Cambria which he created with architect Julia Morgan. I was a bit taken aback by the extremely professional manner in which you are herded (the word is entirely appropriate, given the nearby ranch) around the estate by two guides, one always tailing in the back to make sure that you don't walk off with any of the persimmons or christmas baubles (I kid you not). Some thoughts:

- the ketchup bottle on the table at Hearst Castle (it seems to me that he would have used something more elegant in view of the rather dazzling display of silverware)
- the beautiful faded two-toned shoes in one of the guest rooms at Hearst Castle
- the guides at Hearst Castle, who I'm sure are all former actors or similar.
- the Bavarian woodwork of Hearst's floor.
- the deer that skittered away among the fabulous orchard trees.
- the gothic living room where the glitterati of the day partied the night away (I cannot imagine what it must feel like to down a cocktail while sitting in a choir bench imported from Siena).

Conclusion: I think that I wouldn't mind a honeymoon in Cambria some time, doused with a lot of Coppola wine and excellent fish but most of all I wouldn't mind a swim in Mr Hearst's indoor pool.

On one final note: I've just started reading Hearst's biography, but I do feel as if he was taken to Bavaria in his youth and fancied himself a latter-day King Ludwig of Bavaria. Then again, he wasn't prone to fits of paranoia and was rather gregarious so maybe the book will prove me wrong.

I leave you with the munchkin doing what munchkins do best at that age: relaxing by the outdoor pool of Hearst Castle.

Wholesome

Some of my more regular readers may have noticed that I changed my frock recently. Of course this isn't entirely due to the fact that the imagery of my previous blog design went belly up because the designer forgot to upgrade his/her photobucket account. Nor is it due to the fact that I'm so lazy that I forgot to save said aforementioned imagery.

No, dearests, since I've been to Californi-A, I've turned over a whole new leaf. I've become a convert to the wholesomeness of it all. The bright sparkly teeth that shine in pretty smiles, the sun-blessed produce (I still haven't figured out what all the water billboards were about, but I vow to go back and find out on a tax-deductible fact-checking trip like most Belgian politicians), the keep it simple attitude to life and food.

If my jaws were hurting during said trip from smiling so much - I am, after all, naturally prone to despondency of the darkest kind -, then they have been positively smarting since we got back. Yes, dear readers, I am making a valiant effort to be a shiny, happy, wholesome person.

Now all I need is a teeth whitening treatment - all those years of imbibing coffee and PG tips and the odd smoke here and there - and I'll be one step closer to the real thing. In the meantime, hold your horses while I go quaff some more wine. After all, can a leopard change its spots?

;-)

It's that most wonderful time of the year again...

and this time, I'm beginning to wonder if my sister read past posts about Christmas. Because so far everything is going smoothly. We have a bird. We have consensus. And I may use double cream, when I finally get around to deciding what dessert I can concoct with it. My god, is this finally one of those years where the words, Christmas: food, family, festivities will not inevitably be associated with fiasco?

So far Shanghai Lily is still standing and our cat hasn't delved deep down into her feral being to molest our tannenbaum. My SO made it back from the Bermuda Triangle, otherwise known as Brussels Airport where luggage inevitably is lost (4th time this year). And my outlaws are on their way to the airport to pre-empt the 'worst snow storm in five years' and hopefully fly out on time.

I may just have to sit down and have a drink now because I can hardly believe all of this good fortune.

Beer here!

With the Oktoberfest behind us, it is time to reflect on that other nectar, known as beer. It is a rare event when beer is served at this house, and I don't know if it is due to the fact that we are too lazy to carry a whole crate home or if we simply only appreciate at certain times of the year.
At any rate, this week's nifty and tasty shepherd's pie called for some beer.

Now I am actually fortunate enough to hail from the village next to the Westmalle Trappist Brewery, meaning I was practically raised in the pub across from the abbey. I kid, of course, but you get my gist. So the choice was easy: both my SO and I have become extremely fond of Westmalle's Dubbel over the years. Not only is this one of the only dark trappist beer to be on tap in most cafes and restaurants, it is also the beer that is closest to the beer that the monks have been brewing for themselves for centuries.

So what else can I tell you about this beverage? Its hue is reddish-brown and its flavour has been described as fruity, herby, bitter, and fresh. It's safe to say that you have to try one for yourself to appreciate the adjectives. What I like about it, is that it's a mild beer, with a dry aftertaste, and I especially enjoy it with bread and the cheese from the same abbey.

And on a final note, yes, I did poach a glass from the pub and yes, I do know it's not the regulatory glass (which is also in my possession). Some people nab Starbucks mugs, I go for beer glasses.

Asparagus risotto

What else can one do? I have a kid who is obsessed with asparagus and Brussels sprouts.

I reworked a Giorgio Locatelli recipe, which I'm sure is somewhere on the net, leaving out the asparagus cream, as I only had the tips and no full spears to render in my trusty Magimix. I did however create a compound of vegetable and asparagus stock for the rice.

Trust me, it went down a treat!

And note that we are so asparagus-obsessed that we have asparagus placemats (I plead completely not guilty on this one).

City blog: New York

Oh possums, where do I start? It was gloriously, ludicrously glorious. A slight glitch, you know like the one where the needle slides on the record, as the munchkin collapsed just before we hit the bridge into NYC and I had to carry her, wrapped in a blanket into the hotel, in the pouring rain. But other than that: splendour all around.

What a city. It leaves me breathless. And this morning I was vehemently reminded of it again, as I opened my new book on W.R. Hearst and the ginkgo leaves that I had gathered near the Dakota after our stroll through Central Park fell out of it.

We stayed in Washington Square. Neighbours to SJP, natch. But more importantly, on the cusp of the SO's hood when she lived in NYC. Perfect for travelling uptown, but also for SoHo, Nolita and the rest of it. Our Meatpacking days are over, but instead we got Babbo... Just across the street from us, no less.

Now Babbo, Mario Batali's restaurant, had been a figment of my imagination that I had been nursing for quite some time.

It all started with the chance discovery of Dario (remember Dario near Florence, dear readers?) and his delicious meat. Then my SO brought home a book - Bill Buford's Heat - which her colleague had been telling her about. Halfway through his long-winded review of the book, she interrupted him and said, Dario? The butcher? In Panzano? Cue the green-eyed monster, as the foodie realised that we had just dropped in for a MacDario one sunny May afternoon. The challenge was to do the same in New York at Babbo. Of course, this is New York, where in some places you have to work the phone for a whole hour one month ahead of your desired seating. The link? Mario and Dario had worked together. And they redefined Italian food as we know it.

Did we succeed? Yes, dear reader, we did. Our kid's face got smushed against the glass partition of a yellow cab on the way downtown but at 5:05 p.m. on a Sunday we waited on the kerb to score one of the six walk-in tables.

What follows was gastronomic heaven: culatello and a heavenly finocchiona. Goat cheese tortellini with orange and fennel pollen. A duck that melted in my mouth. Deliciously matched wines. My God. And what's more, an angelic child, who sat through this and who wolfed down her own papardelle.

Life could not be more perfect... But we digress.

Naturally we did visit a few museums (Guggenheim for the Kandinsky exhibit, MoMa). Naturally we drank exorbitant amounts of coffee. Naturally we made our pilgrimages to McNulty's coffees & teas and Murray's cheese shop. Naturally we eschewed the Magnolia Bakery. Naturally we had a burrito at Benny's Burritos. Naturally we went to Dean & DeLuca. Naturally my kid decided that cucumber maki and edamame made an excellent TV snack to be eaten with bashi in hand. Because everything comes natural in New York.

Never mind what they tell you to do. Just go with the flow. Because when the sun is out and somebody is playing a washboard in Washington Square Park and the Empire State Building lights up in the distance in the golden sun, all you can do is just go with the flow.




First pic courtesy of my SO. Second and last from my iPhone.

Back in 1984, when I was still fresh and lovely and rather a "fille niaise" as the French would say, I remember being fascinated by this song by Axel Bauer. This was obviously before I had ever seen the Fassbinder film, "Querelle" and before my French was good enough for a second, more attentive reading of the lyrics. The girl's boobs (NSFW), as far as I'm concerned, are just there to convince everyone that this is not a homo-erotic video clip. I leave you to decide for yourself as you watch this excellent video by Jean-Baptiste Mondino. A warning though: the refrain will stick in your head for a couple of days.

Axel Bauer - Cargo de nuit


But then, let's go on to make some assumptions. We know that Madonna worked with Jean-Baptiste Mondino on several occasions, and as early as 1986 (Human Nature, Open Your Heart, etc.). So how interesting that she went on to make the following clip, with David Fincher, based of course, on Fritz Lang's Metropolis, but now take a look at the men...

Madonna - Express Yourself

Back to the present.

Normal cooking will resume today!

Yes, dears! It's autumn and I have the Bake-o-glide ready and I'm rearing to go.

Yesterday evening marked the real debut of autumn food, although in all fairness our meals in the last four days have had orange ingredients in them, the most healthy option being the hamburger with shredded carrots in the mince mix earlier this week, which was a hit all around.

But yesterday came the first of many carb bombs, in the form of a delicious butternut squash orzotto. For some reason, when it matters the most, I'm never able to find a bloody butternut squash. I did however stumble upon a marrow in one supermarket, and something that resembled a butternut pumpkin, all the way from Spain at the Asian corner store. So I settled for the disconcertingly pale little pumpkin and proceeded to hack it up with all of the glee of a mutant ninja housewife.

Seconds later (nah, I kid you, it took a little longer than that, exactly the time to get to the oven to 220°), I oiled up the oven dish and tossed in my little pumpkin squash cubes and microplaned some nutmeg over them. They spent 40 minutes in the oven caramelizing themselves to a delicious sweetness. Did I mention that I'm interminably lazy and did not bother with peeling my little plump goodie?

Meanwhile I cheated and brought some powdered veggie stock to the boil and started gently frying an onion in some oil. In went the orzo or pearl barley, followed by a liberal sprinkling of some Sauvignon Blanc. And then... I screamed with glee because of the facility of an orzotto, which unlike a risotto does not require 20 minutes of arm and ladle work. Simply pour in the stock and let it all sit on the hob for approx. 30 minutes on low heat.

Finally, when the oven's buzzer goes off, toss half of your squash in a girl's best friend (no, not diamonds, silly but your magimix!), add some mascarpone, whizz away and scoop it all in the orzo, which should be pleasantly nubbly by now.

Brown some pine nuts and you have a deliciously filling fall meal known as orzotto. Feel free to try this out with other vegetables.

This afternoon: white chocolate and craison oat cookies; this evening sprouts and chestnuts with bacon. Fall has landed with a bang.

(photo taken on an afterthought as I was carrying the plate to the table and already contemplating its consumption).

Introspection

12 years already since my father died. 12. Yesterday and yet still today. Autumn is in the air, the colours are ripe oranges, and blushing reds, and the screaming bright ochres of certain trees, which stand out in gardens and parks. I cried for the first time yesterday as I was scouring the sink after breakfast. A friend's father has been given weeks to live and I try to understand my own feelings in the face of her feelings.
I never had the time to grieve. Too many decisions to be made, too much responsibility placed on my shoulders suddenly.
And this morning, as Arvo Pärt's 'Festina Lente' burst from the radio, I cried again.
The scar never heals, the pain never ebbs away.

Brand-new, I'm so retro

Oh goodness, where do I start? I'm a firm believer in those Sunday stalwarts, in traditional cooking, the cooking of my mother and my grandmothers... You could transport me to the 1950s and I'd be perfectly happy puffing away on a cigarette, in some waist-cinching dress in my loungy interior as I swirl my cocktail. It's like Mad Men redux, really, but I digress.

In recent weeks, I've been revisiting some of the dishes of my youth. The unctuous, creamy chicken and mushrooms of a bouchée à la reine (or vol-au-vent, as it is sometimes known) and some French fries made up today's lunch. It is still one of my favourite quick lunches.

Then there was the tomate crevettes, or tomatoes with shrimp.
Now I feel that it is my duty to enlighten you on the shrimp wars that are waged in this household. My SO, who hails from the US, firmly believes that a shrimp should be a large, pink object, which we call a prawn. Here, in Europe, however, we have grey shrimp, which live in the North Sea. (Never mind that after being caught, they are routinely shipped to Morocco for peeling and then shipped back to us in here in the EU. Then again, we don't believe in that, we never did and we never will (wink, wink, nudge, nudge). Instead, in this household, the shrimp are bought cooked and we spend an inordinate amount of time peeling them ourselves.)
This dish involves scooping out a tomato, tossing the shrimp in some mayo, spooning it into the tomato and then sprinkling said mixture with some chives. Usually I set said dish on the table, only to watch my SO crinkle her nose and say something along the lines of 'but they're the grey shrimp... they smell so fishy'. Cue my incredulous look. Yes, you will remember that they hail from the North SEA (!).
These days, however, I take a bit of dry sherry, some oil, some white wine vinegar and beat it quickly into a dressing. Mix in the shrimp. Cut up and deseed some of our home-grown cherry tomatoes. Scoop out an avocado and spoon in the mixture and devour it. Yes, let's face it, we all need our vitamins.
And then, my grand finale, the dish which guided me through many a Sunday lunch as a child: poussin à l'estragon. Unfortunately, my first girlfriend's nickname was petit poussin. Imagine her horror when she found out what I ate one Sunday lunch and the ensuing two-day cataclysm of silence. These days, I borrow from a Nigella recipe, and toss them in the oven with a few sweet potatoes, cinnamon and cumin and a liberal sprinkling of olive oil.


So there you have it, just another old-fashioned girl ragging on about her old-fashioned taste in food...

Now tell me, do you like old-fashioned food?

PS - photography is not up to scratch, but I wasn't really paying attention as I was trying to juggle getting dinner to the table and thinking about my blog...

It's been a while...

Of course, that's not to say that I didn't eat in the past few months. Those of you who have seen me/know me in real life would confirm that this statement is true. For, dear reader, the past months have been a bounty for me.

I have spent hours, nay days in the warm sun of a Belgian summer, forsaking the lure of London (and its swine flu) for greener pastures and sandy beaches. I have eaten freshly-caught fried fish, excellent salads, delicious courgette flowers, succulent peaches and extravagant desserts. In short, I did not waste away. This was also the first year that we used our garden space to our advantage, growing figs, lemons and tomatoes and garden herbs. The tomatoes, it must be explained, were our munchkin's idea. On our forays in Florence, she ventured into a beautiful flower store near Piazza della Signoria, lured undoubtedly by the divine perfume of the gorgeous flowers in it, and then pitter-pattered over to the wall full of beautifully packaged seeds. Cherry tomatoes and courgettes, she chose, and I dismissed the packets as an illusion by its nature sweet after we returned to the homestead.

But, no, my SO and the munchkin decided to flex their green fingers and sowed them. The harvest (which is still ongoing) yielded a bumper crop of tomatoes and many a delicious pasta was concocted with them. After all, in this house, oil, onion, garlic, tomatoes, basil and black olives are enough to satisfy the hungry horde.

So below, I leave you with a photo of some home-grown freshly picked tomatoes and basil and the promise of a next post on the retro girl that I am. But first, I must venture out and enjoy the Indian summer.

Enjoy.

Le perroquet bleu?

In other news, our ancient wine opener caved in the other day. Well, to be honest, it was an accident waiting to happen given our excessive consumption of white and red ambrosia (and that's not including the prosecco we imbibe). There's no better wake-up call than a trip to the bottle dump... It's a true walk of shame in this household.

So the munchkin and I took ourselves over to one of the swankier home stores in the city, after deciding against the traditional Laguiole opener. Let's face it, you're talking to the woman who managed to stab herself in the leg with a Leatherman tool only last week in a feisty slapdown with a Disney toy. At this point, I'll take safety over tradition, any time.

As we walked in, and I gripped my wallet tightly, hoping to minimize damage on my credit card bill, my daughter pounced on a bright blue object in the display.

- Munchkin: Look mummy, it's a parrot!
-Me: Yes, dear, but can it open a bottle?
- Shop assistant: It *is* a wine opener. It's by Alessi. (she said that just a little too emphatically for my taste).
- Me: Alessi, did you say?
- Shop assistant: Yes, it only costs *nominal amount*.
- Me: (trying not to pass out, squeak)
- Munchkin: We'll take it.
- Me (glaring at the munchkin and coughing up the dough to the evil grinning shop assistant).

On a good note, it *is* indeed a wine opener and it does indeed open a bottle. Effortlessly. But why did it have to be a bright blue PARROT?

Ah Antwerp, how I love thee... and your beer...

Only in Antwerp will you see a tram like this - straight from the past, but more importantly, with a sign for Antwerp's own brewery, De Koninck, the brewery of the hand. I could tell you a lot about it, but all you need to know for now is that it is established in Antwerp since 1833, and that they make the 'bolleke'.

How should I describe this amber-coloured ambrosia, its velvety flavour and the rich foam which greets you as you lift the typical bolleke glas to your lips? Oh, and by the way, on tap, please, never from the bottle.

Drink it in one of Antwerp's brown cafés and you will never want anything else. I recommend some cheese and mustard as a side.

PS - sadly the tram team did not have bollekes on board. Shame on them all!

You can never be too rich...

or have enough lobstah!

Especially when you're hitched to a New Englander.

My new kitchen wear

When I don't look like an Italian housewife from the 1940s, I simply wear an apron to cover up my daily garb.

My SO found me this little gem - matches the blue of our kitchen, and as far as I am concerned was made for me.

Pizza - the lazy way

In the same Italian vein as my previous post, one evening I decided that I needed pizza. Rather than venture out on a balmy evening to our local Italian charmer and his tiny, but hot pizzeria, I decided I would try to put together something similar myself.

But, I am the natural sloth. And a fan of the express way. So rather than slave over a ball of dough in order to create the right type of pizza base, I hemmed and hawed and pondered how to make life easier.

Now in Antwerp, we are fortunate to have our weekly double feature market - always a Moroccan or Turkish stand around, always some flatbreads to be had. Except that there is one stand, at the top of the theatre square, which not only serves good mint tea, but also sells a range of different flatbreads. More specifically, a flatbread, that resembles a pizza base.

Once I had my base, I realised that I would have to compensate for its foreign nature with some good Italian tomatoes. Thanks to La Tomaterie, I found some excellent hand-peeled San Marzano tomatoes from La Motticella; the true taste of old tomato varieties, that are grown organically and treated with love. The kind of jar that you open and when the scent hits you, you suddenly are transported to another country, to a country where slow is a way of life, and where ripe really means falling off the plant. These tomatoes are so good that you can eat them raw, and it was all I could do not to attack them.
With that, I had something to work with for a tomato base. Add some freshly grown basil, garlic, tomatoes, carrot and dried oregano (yes, we forgot to plant some!) and you almost have a pizza.

The last ingredient: mozzarella; shredded. Since this was an express pizza, I resorted to the bagged stuff from the supermarket. But it worked for us, and since I couldn't immediately lay my hands on the recipe for my dad's old cheese mix, it had to suffice.

Below is the finished result, pre-oven:

Given that there was none left to photograph afterwards, I would say it was a hit?

Purse, not purslane...

Some of you will remember my monster purse from last year... I still find it amazing that I lugged all that around, and that did not even include the curtain!

Well, the purse was entered in a competition and won a prize for messiest purse around: a purse organiser or a Hopper as it is known.

One year later, I would just like to share my purse with you:
What a vast improvement, wouldn't you say?
If you need some order in your life, go to www.organizeandstyle.com for your own.

Finally - the porchetta post

Where do I start?

The porchetta post took shape somewhere last year, when I realised that my local deli stocked porchetta. I hadn't eaten it in aeons and once I introduced my SO to this delicacy, she was of course convinced that I had been hiding this delectable pork dish from here on purpose.

Then we travelled to Italy and on my first day, I entered a little family restaurant, where they just served the last sandwich with porchetta. It was a weekend, I was hungry, my nostrils and taste buds suffered. We then hit up Dario Cecchini's butcher shop in Panzano, where I became convinced that I could and would give up an arm, a leg and maybe even my first-born for his arista di porchetta... subsequently, everywhere I looked during our trip, there was porchetta.... gorgeous pork, whole loins, shoulders of pork, whole pigs even, stuffed with fennel and other delicious herbs.

And thus, when I returned and realised that life in Belgium meant being separated from one of my favourite dishes in the world, I felt that I had to try my hand at it at least once.

Matters were complicated by the secret ingredient, fennel pollen, which is hugely expensive and naturally hard to find. Literally an hour, before I was ready to start preparing it, on a Sunday, I finally found the elusive stuff only to discover that I could lay my greedy hands on it on... Monday. A small defeat, but at least now I know where to get it.

And so, a pork loin was procured from the Irish organic butcher. It was butterflied and the fat removed.

I then proceeded to hem and haw for one day about which herbs I would or would not use. I finally decided rosemary was in, bay out and that my secret ingredient would be Dario's salt, which does contain fennel pollen.

After a slight battle with a loin and a lot of string, this is what the result looked like, pre-oven.

Don't be fooled by the clean kitchen surface. I actually did tidy everything up before daring to take this photo.

As the pork and the herbs started to do their magic in the oven, I realised, 1.5 hr in, that the scent of garlic and herbs was familiar to the scent of the fresh porchetta that I tried in a farmer's market in Florence.

And here you have it: the final product.

Served with loads of raw vegetables (fennel, celery, carrots, cherry tomatoes, good bread, olive oil and Dario's salt for dipping).

A delicious dinner was had by all.

Next time: with fennel pollen. And maybe a different cut of pork.

Apologies!

Once again I've been awfully remiss about updating this blog. For once, it is not due to my natural slothness. Instead, I've been trying to juggle work, a four-year old, and incredible summer weather over the last month, meaning we have literally lived on the street.

Did we eat? Yes, of course. Was the food delicious? Yes.

Coming up - a post on porchetta, another one making rose ice-cream, and one on the delicious drink known as Pimm's. I kid you not. I will be updating this blog in the next 48 hours.

In the meantime, I have a swimming-pool that is beckoning.

Ciao!