A wall of glass

It had been some time since we indulged in a spot of DIY and what better way to torture yourself on a sunny Sunday afternoon with no child around than by finally deciding to mount some doors on your wardrobe.

Two years ago, when we acquired our behemoth of a wardrobe, we decided against the doors, because they did not meet our stringent design requirements. We half-heartedly searched for other solutions; I even volunteered to do something with Japanese paper; we thought of Venetian blinds. At the end of the day, however, we were unable to arrive at an agreement, which satisfied both parties. And so the whole world had a full view of most of our clothes, but not our undergarments mercifully, while we lived under a truce.

This week, though, the moon and the stars and a few planets collided and the forces of nature ordained that a decision could be made. So we plopped down the requisite sum to recreate our own little Versailles.

Thus it passed that the beloved and I spent 4 hours, with screwdrivers in hand, trying to assemble five doors. Does this mean that we are inept at what we were doing? I hear you all cry, women and DIY, never the twain shall meet. As one of *those* women, I am inclined to second that opinion. But the answer is no, not at all. Unfortunately though, our work required re-arranging the behemoth's innards to accommodate the hinges of our five 8ft tall mirrors.

So how does it feel to have a little Gallerie des Glaces in one's home? After the first door, the extent of the return on our investment dawned on us. The room looks positively enormous now (the high ceilings obviously help). On a more interesting note, I finally got a good look at myself in broad daylight. I think it's safe to say that if I ever need to be dissuaded from putting another forkful of apple crumble with double Cornish cream to my lips, all I need to do is walk up two flights of stairs, and stand in front of the mirror.

Ah, the power of the reality check. I wish I didn't have so many Marsala Brussels sprouts for dinner now.

Changes in the pipeline

I've come to the conclusion in the past weeks that this blog is a little bit too much of everything and not a lot of something.

In that sense, I think it's time to let the domestic demi-goddess of the leash and give her her own space to ramble, while reserving the 'gayelle' aspect of my blog for another space.

Keep coming back for more developments as Suburban Mum helps me split my personality in two over the next few weeks...

As for NaBloPoMo: yes, yes, I know, I forgot to post yesterday, but frankly after the whole Obama hysteria, I was somewhat uninspired to write anything except a post on my lack of inspiration. That would have been caving in to the desire to write anything.

So there you have it...

Dinner anyone?

Yes, this family has been known to have sticks for dinner.

No, seriously, in my effort to work through the list of forgotten vegetables, here is salsify. 45 minutes' labour later, let's hope it's good.

This was the halfway stage:

Gluttony

Undoubtedly my worst sin... but can one resist such an assortment of cheese?

Clockwise starting from the right of the bread:

Keiems Bloempje with black truffle (goat's cheese)
Cabecou (soft goat's cheese)
A nice Brie de Meaux (cow's milk)
Rovethym (goat's cheese)
Soumaintrain (cow's milk)
Camembert with Calvados

And an excellent walnut/raisin ficelle.

It's been three days, and I'm on a monster cheese bender; the school where the munchkin is at day camp is next door to the cheese supplier to the Belgian court, Michel Van Tricht.

This blog is starting to veer towards gastroporn, sorta.

Turning over a new leaf

I realise that I have been somewhat indolent lately when it came to updating this blog. Should I blame the credit crunch? Maybe. As a self-employed person, one's income is never far from one's mind and there were a few days last week where I feared the worst. Since then, my prospects and, as a result, my outlook have changed for the positive. I reinvented myself somewhere around 2001 and I am sure that I will be able to do so again, should the need arise. I have no shares to worry about, my pension fund will be sitting in the same position for the next 30 years at least; we bought our house for a rather low amount at a very low interest rate and it will remain the same until it is paid off, while it can only go up in value. In that sense, I am luckier than most, as evidenced from a mail that we received earlier this week, where a family member spoke of losing "mucho dinero".

At the same time, I was trying to concentrate on our nuclear family. My significant other is only six days away from her next run-in with the surgeon's scalpel, which, admittedly, does give rise for some concern.

So, instead of overwhelming you with my solicitude, I shall instead bore you to tears with the more mundane aspects of my existence on days when inspiration is far, far away, even though I am wearing my best red GAP Inspi(RED) T-shirt...

In recent weeks, I have been taking a long good hard look at myself in the mirror. A few stray grey hairs here and there, which I tend to yank out with a vengeance whenever the light catches them; on the whole not too many wrinkles; a cleavage, which my new Trinny and Susannah BFFs told me was just begging for a push-up bra to be revealed in all its glory (gulp); and alas a body, which could shed some ballast. There is a good reason for this. I have been suffering from lower back pain off and on since 1999. Gaining a pound or two means distorting the delicate balance between my vertebrae and such has been the case in recent weeks. I cannot afford to be laid up for a month.

So I shall focus on eating healthier; I do concede that I will have to make concessions as regards richness, but not taste; and all must be pretty.



Today's effort included mixed greens, smoked duck, a pomegranate, and some raspberry/pomegranate juice.

Followed by a good cuppa.


Life should always be so fabulous.

WTF?

Excuse me, but what happened? This was supposed to be my event of the year, the climactic apex, the stars and moon in the sky?

I mean, let's face it, thanks to my neurotic Christmas-impaired sister, Yule time is always a bit of a gamble in this family. The food is always indisputably good, the turkey incredible, and I could ramble on. The company less so.

Imagine my excitement, and the hard time I was having containing it, when Her Domestic Goddishness announced that she was pondering a magnum opus on that much cherished winter family fest.

Presently, the ink on the paper dried, and the tome is now ready to be dispatched through Amazon et al from 2 October onwards.

But, hold on, who was involved in the creation of the cover photo? What is this diminished goddess that I behold? Holding potatoes no less, not a turkey in sight, and invested in a colour clash of magnanimous proportions reminiscent of some of the tchotchkes that my Scandinavian relatives send me every year. Nary a cleavage in sight (pouts). Where is the sparkle, the sex, the Christmas tree effect? Where is Nigella, the snow bunny, in Salzburg? (sobs)

I guess I will have to wait for the book itself to feast mine eyes (and lest we should forget what it's all about, my palate). Oh, and this year, I will be having a Christmas potluck on 27 December, for all those people I know who loathe the family aspect of it, but who enjoy good food and good company. You have been warned!

DDG on the move today and this is what I saw along the way.

"I guess it's just a feeling - in the city..."

An experiment...

All I can think of is of slut-red raspberries in champagne jelly every time I look down at my hands. But it's growing on me.

Another year sped by...

At 1830hrs tomorrow evening, I will set another steap nearer to the barrier known as the big 4-0. Yes, I'm officially on my way to middle age proper.

And yes, that is the cake that was presented to me this evening, although I have doodled a little with the colours. I also have my first age spot on my right hand, but I'll just keep that to myself.

And I now am also on Flickr. Should you wish to be added to my friends, to view more private photos, drop me a line.

Mussels are here!

Yup, it's that time of the year. Since last Friday, Zeeuwse mosselen are here. So today four generations of Domestic Demi-Goddesses took themselves to Sint-Anneke (across the river) for a pot of Dutch mussels and French Fries. A very typical Belgian meal, right?

Delicious! Just what the doctor ordered after last night's capers (on which more in the next post).

It's really easy to make (and usually we do make this at home, but the first pot of mussels is always eaten in a restaurant in our family, go figure). Clean the mussels, remove the beards, toss out the closed ones. Heat some wine and onion and other assorted herbs depending on the tastes of your guests in a huge pot, let simmer and then add an equivalent amount of water. Bung in the mussels. Cook on high until all the mussels are open. Try to lay your hands on some French fries (in our house, this involves a timed bike ride over to the chips shop to coincide with the open mussels on the table). Mix some mustard and mayonaise for the dip. Serve, eat, and make sure you puzzle around as much as you can with the mussel shells to ensure they all fit in the cover of your pot. Seconds are a scandal; you will fail the 'anal retentive family member' test.


And behold, a pot of mussels. Comes highly recommended. Enjoy!

Raging, rampant hormones

AM

Happy Feet

-------------------------------------------

PM

Mommie Dearest

Another Saturday...

... in the DDM's lair had three women, one with a Leatherman tool in hand clustered around a toilet bowl and a new toilet cover (see below). A spot of DIY was required and since I am completely inept at such crafts and the munchkin couldn't be expected to know about such things quite yet, it fell upon SO's capable shoulders to take care of this task. And we, her loving audience, decided to look on as she demonstrated her admirable skills.

At least we achieved something today. All other chores that I had set aside for myself miserably failed: getting a new card for our digital TV receiver, which the munchkin had considerately chosen to rip out thus damaging the chip, was hopeless as the kind TV people close at 4! Hello! At 4??? Frames for photos? Impossible to find in the right colour (azure). Stylus for SO's Treo? Lines at the till were awful, so we decided against that.

On the upside, we did have an icecream at B&J's (I can recommend their Baked Alaska) and SO made one of her magnificent herbed roast chickens. And I did bag the carcass and freeze it to make stock at a later date, ever the DDM.

And this brings me to the actual point of my post. After having read the Graces' posts on Stuff that Lesbians like, I have come to the conclusion that I must be the Anti-Lesbian: I do not possess a single roll of duct tape, I do not spontaneously break out into tone-deaf versions of 80s ballads, I do carry a monstrously big purse (the contents of which I will share with you in another post some day, but it has been known to include a curtain), I do not have an entourage of women, I do not read horoscopes, and I do most certainly not hand tuck. Oh, and I hate Angelina Jolie and I forgot what heteronormative means, or maybe I've never known what it meant in the first place.

So, dear reader, what does this make me? Neither fish nor flesh. The word lesbian doesn't seem to cover the package in this case, and the word gay seems to have been coined by my male counterparts. I think of myself as all woman, and that's the way I like it best. Not all woman, in the gender sense of the word; but my temperament is feminine. It is simply my make-up and it is how I express myself. A woman, who just happens to love another woman. Unapologetically so.

DDM Express Ep. II: steam-in-bag frozen vegetables

Ever interested in pushing back the boundaries of express cooking, the DDM this week half-heartedly ventured towards the frozen section of her supermarket. Terra incognita thus far.
Although I will confess to driving 100 km for two bags of frozen garden peas imported from the UK (so much for my ecological footprint!), so far this has been the only frozen item that I consent to buy, next to haddock and cod fillets for emergency fried fish cravings.

In this household, the freezer serves a dual purpose: making and storing ice cubes, the storage of coffee imports or bread, as well as some leftovers is its main purpose in life. One of its other uses includes the quick chilling of wine or prosecco, for those days when the DMM requires an instant pick-me-up. Although now that we have a SMEG with a wine rack, these days are also a thing of the past. The bar is now open 24/7.

My suspicious eye alighted on such delicacies as boxes of soup, soup mince balls (why not make them fresh, such an easy way to keep kids entertained for at least 15 minutes until they decide to start eating them raw), French fries (only when restaurant dining, no friolators allowed beyond the threshold of my lair), and of course frozen veg.

To cut a long story short, I finally noticed some 'steamfresh' bag vegetables. Once home, I gladly tossed one of said bags in the wave and waited for the outcome. Seven minutes (not seven seconds, mind) later, the 'bing' alerted me to the fact that my vegetables were now crisp and ready for consumption. What's more, I managed not to burn my fingers while slicing open the bag. Hey presto, vegetables were go.

Some findings: I don't know about you but I have never seen carrots this shape or size before. Somewhere in Spain, there must be a slew of farmers growing miniature carrots. These are then whittled down to something which is a far cry from the whopping foot-long muscular and firm orange object known as a carrot around these parts. The accompanying crunch of these limp little stems was unsettling. As for the peas, they had shrivelled slightly. Since I prefer mine wrinkle-free, I was not amused. Munchkin then proceeded to have a hissy over the 'red thingies'. Bell pepper, you guessed it right; I checked the ingredient list to be certain. Some mottled green leaves pretended to be spinach over in a corner of the bowl next to the odd Brussels sprouts. But the main surprise was the saltiness of it all.

Now if I seem slightly sceptic about this product, bear with me for a second. Like every other lesbian food snob, I believe in choosing your own veg, where possible straight from a farm. Call me selective, so what? Secondly, I prefer a steam basket over boiling water any day. Why, you ask? Because you can fiddle. Peas do not require a 7-minute steam bath. For me, they need to be a dragon-like virulent green colour, smooth on the outside, somewhat crunchy on the inside after 3-4 minutes à la vapeur. As near to the freshly podded pea experience as you can get, but warm. The same applies to Brussels sprouts (which work really well with bacon strips by the way). Bell peppers should not be unrecognizable. As for spinach, it may wilt, but not to the point of losing all its tender charm.

Finally, there is the small but significant detail known as salt. Since the DDM is genetically predisposed to achieving unheard of cholesterol and blood pressure levels (my father's notoriously was off the meter), salt is a rare commodity in this house. We use it, but sparingly. As my taste buds adjusted to this sensation, I found myself wondering what it was designed to mask.

Meanwhile, next to me, the munchkin proceeded to gobble up half of her portion fuelled no doubt by the growls in her stomach. She was non-committal in her verdict.

Does Captain Iglo have a new customer in me? Je ne pense pas, she said delicately. Not even in a pinch.

This shopping trip also included store-bought carrot mash. Also salted beyond belief.

DDM Express

Frankly, I'm too tired at the moment to cook dinner. My lack of cooking appetite is expounded by the fact that the munchkin is doing her best to get on my nerves at dinner time.

So tonight I decided to try a different tack: dinner out of a bag. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't great. We had wild and white rice, with stir-fried asparagus (I added those for extra veg) and assorted oriental vegetables (no chopping, yeah!) and vegetable nuggets which I slapped on the griddle.
All done in a manner of 8 mins and doused in teriyaki sauce (heated in the 'wave).

And how did the munchkin react to my Express efforts? By plucking rice kernel after rice kernel off her plate and putting it on her spoon... ten kernels at a time to her mouth. It resulted in an immediate rescinding of all dessert privileges for tonight.

I'm not sure she liked it either in other words.

Yeah but no but yeah but...

Hello, let me introduce myself: I am the queen of indecision.
Case in point: the damn fridge. Remember we bought one, oh, I don't know, about three days ago.

Today my sister innocently made a remark about how much lighter the kitchen seemed without the silver moloch in the corner. Which unfortunately set the ball rolling in my overworked head and, lo and behold, I had second thoughts.

Why did we buy that fridge in particular? And what were we thinking?

And so, for the first time in my life and in the course of the ever-continuing fridge saga, I relied on my consumer rights (yeah!) and I called the supplier and said I would like to waive my purchase. This is possible under the 7 day clause. Cash back, cue my indecision.

SO and I had been dreaming of a certain other fridge for some years. A must-have that matched our design ethic and kitchen style. Yes, I did the unthinkable. I went to the store and hemmed and hawed for half an hour, confused by the option of so many models and colours.

But at the end of the day, I managed to bring myself to make a decision. And I won't be using my 7-day waiver clause for this particular appliance.

So what do you think of our cool, new cream-coloured 50s Smeg fridge? Fit for a domestic demi-goddess, no?

PS - the pic doesn't quite do it justice. It's most definitely not that shiny. The cream matches the paint we used on the mouldings in our kitchen. Pathetic, I know...

A new fridge

Remember my post on the Meneghini? After I left the fridge door open this past Saturday (for, oh, about twelve hours or so) while watching the Eurovision Campfest, and temperatures hit the roof and most of the food had to be chucked out (HACCP and cold chain, n'est-ce pas), SO and I sat down for a Skype chat.

The outcome: no wedding in the cards, but we bought ourselves a new fridge. It took us 2 hours to decide, the main argument being about whether it should have a water dispenser or not. I argued that it would make us drink more water, SO pointed out that with all the pharmaceutical crap (hormones, cocaine residue, alzheimer and other meds) in our drinking water that this was probably not such a good idea in the long run. After all, if we have Evian, why should we bother drinking anything else? I kid, of course, but you get my point.

So sometime this week, the gleaming extra-wide stainless steel beauty will hit our kitchen. Design-wise, it is rather simple, but given its position, i.e., hidden in the back corner of our kitchen, I couldn't really be bothered.

And it comes with an alarm on the door!

Life will never be the same in the beating heart of our house again.

Must-have: Meneghini fridge

I'm a sucker for anything related to the kitchen and since we're pondering the acquisition of a new fridge, I've been looking around. Of course, my eye had to fall on the one, most expensive fridge in the marketplace. You'd think it was cast in gold. For a mere 5,000 pounds, it can grace our kitchen in all its custom-made glory.

I think we need to get married soon, and get the embossed invites with the little insert card, which reads, please sponsor our beautiful new fridge, account no. so and so.

Splendiferous... Of course, we'd require a blue one.

Revelations?

I thought long and hard about whether I wanted to post a photo of myself on this blog. Given that so many other bloggers do effectively document their lives photographically, the temptation is there.

But it isn't strong enough to actually suit the action to the word. The illustration in the header of this blog is a more or less apt representation of my humble self (I do have a cleavage). I wonder if it would make a difference. Would it make this blog more humane? Would people find it easier to engage?

I don't have the answer, but in the meantime you'll have to make do with my cartoon alter ego.

The DDM has a new frock

and it's all thanks to Suburban Mum, who was kind enough to put her webdesign skills to work, in order to create me this fab new frock.

And yes, she does bespoke templates for anyone who asks nicely.

I <3 Waitrose

Yet another trip to England has sadly flown by and yet another hour of frustration as we swept ourselves through the local super-Waitrose.

My aunt looked at me incredulously and said: "Surely, the supermarkets in Belgium stock all that wonderful food; I don't understand the problem?".

How can I explain that the local Delhaize does not have Cape Cod cranberries dusted with cinnamon, a Monsooned Malabar Coffee, Sage Derby cheese, Cornish clotted cream, nice pucey stalks of rhubarb, Gü chocolate banoffee pies, etc.

I herewith hang my head and confess to being a food junkie. So handcuff me and take me back to Belgium, where foodgasms are hard to be had and few and far between.

Waitrose, I am thy humble worshiper. Now when will you answer my prayers and open a branch in Antwerp?