Holland speaks to much of my soul. Lush and green. Friendly. But mostly because the national foods are cheese, pancakes and frites with fritessaus - otherwise known as chips drowning in mayonnaise with a fat content on par with cheese. I'm not even kidding. It's so freakin' delicious. I think my first week here I put on a kilo despite all the walking. I digress.
Our hosts, Ari and Mayke, are brilliant cooks. Not a night goes by without a new culinary adventure. Last night was "different potatoes" which are predominantly potatoes, cream and cheese. After three helpings of this I was beginning to think my holiday here was really a return to the mother ship. Fresh raspberries, oodles of free cheese, amazingly dense food and we live next door to one of the chocolate capitals of the world? HOLY CROW THESE ARE MY PEOPLE. Then Mayke said we should go for a bike ride while Dad and Ari do the dishes to work off some of the potatoes. Excuse me? Bike riding? AFTER THAT?! I revoke my former statement, we have nothing in common.
Unwilling to appear too sloth-like and keen to spend some time with Mayke, I saddled up and we headed out. Five minutes in when we reached the canal I regretted not heeding the photographer's first rule - I didn't take my camera. Postcard after postcard flew by while Mayke and I chatted. The Dutch really ride for pleasure. The land is so flat that exercise is not really a good description for it. Mayke commented that I was riding fast but I was really just riding. Riding is lazy here. Pedal continuously and you're some sort of athlete training for the tour de France.
We started out on a bike path. We switched to a country road that looked like it may have been built by the Romans and destroyed by a tank in WWII. Then it became a dirt track. And finally we were really in the country, everything smelled of cow and the track became sand that made my bike slew out from under me. Noticing that it was quarter to eight and knowing we were supposed to be leaving for a party at eight I ask whether we should be heading back. Secretly I wonder if I'm being led into the woods so she can kill me because there's no longer a lot of eye contact or talking. Ja, she says, but I think it's faster now if we keep going.
I'm sceptical about this but I run with it. Twenty minutes later and I know we're hopelessly lost. We ride for ages and I suggest we ask someone the way. I flag down a cyclist and gesture for Mayke to ask for directions. Weirdly she does it in English. Since Mayke doesn't speak good English I pay attention. As we ride away I ask why she asked in English and she laughs nervously and confesses that she's so embarrassed about being lost that she didn't want to admit that she's Dutch. "It's better if they think we're tourists".
Despite not knowing where I am at all I know we're not getting closer to home. I get the sense that we're going in different directions and the signs pointing to towns keep shifting. Six kilometres from Lieshout...now four, now seven. The countryside is taunting me shamelessly with things like a field of yellow flowers with a gorgeous windmill in the middle. The lack of camera makes me want to cry but there's a more pressing issue... It's nine o'clock now, the party started an hour ago and Mayke is obviously distressed. I suggest we call Ari - if not to come and get us then to either give us directions or at least stop worrying that we've been Hansel and Greteled by a Dutch Ivan Milat.
We find a lovely lady who makes the call for us. No one answers. Mayke calls Rogier and, mercifully, he comes to get us. We follow his car, riding hard. Embarrassingly we have to backtrack over a kilometre. We finally make it home three hours after we left. We've covered 40-50 kilometres and my butt hurts. On the plus side, I've seen most of south Holland, some of Belgium (probably) and the potatoes are definitely not making their way onto my hips. In fact, I think we've finally stripped off the birthday frites that were consumed in Amsterdam.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Beek en Donk
After being in Amsterdam for a while we decided to head South to where Tamara's parents live - a small town called Beek en Donk which to me sounds like "bacon dong" whenever a local pronounces it. Getting here is easy but after we arrive in the centre we hit snag after snag. First up, Dad is entering cranky toddler stage. It's late afternoon and he hasn't had his siesta because we've been travelling. Second, a couple of calls in Holland, a few messages home and I'm out of credit on my mobile. Third, you can only top up your credit online, not over the phone which brings us to fourth, no free WiFi anywhere. Fifth makes itself known next...no bastard speaks English. Sorry, one does but she doesn't really know the address we're going to. We set out walking on vague directions. My suitcase is on wheels but Dad is shouldering his bag and refusing to put it on my suitcase so I can wheel that too. This does nothing to improve the cranky. Ten minutes in and we see a sign for the police station. I park Dad and head off down the street. No police station. A "helpful" local laughs. No politie here for long time. Of course not.
I go back to Dad who has managed to suck down a cigarette while I've been gone. It has not improved his mood. We keep walking until we get to a small restaurant bar thing. I tell Dad to ask them if we can use their phone. He comes back and says the taxi is on the way. I ask him why he didn't just call Ari and Mayke and his eyes glaze over for a second before he tells me to shut up and pulls out another cigarette. He decides to buy us drinks while we wait. I'm golden with a diet coke but he winds up with a flat, yellow, salty drink when he asks for lemonade. He winces when he drinks it, gives me some, I wince too, and we still have no idea what it is. We settle on "disgusting". The taxi shows up - a massive black Mercedes - and drives us four streets away. He is unimpressed and I don't blame him. Beek en Donk doesn't have a taxi service, he's driven from the next town for a three Euro fare. He charges us five, we sheepishly pay him six. Despite only being four streets away, we had no chance of finding it.
Ari and Mayke are lovely people with a lovely home and they immediately make us welcome. They know my Dad well enough to rib him about the fact that he never shuts up and the fact that he smokes. We settle in to fabulous beds, food to die for and a shower that makes me want to weep with relief. I am suddenly powerfully homesick. There's no place like home...and someone else's fitted with all the tiny comforts is enough to remind you of it.
Over the coming days we meet lots of family because Mayke is one of sixteen and all of her brothers, sisters and their children live in the village. I say village. It's 10,000 people all living on 250m2 blocks in three storey tiny townhouses. When I tell them that I like it better than Amsterdam they say, "Ja, it is very rural, ja?" and I almost die laughing. On day two we ride to the next village, which is only three kilometres away, for a hair cut at the home of Rogier (Ari and Mayke's son). It's a proper Summer day, almost thirty degrees and I'm not super keen on riding. But I saddle up and we ride out. I almost kill myself exiting the lane they live in because there are no handbrakes on my bike. It takes me a moment to realise it's like an old BMX and to brake you back pedal. I am further discouraged by the lack of gears.
Then we start to ride and the lack of gears becomes obvious. THE WHOLE DAMN COUNTRY IS FLAT. Not even gentle inclines. Flat. Flatty flat flat flat. If there's a gentle breeze you don't even need to pedal. Ten minutes later we're there without breaking a sweat.
So a moment to talk about bikes in Holland. Everyone owns at least one and they can be customised in a number of ways. They come with saddle bags, carrier baskets, locks, lights, wagons, straps, racks, baby capsules, toddler seats, the works. Anything an Australian can do with a Barina a Dutchie can do on a bike. They are flabbergasted that we don't cycle more in Australia. I explain that it's three kilometres to my son's daycare, five after that to my daughter's school and then 25 clicks to my work. I explain that given the lack of direct route and the kind of country I'd have to cycle over this would take me three hours minimum and I'd need a shower at the end. I needn't bother, they're still gasping over the fact that I work 25 kilometres from where I live. I see their point. 25 kilometres here is half the bloody country. Here you'd put your baby on the front of the bike, your four-year-old on the seat at the back (over four and you ride your own) and half an hour of easy riding later you're going to step off your bike and be able to start work looking pretty darn fresh without your kids who were dropped off along the way.
No one wears helmets. But then, if a cyclist gets hit by a car the car is at fault no matter the circumstances and there are major penalties involved. So the cars go slow near riders, make a wide berth and no one is killed. Plus there are cycle paths almost everywhere. So everyone walks or cycles, the towns are densely populated and in general cars are really rare and a little bit strange. More on riding later. In particular the story of how lost you can get riding a bike with a local.
I go back to Dad who has managed to suck down a cigarette while I've been gone. It has not improved his mood. We keep walking until we get to a small restaurant bar thing. I tell Dad to ask them if we can use their phone. He comes back and says the taxi is on the way. I ask him why he didn't just call Ari and Mayke and his eyes glaze over for a second before he tells me to shut up and pulls out another cigarette. He decides to buy us drinks while we wait. I'm golden with a diet coke but he winds up with a flat, yellow, salty drink when he asks for lemonade. He winces when he drinks it, gives me some, I wince too, and we still have no idea what it is. We settle on "disgusting". The taxi shows up - a massive black Mercedes - and drives us four streets away. He is unimpressed and I don't blame him. Beek en Donk doesn't have a taxi service, he's driven from the next town for a three Euro fare. He charges us five, we sheepishly pay him six. Despite only being four streets away, we had no chance of finding it.
Ari and Mayke are lovely people with a lovely home and they immediately make us welcome. They know my Dad well enough to rib him about the fact that he never shuts up and the fact that he smokes. We settle in to fabulous beds, food to die for and a shower that makes me want to weep with relief. I am suddenly powerfully homesick. There's no place like home...and someone else's fitted with all the tiny comforts is enough to remind you of it.
Over the coming days we meet lots of family because Mayke is one of sixteen and all of her brothers, sisters and their children live in the village. I say village. It's 10,000 people all living on 250m2 blocks in three storey tiny townhouses. When I tell them that I like it better than Amsterdam they say, "Ja, it is very rural, ja?" and I almost die laughing. On day two we ride to the next village, which is only three kilometres away, for a hair cut at the home of Rogier (Ari and Mayke's son). It's a proper Summer day, almost thirty degrees and I'm not super keen on riding. But I saddle up and we ride out. I almost kill myself exiting the lane they live in because there are no handbrakes on my bike. It takes me a moment to realise it's like an old BMX and to brake you back pedal. I am further discouraged by the lack of gears.
Then we start to ride and the lack of gears becomes obvious. THE WHOLE DAMN COUNTRY IS FLAT. Not even gentle inclines. Flat. Flatty flat flat flat. If there's a gentle breeze you don't even need to pedal. Ten minutes later we're there without breaking a sweat.
So a moment to talk about bikes in Holland. Everyone owns at least one and they can be customised in a number of ways. They come with saddle bags, carrier baskets, locks, lights, wagons, straps, racks, baby capsules, toddler seats, the works. Anything an Australian can do with a Barina a Dutchie can do on a bike. They are flabbergasted that we don't cycle more in Australia. I explain that it's three kilometres to my son's daycare, five after that to my daughter's school and then 25 clicks to my work. I explain that given the lack of direct route and the kind of country I'd have to cycle over this would take me three hours minimum and I'd need a shower at the end. I needn't bother, they're still gasping over the fact that I work 25 kilometres from where I live. I see their point. 25 kilometres here is half the bloody country. Here you'd put your baby on the front of the bike, your four-year-old on the seat at the back (over four and you ride your own) and half an hour of easy riding later you're going to step off your bike and be able to start work looking pretty darn fresh without your kids who were dropped off along the way.
No one wears helmets. But then, if a cyclist gets hit by a car the car is at fault no matter the circumstances and there are major penalties involved. So the cars go slow near riders, make a wide berth and no one is killed. Plus there are cycle paths almost everywhere. So everyone walks or cycles, the towns are densely populated and in general cars are really rare and a little bit strange. More on riding later. In particular the story of how lost you can get riding a bike with a local.
Rogier and Marjon show us how it's done with Gussje and Maud
Birthdays in Amsterdam
Since I last wrote I've had a birthday! To celebrate we spent the whole day in Amsterdam. We started with a canal tour on a long, flat boat called a rondvaart. It took us through the canals, out into Amsterdam harbour and back to the central station. As a part of the tour we went down the gentleman's canal, so named because that was where the gentlemen built their massive houses in the golden age. Most Amsterdam houses are about six metres wide, but these bad boys are double that and have forty to fifty rooms apiece. We also tracked down the home of my great grandfather using nothing more than my Dad's gut instinct. Lunch was at my favourite pancake restaurant where the waiter put cocktail umbrellas in my pancake and later in the afternoon we had frites met -which translates as "chips with". The "with" part is almost always mayonnaise, known as "fritessaus". You can of course choose other sauces but I'll never know what they taste like because I won't go past the mayonnaise. It's not all deep fried starch and carbs - one of my other favourite foods, raspberries, are big, sweet and cheap, and I buy those every chance I get.
It's easy to forget that this is the Summer because it's almost always overcast and the temperature hovers between fifteen and twenty. It's a lot like Canberra's autumn except the sun doesn't set until ten. Everything is lush and green. Rhubarb and pumpkin grow wild everywhere and no one eats it. Having come off a farm the yield on the land here makes me want to cry. The cows look positively jaunty. No need to ever even walk because there's so much food lying about the place. I am reliably informed that despite being tiny and having almost twenty million people, Holland still manages to export a hell of a lot of food.
Yesterday I went and trained with Black Bear taekwondo, a school a little out from central in a dubious neighborhood. The class was two hours long and intense. Being held in a hall with hard floors instead of a dojang with foam floors took its toll. By the end of the night my feet had massive blood blisters on the bottoms of them and I could barely walk. Still worth it because I felt more relaxed than I have since I landed. Speaking of landings...the airport here is called Schiphol. It's outside Amsterdam and when we landed the flight tracking screen said we were at minus five metres sea level. Any other airport in the world and you have to land pretty hard and fast to make it that far down. What an eye opener.
The entire country is completely flat - not even mountains on the horizon. Today we travelled out to afslurtdijk - a twenty kilometre long dike that closed off a huge part of Holland giving them a large inland lake of fresh water and a bunch of new land. As I write this we're sitting in Lelystad, which is a city in the new part. Everything here and in the immediate surround is only twenty or thirty years old but still the forests they've cultivated look like they've been here a century or two.
Dad continues to talk to everyone and takes his role as cultural ambassador for Australia very seriously. He gives directions when he has no idea where the destination really is, along with unasked-for life philosophy and history lessons to anyone foolish enough to look either bored or simply unoccupied at the time. It is not unusual to have to go looking for him twenty minutes after he went for a cigarette only to find him deep in conversation with someone about the cultural merits of whatever society they come from and whatever society they've interacted with. Only the French consistently come off poorly in these discussions. Well. Occasionally the poms - especially after watching one British couple try and dodge a train fare.
I'm having a lot of trouble convincing him that the internet can help us organise most of our adventures. He remains deeply suspicious of it, still calls it "skyping" and insists on bothering the train information people every chance he can. He can't seem to understand that they don't have any vested interest in his journeys and zero concern over knowing what the answer to his question was. He persists in trying to educate them. My favorite example of this was where he bothered the train information guy for a good ten minutes trying to get help planning an extended off-rail jaunt. After arranging it elsewhere he went back to explain everything to the original train info guy as a "courtesy". Conversation goes like this:
Dad: Gees you don't even look interested in this.
Train info guy: I'm sorry sir but who ARE you?
Dad: Oh come on, we had a long conversation about this NOT FIFTEEN MINUTES AGO.
Train info guy: Sir my shift only started five minutes ago.
*awkward pause*
Dad: Really?
Me: Dad, I did tell you it was a completely different person but you wouldn't listen.
Dad: Did you? Well they all look the bloody same to me.
Me: That's just the uniform Dad.
God I love him. For all that it is occasionally frustrating trying to catch trains and buses while the old man sucks down the last of his cigarette it is amazing to travel with someone who knows so much about the history of this place. Floods, wars, cultural growth, he knows it all. He struggles with the language, occasionally coming out with the most random Dutch words and he continues to persevere with my shocking inability to see any link at all between Dutch and English. I'm doing my best. Today a hotel/restaurant advertised itself as "Eaten en drinken en slaapen". Apparently this is not "eat, drink and slap", which is an admirable advertisement for a bar in my opinion but "eat, drink and sleep". The old man almost killed himself laughing.
Delicious birthday pancake with cocktail umbrellas!
It's easy to forget that this is the Summer because it's almost always overcast and the temperature hovers between fifteen and twenty. It's a lot like Canberra's autumn except the sun doesn't set until ten. Everything is lush and green. Rhubarb and pumpkin grow wild everywhere and no one eats it. Having come off a farm the yield on the land here makes me want to cry. The cows look positively jaunty. No need to ever even walk because there's so much food lying about the place. I am reliably informed that despite being tiny and having almost twenty million people, Holland still manages to export a hell of a lot of food.
Yesterday I went and trained with Black Bear taekwondo, a school a little out from central in a dubious neighborhood. The class was two hours long and intense. Being held in a hall with hard floors instead of a dojang with foam floors took its toll. By the end of the night my feet had massive blood blisters on the bottoms of them and I could barely walk. Still worth it because I felt more relaxed than I have since I landed. Speaking of landings...the airport here is called Schiphol. It's outside Amsterdam and when we landed the flight tracking screen said we were at minus five metres sea level. Any other airport in the world and you have to land pretty hard and fast to make it that far down. What an eye opener.
The entire country is completely flat - not even mountains on the horizon. Today we travelled out to afslurtdijk - a twenty kilometre long dike that closed off a huge part of Holland giving them a large inland lake of fresh water and a bunch of new land. As I write this we're sitting in Lelystad, which is a city in the new part. Everything here and in the immediate surround is only twenty or thirty years old but still the forests they've cultivated look like they've been here a century or two.
Dad continues to talk to everyone and takes his role as cultural ambassador for Australia very seriously. He gives directions when he has no idea where the destination really is, along with unasked-for life philosophy and history lessons to anyone foolish enough to look either bored or simply unoccupied at the time. It is not unusual to have to go looking for him twenty minutes after he went for a cigarette only to find him deep in conversation with someone about the cultural merits of whatever society they come from and whatever society they've interacted with. Only the French consistently come off poorly in these discussions. Well. Occasionally the poms - especially after watching one British couple try and dodge a train fare.
I'm having a lot of trouble convincing him that the internet can help us organise most of our adventures. He remains deeply suspicious of it, still calls it "skyping" and insists on bothering the train information people every chance he can. He can't seem to understand that they don't have any vested interest in his journeys and zero concern over knowing what the answer to his question was. He persists in trying to educate them. My favorite example of this was where he bothered the train information guy for a good ten minutes trying to get help planning an extended off-rail jaunt. After arranging it elsewhere he went back to explain everything to the original train info guy as a "courtesy". Conversation goes like this:
Dad: Gees you don't even look interested in this.
Train info guy: I'm sorry sir but who ARE you?
Dad: Oh come on, we had a long conversation about this NOT FIFTEEN MINUTES AGO.
Train info guy: Sir my shift only started five minutes ago.
*awkward pause*
Dad: Really?
Me: Dad, I did tell you it was a completely different person but you wouldn't listen.
Dad: Did you? Well they all look the bloody same to me.
Me: That's just the uniform Dad.
God I love him. For all that it is occasionally frustrating trying to catch trains and buses while the old man sucks down the last of his cigarette it is amazing to travel with someone who knows so much about the history of this place. Floods, wars, cultural growth, he knows it all. He struggles with the language, occasionally coming out with the most random Dutch words and he continues to persevere with my shocking inability to see any link at all between Dutch and English. I'm doing my best. Today a hotel/restaurant advertised itself as "Eaten en drinken en slaapen". Apparently this is not "eat, drink and slap", which is an admirable advertisement for a bar in my opinion but "eat, drink and sleep". The old man almost killed himself laughing.
And now Í'm in Holland...
For those who don't know, I'm currently in Holland (called Nederland by those in the know) with my Dad. Want to know a bit about the place? Go here for a four minute crash course. I've been wanting to do this since primary school - see where he was born, where he grew up, meet my family in person on their home ground. And now I'm finally doing it.
We arrived here about two weeks ago and we had to learn some quick lessons on travelling about the place. In some respects Amsterdam is beautiful. Buildings four or five hundred years old leaning out over the street because the foundations rotted away decades ago. Little stone carvings showing the trade of the people who used to live there before the time when most people could read. I'm becoming something of an expert in recognising the age of a building. Giveaways like uniform brick size, the style of windows, the way the building is designed and the ornamentation. Things like that fascinate me because I love building and seeing how it developed over time is interesting. Dad seems surprised that I can do it so easily so it must just be me that notices those sorts of things. His attention is elsewhere. He keeps trying to show me links between Dutch and English in words around the place but I have zero interest. I am cultivating quite the Dutch accent, much to my annoyance. You don't even realise you're doing it but you start talking the way everyone else talks. Everyone in Amsterdam speaks English and this is a blessing.
Dad was born and grew up in Amsterdam and I've now seen where he lived and where he went to school, and I've walked the streets he played soccer in. Listening to him talk there are some things that are very different...and some things that are still the same. Kids still play soccer in the alleys, dam square (the square in front of the palace) is still full of street performers and most of the streets are closed to cars. That doesn't make it safe for pedestrians - the Dutch ride bicycles the way the Rebels ride Harleys. They're not swerving if you're dumb enough to be in their way. The fact that they all drive on the right side of the road only adds to my confusion. Traffic accident is high on the list of ways I'll check out at the moment.
We only spent one night in the city centre. One hundred and twenty euro for a tiny room looking out into a dirty alley. We headed back to Schiphol (near the airport) where the rooms were 70 euro a night and you had room to move around the bed and a view. While I do love the city, it had its drawbacks aside from very expensive accommodation. Too many people and everyone smokes. My throat hurt for two days and I was sure I was getting sick but as soon as we were back in the country I realised it was just the cigarette smoke. It's very different from Australia in this respect. Almost everyone smokes and no one seems to mind. They have smoking rooms in the airport. Walking in there was like being gassed. After twelve hours on a plane Dad was in heaven. Just walk into that room, inhale and no need for a cigarette.
Dad talks to everyone and thanks to matching jumpers with the Australian flag and AUSTRALIA on them, everyone talks to us. They love Aussies. We had one incident when a couple of Germans in a restaurant were giving us filthy looks and muttering. I didn't realise they were having a go at us for speaking English (and being English apparently) until Dad turned and addressed them in German. Mad scramble to leave with very red faces. He may not speak all of the languages any more but his understanding is spot on. Everyone else thinks Australians are the bomb and they can't wait to chat. Given Dad's love of a good yarn this can be somewhat challenging - he goes out for a cigarette and an hour later you have to go find him and peel him off his new best friend.
Since we've arrived I've introduced him to Skype. Mainly because he made three phone calls home from Korea which cost me $95 for the whole ten minutes. He doesn't understand how Skype is free...or the difference between the internet and Skype. Now whenever I look something up on the internet I'm using Skype. Confuses the hell out of everyone he says "oh yes, my daughter Skyped that" to. I've tried explaining it several times but now I've given in. It's easier to just say "sure I'll Skype that for you". *sigh* He is deeply suspicious of the technologies but he has begrudging respect for the amount I can do on my tablet. Check travel times, book accommodation, call home for free, the works. The fact that hotels give us free WiFi only adds to his suspicion that it's all some kind of weird conspiracy or voodoo. The tablet may be the best thing I've bought myself in a long while. I would hate to be doing everything on my phone.
We arrived here about two weeks ago and we had to learn some quick lessons on travelling about the place. In some respects Amsterdam is beautiful. Buildings four or five hundred years old leaning out over the street because the foundations rotted away decades ago. Little stone carvings showing the trade of the people who used to live there before the time when most people could read. I'm becoming something of an expert in recognising the age of a building. Giveaways like uniform brick size, the style of windows, the way the building is designed and the ornamentation. Things like that fascinate me because I love building and seeing how it developed over time is interesting. Dad seems surprised that I can do it so easily so it must just be me that notices those sorts of things. His attention is elsewhere. He keeps trying to show me links between Dutch and English in words around the place but I have zero interest. I am cultivating quite the Dutch accent, much to my annoyance. You don't even realise you're doing it but you start talking the way everyone else talks. Everyone in Amsterdam speaks English and this is a blessing.
Dad was born and grew up in Amsterdam and I've now seen where he lived and where he went to school, and I've walked the streets he played soccer in. Listening to him talk there are some things that are very different...and some things that are still the same. Kids still play soccer in the alleys, dam square (the square in front of the palace) is still full of street performers and most of the streets are closed to cars. That doesn't make it safe for pedestrians - the Dutch ride bicycles the way the Rebels ride Harleys. They're not swerving if you're dumb enough to be in their way. The fact that they all drive on the right side of the road only adds to my confusion. Traffic accident is high on the list of ways I'll check out at the moment.
We only spent one night in the city centre. One hundred and twenty euro for a tiny room looking out into a dirty alley. We headed back to Schiphol (near the airport) where the rooms were 70 euro a night and you had room to move around the bed and a view. While I do love the city, it had its drawbacks aside from very expensive accommodation. Too many people and everyone smokes. My throat hurt for two days and I was sure I was getting sick but as soon as we were back in the country I realised it was just the cigarette smoke. It's very different from Australia in this respect. Almost everyone smokes and no one seems to mind. They have smoking rooms in the airport. Walking in there was like being gassed. After twelve hours on a plane Dad was in heaven. Just walk into that room, inhale and no need for a cigarette.
Dad talks to everyone and thanks to matching jumpers with the Australian flag and AUSTRALIA on them, everyone talks to us. They love Aussies. We had one incident when a couple of Germans in a restaurant were giving us filthy looks and muttering. I didn't realise they were having a go at us for speaking English (and being English apparently) until Dad turned and addressed them in German. Mad scramble to leave with very red faces. He may not speak all of the languages any more but his understanding is spot on. Everyone else thinks Australians are the bomb and they can't wait to chat. Given Dad's love of a good yarn this can be somewhat challenging - he goes out for a cigarette and an hour later you have to go find him and peel him off his new best friend.
Since we've arrived I've introduced him to Skype. Mainly because he made three phone calls home from Korea which cost me $95 for the whole ten minutes. He doesn't understand how Skype is free...or the difference between the internet and Skype. Now whenever I look something up on the internet I'm using Skype. Confuses the hell out of everyone he says "oh yes, my daughter Skyped that" to. I've tried explaining it several times but now I've given in. It's easier to just say "sure I'll Skype that for you". *sigh* He is deeply suspicious of the technologies but he has begrudging respect for the amount I can do on my tablet. Check travel times, book accommodation, call home for free, the works. The fact that hotels give us free WiFi only adds to his suspicion that it's all some kind of weird conspiracy or voodoo. The tablet may be the best thing I've bought myself in a long while. I would hate to be doing everything on my phone.
The old man "skyping". For reals.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Sweet cherry pie!
A couple of years ago we had cherry pies from a bakery in Young and DAMN were they delicious. Since I don't really know anyone that lives in Young and it's really just too far to go purely for cherry pies, I decided to give it a go myself. A quick glance on the web to see how everyone else makes it, a basic sweet shortcrust recipe and BAM I churned out my first batch of cherry pies ever, my own special recipe. My husband inhaled those pies. I don't think they made it through the first night.
It's about seven years since that first batch and every year when it's cherry season the husband begs me to make more and everyone who's ever had them begs me to make more and I always do but I never write the bloody recipe down. Being me this means that I've developed a bit of a phobia about cherry season. The instant they start showing up in Coles I get heart palpitations imagining myself unable to make the wretched things and having people stare at me in disbelief because they can't believe what a fraud I am. But you made them last year...why can't you make them again now?
Yes, I am very odd and I overthink a lot of things. Cherry pies are just the tip of that particular iceberg but we're getting off topic and wading into the "here there be more information than ye require" section of the map. The point is that every year I have to wing it and reinvent the recipe all over again and every year I promise myself I'll write it down and I never do because it's a bloody simple recipe really but this year I'm doing it right here and right now because I am my own worst enemy and I will not bloody remember it, no matter how simple it is and this cycle will go on forever unless I end it now. Plus writing it here means you can all make your own in future.
This recipe makes ten small pies. First up? Pastry. You'll need three batches of this stuff to make ten small pies. One batch will do five pie bases or ten cross hatch pie tops.
Sweet shortcrust pastry
1½ Cups Plain Flour
⅓ Cup Castor Sugar
125g butter
1 egg yolk
1 Tablespoon cold water
Blend the flour, sugar and butter in a food processor until it looks like fine breadcrumbs. Add the egg yolk and water and then turn it out and knead it until it's smooth and comes together into a ball. Most recipes say you should refrigerate it for half an hour at this point but that always seems to make it unworkable for me. I find it easier to knead, roll out (about 3mm thick maybe) and use straight away (don't forget to flour your pie sheet/bench and rolling pin)*. Line your pie tins with the pastry, line the pastry with baking paper and bake it blind for eight minutes in a 180°C oven.
Filling
1.6kg black cherries
1 Cup White Sugar
½ Cup Lemon Juice (I prefer to use fresh lemons but go with whatever you can get)
3 Tablespoons Arrowroot
De-stalk and pip the cherries. For that, you are going to want a cherry pipper;
So much faster than doing it by hand. Then cut your cherries in half and throw them in a saucepan along with the sugar and the lemon juice (depending on how sweet/tart your cherries are. This recipe is for black cherries and lemon juice is a necessary element. If you use morellos you probably won't need any lemon juice but will still need roughly a cup of sugar. Regardless of which you use balance the levels to your own palate).
Bring the lot up to the boil and simmer for about 20 minutes to soften the fruit but not break it down entirely. Pour off some of the juice and mix in the arrowroot** to a smooth consistency. Add it slowly to your cherries and keep going until the mixture is thick (you'll probably use all of it). Remember that the mix will thicken more when it cools down. Take the cherries off the heat.
Empty your pie cases of baking beads and paper. Spoon the filling in to just below the top of the pie cases. Now we come to cross hatching, which I'd never done before today. Thinner strips that are wider are easier and look better. Roll your pastry out (about 3mm again), use a pizza cutter if you have one (just a little over a centimetre wide) and layer them. Aw hell, go here and see what they do. Note that because I blind baked the base first instead of folding up the edge of the base over the ends of the strips I trimmed the strips exactly at the edge of the pie base instead. Because I made small pies I only needed three strips in each direction. Lay your first two like a cross over the middle because it's easier to lift the ends to place the last strips.
Bake until the top is just going golden and you're done.
* Helpful tip - Shortcrust is a crumbly, nasty little biatch of a pastry to work with which is just one of the reasons I tend to make small ones. I use a very thin metal spatula to lift the pastry off the pastry sheet and flip it into the tin.
** The Science of Cooking 101. Citric acid means you cannot use cornflour (corn starch) as a thickener. Arrowroot is what you want. Plus it will make your pie filling glossy and beautiful. Don't be tempted to ignore this advice. You will wind up with chalky, pale and, most tragically of all, runny pie filling.
It's about seven years since that first batch and every year when it's cherry season the husband begs me to make more and everyone who's ever had them begs me to make more and I always do but I never write the bloody recipe down. Being me this means that I've developed a bit of a phobia about cherry season. The instant they start showing up in Coles I get heart palpitations imagining myself unable to make the wretched things and having people stare at me in disbelief because they can't believe what a fraud I am. But you made them last year...why can't you make them again now?
Yes, I am very odd and I overthink a lot of things. Cherry pies are just the tip of that particular iceberg but we're getting off topic and wading into the "here there be more information than ye require" section of the map. The point is that every year I have to wing it and reinvent the recipe all over again and every year I promise myself I'll write it down and I never do because it's a bloody simple recipe really but this year I'm doing it right here and right now because I am my own worst enemy and I will not bloody remember it, no matter how simple it is and this cycle will go on forever unless I end it now. Plus writing it here means you can all make your own in future.
This recipe makes ten small pies. First up? Pastry. You'll need three batches of this stuff to make ten small pies. One batch will do five pie bases or ten cross hatch pie tops.
Sweet shortcrust pastry
1½ Cups Plain Flour
⅓ Cup Castor Sugar
125g butter
1 egg yolk
1 Tablespoon cold water
Blend the flour, sugar and butter in a food processor until it looks like fine breadcrumbs. Add the egg yolk and water and then turn it out and knead it until it's smooth and comes together into a ball. Most recipes say you should refrigerate it for half an hour at this point but that always seems to make it unworkable for me. I find it easier to knead, roll out (about 3mm thick maybe) and use straight away (don't forget to flour your pie sheet/bench and rolling pin)*. Line your pie tins with the pastry, line the pastry with baking paper and bake it blind for eight minutes in a 180°C oven.
Filling
1.6kg black cherries
1 Cup White Sugar
½ Cup Lemon Juice (I prefer to use fresh lemons but go with whatever you can get)
3 Tablespoons Arrowroot
De-stalk and pip the cherries. For that, you are going to want a cherry pipper;
So much faster than doing it by hand. Then cut your cherries in half and throw them in a saucepan along with the sugar and the lemon juice (depending on how sweet/tart your cherries are. This recipe is for black cherries and lemon juice is a necessary element. If you use morellos you probably won't need any lemon juice but will still need roughly a cup of sugar. Regardless of which you use balance the levels to your own palate).
Bring the lot up to the boil and simmer for about 20 minutes to soften the fruit but not break it down entirely. Pour off some of the juice and mix in the arrowroot** to a smooth consistency. Add it slowly to your cherries and keep going until the mixture is thick (you'll probably use all of it). Remember that the mix will thicken more when it cools down. Take the cherries off the heat.
Empty your pie cases of baking beads and paper. Spoon the filling in to just below the top of the pie cases. Now we come to cross hatching, which I'd never done before today. Thinner strips that are wider are easier and look better. Roll your pastry out (about 3mm again), use a pizza cutter if you have one (just a little over a centimetre wide) and layer them. Aw hell, go here and see what they do. Note that because I blind baked the base first instead of folding up the edge of the base over the ends of the strips I trimmed the strips exactly at the edge of the pie base instead. Because I made small pies I only needed three strips in each direction. Lay your first two like a cross over the middle because it's easier to lift the ends to place the last strips.
Bake until the top is just going golden and you're done.
* Helpful tip - Shortcrust is a crumbly, nasty little biatch of a pastry to work with which is just one of the reasons I tend to make small ones. I use a very thin metal spatula to lift the pastry off the pastry sheet and flip it into the tin.
** The Science of Cooking 101. Citric acid means you cannot use cornflour (corn starch) as a thickener. Arrowroot is what you want. Plus it will make your pie filling glossy and beautiful. Don't be tempted to ignore this advice. You will wind up with chalky, pale and, most tragically of all, runny pie filling.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Out with the old!
It's no secret I was raised by a crazy hippy Dutchman who was teaching me all sorts of stuff about sustainability and the environment long before the cool kids discovered designer Envirosax. In our house cling wrap was banned (do you know how long that takes to break down in landfill???), I got grounded for putting potato peels in the chook bucket (it puts the hens off the lay) and girl, don't even think about buying any kind of shampoo or beauty product that's not stamped bio-degradable (do you have any idea how hard this was in the 90s???) because it will kill all the good bacteria living in the septic tank.
As a result of all of this heavy-handed social-conscience inducing discussion in my formative years, I've grown up to be something of a hippy* myself. Aside from biodegradable shampoos, organic free-range everything and phosphate-free cleaning products I hate giving anything up to landfill. I darn the holes in my socks and re-heel my shoes. I buy most of my clothes from charity stores and donate the stuff I'm done with. My bras go to Tennant Creek for the indigenous women who don't have easy access to their own. When clothes do actually die they get cut up and hemmed into cleaning rags and the buttons go into my sewing kit. Nothing from our household makes it to landfill unless it well and truly belongs there.
But occasionally this thrifty sort of behaviour goes well beyond sensible and becomes a bit weird. I have two prime examples for your amusement this week. First up? My steering wheel cover. I love my car. I like it to be clean (which doesn't happen very often thanks to kids) and well-looked after which means steering wheel and seat belt covers, headlight and bonnet guards, heavy duty rubber floor mats.
I usually aim to give it a thorough clean every three-four months which includes emptying it completely, pulling the seats out to vacuum underneath, reconditioning all of the leather and plastic, taking the bonnet and headlight guards off before I wash and wax, the works. But let's face it, nothing I can do, even in the four hours or so it takes me to clean it inside and out, is going to beat having a team of five guys crawling all over it armed with tools and cleaning products. Plus, I wouldn't even know where to start when it comes to steam cleaning the upholstery (completely necessary if you let small children eat so much as a tim tam in your car). Nope, occasionally you've just got to get it done properly. So I recently took it to be valeted.
There is obviously something about me that telegraphs to people that here is a pushover who will listen politely to their unwanted opinion because for some reason I get a bunch of advice I never asked for that's delivered in a way that implies I've been a bit naughty. So it was with my car being valeted. When I went to pick it up the guy held onto my keys, looked at me sternly, told me in no uncertain terms not to leave it so long between visits next time oh and, by the way, consider replacing your steering wheel cover.
He did kind of have a point. Aside from the terrible state of the upholstery in the back, I'd been noticing the steering wheel cover's gradual disintegration over the last couple of months. Within a week of getting it back from the cleaners the steering wheel column was littered with flaked-off bits of leather from the cover. I tried to remember how long I've had it for and the best I could say was that originally I bought it for my Pulsar, which I sold not long after Charlotte was born. So somewhere in the order of 7+ years.
Part of my Dad's world-saving hippy philosophy is to spend money on buying decent stuff that will last rather than the $5 Kmart specials that will fall apart within a year. At the time I bought the cover it was top of the line from Supercheap. With almost ten years of use, it was obviously worth it and I wanted something similar again. Imagine the happy when I managed to find exactly the same one!!!
To show you just how long I'd left the upgrade? Photographic evidence;
I swear it is the same cover, right down to the slightly bogan cow skull logo**. But even so. Yikes. I don't think there's any colour even left on the first one and all of the grey leather has flaked away. That's the matching seat belt cover in case you're wondering (as an interesting side note, the new one came with a CD holder for my sun visor instead of seat belt covers).
To my other example! My oven mitts. The pair I had until very recently I bought when I separated from my ex almost 13 years ago and moved into my own place. They were the cheapest I could find at the time because I had no money whatsoever ($2 Clints special) but I still didn't upgrade at any point because buying a new anything purely because the one you've got is ugly is incredibly wasteful and I can't bring myself to do it (although, granted, the old pair of oven mitts looked like they belonged in one of those wanna be country kitchens with faux timber cupboards and tiled splashbacks featuring proud roosters and brown onions and this alone almost brought me to my thrifty knees on more than one occasion).
About six months ago is when I officially reached the point where I felt I could buy a new pair with a clear conscience - purely because the cotton had burned through in enough places that I had to arranage my hands in them so I wouldn't get burnt when taking stuff out of the oven. Despite my oven mitt jockeying expertise, I still managed to hurt myself a bunch of times necessitating standing with my fingers running under cool water after hopping around the kitchen swearing for a bit. I kept meaning to buy new ones, I swear. I just never got around to it or remembered when I needed to. Unsurprisingly oven mitts are one of those things tucked away in the backs of stores that you have to look for and not placed conveniently where you can go oh yeah, I forgot I needed these. Anyway, I digress. I'm forgetful, oven mitts were overdue. Then I wrote this blog post.
And lo, my good friend Green Teal sent me new mitts, plugs and...a Green Teal T-shirt! It actually took me a moment to realise I even had oven mitts and plugs because I was so busy squealing over the shirt and stripping off my top so I could put it on and get a photo. Check me out!
A week later when I caught up with Kat she handed over my Christmas gift and LO! More oven mitts!!!***
At this point I don't think even my Dad will object to me retiring the ugly faux-country kitchen ones to landfill. Go with God little oven mitts. I've never liked you but 13 years of service for $2 is not a bad innings.
* And just like my Dad I object to the application of the term "hippy" based on this behaviour because this is how we should all be living so there's a planet with resources for future generations.
** I tell myself my possession of this particular cover is slightly less bogan than it might otherwise be because I do in fact originally hail from a farm that did have real, live cows albeit Murray Greys that were not horn-equipped. Authenticity. I has it.
*** There are absolutely no prizes for guessing which friend gave me the super-girly cupcake set of oven mitts.
As a result of all of this heavy-handed social-conscience inducing discussion in my formative years, I've grown up to be something of a hippy* myself. Aside from biodegradable shampoos, organic free-range everything and phosphate-free cleaning products I hate giving anything up to landfill. I darn the holes in my socks and re-heel my shoes. I buy most of my clothes from charity stores and donate the stuff I'm done with. My bras go to Tennant Creek for the indigenous women who don't have easy access to their own. When clothes do actually die they get cut up and hemmed into cleaning rags and the buttons go into my sewing kit. Nothing from our household makes it to landfill unless it well and truly belongs there.
But occasionally this thrifty sort of behaviour goes well beyond sensible and becomes a bit weird. I have two prime examples for your amusement this week. First up? My steering wheel cover. I love my car. I like it to be clean (which doesn't happen very often thanks to kids) and well-looked after which means steering wheel and seat belt covers, headlight and bonnet guards, heavy duty rubber floor mats.
I usually aim to give it a thorough clean every three-four months which includes emptying it completely, pulling the seats out to vacuum underneath, reconditioning all of the leather and plastic, taking the bonnet and headlight guards off before I wash and wax, the works. But let's face it, nothing I can do, even in the four hours or so it takes me to clean it inside and out, is going to beat having a team of five guys crawling all over it armed with tools and cleaning products. Plus, I wouldn't even know where to start when it comes to steam cleaning the upholstery (completely necessary if you let small children eat so much as a tim tam in your car). Nope, occasionally you've just got to get it done properly. So I recently took it to be valeted.
There is obviously something about me that telegraphs to people that here is a pushover who will listen politely to their unwanted opinion because for some reason I get a bunch of advice I never asked for that's delivered in a way that implies I've been a bit naughty. So it was with my car being valeted. When I went to pick it up the guy held onto my keys, looked at me sternly, told me in no uncertain terms not to leave it so long between visits next time oh and, by the way, consider replacing your steering wheel cover.
He did kind of have a point. Aside from the terrible state of the upholstery in the back, I'd been noticing the steering wheel cover's gradual disintegration over the last couple of months. Within a week of getting it back from the cleaners the steering wheel column was littered with flaked-off bits of leather from the cover. I tried to remember how long I've had it for and the best I could say was that originally I bought it for my Pulsar, which I sold not long after Charlotte was born. So somewhere in the order of 7+ years.
Part of my Dad's world-saving hippy philosophy is to spend money on buying decent stuff that will last rather than the $5 Kmart specials that will fall apart within a year. At the time I bought the cover it was top of the line from Supercheap. With almost ten years of use, it was obviously worth it and I wanted something similar again. Imagine the happy when I managed to find exactly the same one!!!
To show you just how long I'd left the upgrade? Photographic evidence;
I swear it is the same cover, right down to the slightly bogan cow skull logo**. But even so. Yikes. I don't think there's any colour even left on the first one and all of the grey leather has flaked away. That's the matching seat belt cover in case you're wondering (as an interesting side note, the new one came with a CD holder for my sun visor instead of seat belt covers).
To my other example! My oven mitts. The pair I had until very recently I bought when I separated from my ex almost 13 years ago and moved into my own place. They were the cheapest I could find at the time because I had no money whatsoever ($2 Clints special) but I still didn't upgrade at any point because buying a new anything purely because the one you've got is ugly is incredibly wasteful and I can't bring myself to do it (although, granted, the old pair of oven mitts looked like they belonged in one of those wanna be country kitchens with faux timber cupboards and tiled splashbacks featuring proud roosters and brown onions and this alone almost brought me to my thrifty knees on more than one occasion).
About six months ago is when I officially reached the point where I felt I could buy a new pair with a clear conscience - purely because the cotton had burned through in enough places that I had to arranage my hands in them so I wouldn't get burnt when taking stuff out of the oven. Despite my oven mitt jockeying expertise, I still managed to hurt myself a bunch of times necessitating standing with my fingers running under cool water after hopping around the kitchen swearing for a bit. I kept meaning to buy new ones, I swear. I just never got around to it or remembered when I needed to. Unsurprisingly oven mitts are one of those things tucked away in the backs of stores that you have to look for and not placed conveniently where you can go oh yeah, I forgot I needed these. Anyway, I digress. I'm forgetful, oven mitts were overdue. Then I wrote this blog post.
And lo, my good friend Green Teal sent me new mitts, plugs and...a Green Teal T-shirt! It actually took me a moment to realise I even had oven mitts and plugs because I was so busy squealing over the shirt and stripping off my top so I could put it on and get a photo. Check me out!
A week later when I caught up with Kat she handed over my Christmas gift and LO! More oven mitts!!!***
At this point I don't think even my Dad will object to me retiring the ugly faux-country kitchen ones to landfill. Go with God little oven mitts. I've never liked you but 13 years of service for $2 is not a bad innings.
* And just like my Dad I object to the application of the term "hippy" based on this behaviour because this is how we should all be living so there's a planet with resources for future generations.
** I tell myself my possession of this particular cover is slightly less bogan than it might otherwise be because I do in fact originally hail from a farm that did have real, live cows albeit Murray Greys that were not horn-equipped. Authenticity. I has it.
*** There are absolutely no prizes for guessing which friend gave me the super-girly cupcake set of oven mitts.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Stuff my kids get up to
I could write an entire blog purely based on the things my two kids say and do. I love the two of them to death and I have real trouble not laughing when I shouldn't be laughing. Every day there's either something they say or something they do that undoes me. For the purposes of demonstrating what my kids get up to I give you three examples from the last 24 hours.
1.) The hamper of shame. Whenever there's something they don't want me to know about it gets buried in their laundry hamper. His is a purple elephant. Hers is a fluro yellow and orange duck. I think because they personally never empty them that they just assume that no one does. No word on how the washing magically shows up clean in their draws. In any event, if they're trying to hide something the laundry hampers are the go-to place of choice. Hmmm - mum got pretty mad that I took one bite of my apple and tossed it into the compost...something something wasteful...better hide the rest of this cheese sandwich...I KNOW IN MY HAMPER.
This one cracked me up. It used to be a ball but when I found it buried in the purple elephant it was so forlorn I had to laugh. When I presented it to both of them and asked who was responsible, my son's guilty little face gave the game away. I don't even know how he killed it and I was too amused to punish him.
2.) Learning how to deal. Uno is big in our house at the moment. I don't mind playing it with them because I think it conveys a bunch of useful skills. Colours and numbers for James, strategy for her*, sportsmanship for them both. Unfortunately we're constantly finding Uno cards everywhere because Charlotte is too impatient to learn how to shuffle properly...and James likes hurling them everywhere just because. But this one took me by surprise. When I unrolled my Envirosax to put the shopping in today I found precisely four Uno cards in each one. It was completely random and I don't know which of them did it or why.
3.) Selfies. They know how to unlock my phone. They know what the camera is. They know how to take photos of themselves. Which is how Daddy wound up with roughly a dozen photos of his son's favourite part of his anatomy on his phone...and how I wind up with random shots like this that occasionally capture the naughty smile that signals mischief in progress. And yes, he is almost always naked in every single photo.
* Learning to cope with the unfortunate fact that her small Viking brother appears to have inherited not just all the Irish blood but the luck too. He doesn't understand strategy, he barely understands how to play and yet somehow even when she cheats he still manages to win.
1.) The hamper of shame. Whenever there's something they don't want me to know about it gets buried in their laundry hamper. His is a purple elephant. Hers is a fluro yellow and orange duck. I think because they personally never empty them that they just assume that no one does. No word on how the washing magically shows up clean in their draws. In any event, if they're trying to hide something the laundry hampers are the go-to place of choice. Hmmm - mum got pretty mad that I took one bite of my apple and tossed it into the compost...something something wasteful...better hide the rest of this cheese sandwich...I KNOW IN MY HAMPER.
This one cracked me up. It used to be a ball but when I found it buried in the purple elephant it was so forlorn I had to laugh. When I presented it to both of them and asked who was responsible, my son's guilty little face gave the game away. I don't even know how he killed it and I was too amused to punish him.
2.) Learning how to deal. Uno is big in our house at the moment. I don't mind playing it with them because I think it conveys a bunch of useful skills. Colours and numbers for James, strategy for her*, sportsmanship for them both. Unfortunately we're constantly finding Uno cards everywhere because Charlotte is too impatient to learn how to shuffle properly...and James likes hurling them everywhere just because. But this one took me by surprise. When I unrolled my Envirosax to put the shopping in today I found precisely four Uno cards in each one. It was completely random and I don't know which of them did it or why.
3.) Selfies. They know how to unlock my phone. They know what the camera is. They know how to take photos of themselves. Which is how Daddy wound up with roughly a dozen photos of his son's favourite part of his anatomy on his phone...and how I wind up with random shots like this that occasionally capture the naughty smile that signals mischief in progress. And yes, he is almost always naked in every single photo.
* Learning to cope with the unfortunate fact that her small Viking brother appears to have inherited not just all the Irish blood but the luck too. He doesn't understand strategy, he barely understands how to play and yet somehow even when she cheats he still manages to win.
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