in the kitchen

Escape

2012-02-12T05:00:00.001-08:00

Finally you have made it. You are sitting on that cosy terrace, alone, coffee in front of you, a newspaper. Exactly what you have dreamt of all these weeks, when jumping around between buzzing phones, demanding customers, friends' kids and mandatory gatherings. You devaluated yourself to the background, riding the train you yourself bought a ticket for in the first place. But now you are here and you need to concentrate. You say the word out loud to yourself: con-cen-trate. No time for the newspaper. Only a few hours to re-think, to move your life around and leave the café with a plan in your hands. You want time for yourself, to Live Your Life Fully and Without Compromises. Front cover guru magazine style. You wonder how you ended up like this.
First you start by cancelling all upcoming appointments. Disappointing other people will become a daily routine. You need a wide white open space- that will have to filled up again, fine-tuned to your own needs.
You know beforehand time won't be enough to do everything you have never done. You delete reading books, you plan a cleaning lady, you order take-out. You only do the most efficient sports.

You are working consistently and speedily on your life.
Suddenly you notice you are not enjoying your coffee. You are stressed. You refuse the vegan extravagant apple cake - too many calories, distraction from the list.

You have 45 minutes left to sit, to finish up, to come up with something. After that you have to dive back into the race.
Then you notice something. You are doing it again. A-gain. A big sigh. Disbelief. But time is not up. You reach over, grab the paper, wail the waiter for a giant chocolate fudge and spend your 45 minutes.

picture from http://pascalcampion.blogspot.com

Regie

2011-07-27T12:15:00.000-07:00

De clan van nonkels, tantes, neven en nichten wist even met zichzelf geen blijf. De grootmoeder was op de kast geklommen. De mater familias van 95 had het gewaagd om de ramen boven de keukenkastjes te poetsen.

Ze moest hen nu toehoren.
‘Dat is onverantwoord gedrag’, zei een vrouwenstem.
‘Je moet begrijpen, als je valt’, voegde het nichtje toe.
‘Trappen en hoogtes zijn taboe. In de tuin werken mag’, concludeerde de oom met het hoogste diploma.

De oude vrouw zei niets. Ze zweeg en keek naar al diegenen die er nooit geweest zouden zijn zonder haar. Ik zweeg ook. Het was net om wille van de trappen en de taboes dat ze het zo goed had gedaan.

‘Misschien is ze nu oud genoeg om zelf te beslissen wat ze wil’, probeerde ik nog.

Even later waren ze allemaal weg. Alleen wij twee zaten in de zetel. Het bleef een tijdje stil.

Mijn grootmoeder zuchtte diep en keek uit het raam. Ik zag een traan opborrelen in haar linkeroog. Ze was oud, waardig oud, en had een lange sliert nakomers. Je zou kunnen zeggen dat ze een reden had om te blijven. Voor even toch nog.

Het bleef stil, maar ik knikte, omdat ik het begreep. Zette me zelfs schrap. Voor het altijddurende eeuwige morgen.

Het leven heeft zijn eigen logica.

In Love (< Deathly Hallows I)

2011-07-20T10:21:00.000-07:00

Harry (to Hermione about Ron): Are you still mad at him?
Hermione: I am always mad at him.

Comfort

2011-07-18T14:22:00.000-07:00

'Don't rely on what he says. Most of the time, they mean something different anyway'.

Sarah slammed the car door close before I could ask any further, leaving me perplexed and curious in front on the wheel. We had just finished an inspiring night out, and I felt ready for the world again. That was one of her talents, getting my confused thoughts straight, putting my rambling thinking in perspective. She wasn't aware of it herself, but she was a saint in disguise. Some more details to her last phrase would have been useful though, as a kind of back up for difficult times - a tape you can replay whenever some brainwashing needed to be done.

I saw her hurrying towards the main street, so I pulled up and started to drive next to her. My car windows were down.
'I need to know more about the nothing is what it seems', I shouted. 'Why would a man say the opposite of what he thinks?'
She looked at me and smiled.
'I don't know, I just noticed they do it all the time'.
'So they say they love you, but actually they don't?'
An agonizing despair started to take hold of me. There should be something one could take as a starting point.
'No, it depends. Sometimes they do talk sensibly. Often they even say things they wish were true. But then they feel the opposite'.
For a moment I didn't know what to say. How come she took it so lightly? How did she move through the day?
By now she had reached her tram stop, and waited patiently on the side of the road. I stopped the car and continued talking to her.
'I'm sorry, Sarah, but how then do you know what he thinks of you?
'I don't', she said. 'But that's fine. I just know you can't figure it out. Ever'.

So far about about saving some time.

image taken from http://www.biteycastle.com/blog/woodblog.html

Wind

2011-06-26T03:24:00.000-07:00

(image taken from http://pascalcampion.blogspot.com/)

The cafe was the new hidden place in town, only known to the (very) cool people. Some young girls next to us were eating bad pasta but didn't seem to care. Huge plates of white tagliatelle with slices of raw zucchini went back to the waitress. They all seemed happy for this skinny moment, and continued sipping their glasses of wine. I drank some hazy apple juice and ordered extra crisps. (My coffee order I saved for later- always good to know you still owe yourself one, it makes it all more bearable).

My friend and I hadn't seen each other for a long time and we were now digging through facts and decencies. 'How are you?', 'How have you been?'. Tiring necessities - I thought. But then: forget your tiredness.

I had special plans for that evening. I was going to forget. I was going to forget that I was sticky glue to many things that were bad for me. Especially to male things.

On the next table a guy lit a cigarette. Above him on the wall there was a macro sign saying 'No Smoking'. We started to like the place and ordered beers. It was Thursday evening and things were nice- which can sometimes be difficult to accept.

After five beers and two more bags of crisps I decided to stop the frivolities.
'See, it is that I can't let go. I just can't. I'm worse than chewing gum'.
He looked at me and then said with a firm voice:
'What you never really got hold of, you can impossibly let go'.

It seemed I had to stay sticky for a while. Not that I minded.

De ander

2011-05-04T05:03:00.000-07:00

'Ik ben je nieuwe leraar', zei de wilde man. 'Ik kom je bijbrengen wat vrijheid is'.

Ze sipte van haar thee. Het was, om het zo te zeggen, iets nieuws. Die kundigheid zag ze wel zitten, maar dan eerder met haar kalende overbuur. De wilde man hield ze liever vast.

'Het gaat om de oefening', vervolgde hij, 'de oefening van de vrijheidsspier’. Daarop leidde hij onmiddellijk de eerste sessie in. Misschien dacht hij wel dat ze ja had geknikt. Hij leek erg bedreven te zijn in het vrij zijn. Zelf raakte ze een beetje achterop.

‘We hebben voldoende praktijk nodig’, zei hij, ‘De resultaten komen niet zo snel’.
‘Ik snap het niet’, riep ze, ‘hoe komen we zo nu los van elkaar?’, maar hij hoorde haar al niet meer. Achteraf dronk ze een glas melk aan de keukentafel, dat hielp om na te denken. ‘Alles of niets is makkelijker’, dacht ze terwijl ze een koekje nam. Zo vaardig als de wilde man kon ze voorwaar niet zijn.

Op een avond gebeurde het dat ze aan de dokken liep. Het late zonlicht weerspiegelde de vogels tot onder het oppervlak. Ze hinkte, haar spieren waren stram. Misschien moest ze ook maar eens de vliegende man ontmoeten. Of die met de zeeblauwe vingers. De resultaten kwamen toch niet van de grond.

Het was iets dat ze alleen zichzelf had verteld, maar voor haar was het een meevaller om in vrij zijn te falen. Ze wist dat het vooral de wilde man was die wilde leren, en zij hielp hem nu op weg.

Hij is weg.

2011-03-07T10:30:00.000-08:00

En iemand is teruggekomen.

Ondanks mijn dralen loopt hij aan de sofa voorbij. We zitten nu aan de keukentafel.
Ik zet thee en huil terwijl dikke tranen voor hij die weg is.
'Hij kan nog terugkomen,' zegt hij.
'Dat is lief', antwoord ik, 'maar iemand die weg is, komt niet makkelijk terug'.
'Ik ben teruggekomen', zegt hij.
'Ja, dat is zo', zeg ik, 'maar waarom ging je dan eerst'?
Hij zegt niets. Misschien is het een moeilijk onderwerp. Weggaan is voor de meesten een heikele zaak.
'Wij moesten allebei nog wat doen. En jij zwerft graag, Isa. In uw aders en huidcellen'.
Ik huil nog harder. 'Ik wil zo niet zijn. Dat doet teveel zeer'.
Onopvallend trek ik de fles wijn in mijn richting.
Hij zegt niets.
'Ik drink nooit alleen', lieg ik. 'In laten gaan, daar wil ik goed in worden'.
Komen gaan komen gaan komen gaan. Het stopt toch nooit.
'Jij mag zelfs gaan nu', zeg ik nog.

Alles verandert altijd (blijkbaar). Vergeet dat nooit.

(image taken from http://pascalcampion.blogspot.com/)

About something else

2011-02-05T12:23:00.000-08:00

We were screaming at each other from across the kitchen table.

'You are late', I yelled.
'I told you it would take this long'.
'You didn't. You DIDN'T'.
'I did'.
'I want to leave right now. I am waiting for you for ages'.

To stress my firmness I closed the buttons of my jacket and walked towards the door.

'You are insane. You are becoming a madwoman', my sister said.
'Yes I am. And I LOVE it. Finally I can be myself'.

I had the feeling she was close at throwing herself at me physically.
Then she did. It was unexpected.
In a way, violence works.

Calmly she looked at me and said:
'So,let's leave in five minutes'.
I just nodded agreeingly.

So far for anti-stress remedy.

music man

2011-02-03T01:05:00.001-08:00

Today she has too much bottled up love.
(for someone in particular)
(don't say it's desire)

You could call it a challenging situation.

She starts out by quickly handing it out, throwing whiskey parties and distributing chocolate dessert. The free coffee is just a casual extra.

But it only gets more. So it goes.

'Use it on us', the other inhabitants advise.
'Save it for later', her heart says.
'There is no way out', the mind complains.

Then it happens the stomachs are full. The rank and file lies drunk under the table. The love starts to flood the house. It becomes a constant mopping the floor.
No comfortable living anymore.
In the end it might have been her wet feet. Or the tiredness in her arms. The difficult wading around. Suddenly she knows: ‘It is time’.

So she undresses, moves down into the streaming water. Lets her body soak it up. And it goes.

Always first it hand it to yourself.
(and now you are allowed to call him)

Letter

2011-02-02T08:03:00.003-08:00

angel,

wow. your letter is pretty shocking. how can a young and beautiful person with a life full of opportunities be sad all day? how? or why?

darlings. i know you are more fragile than other people. even more fragile than some birds and vegetables. it is true.

but believe me: even fragile people, birds and vegetables can be happy. especially if they have plans and ideas and talents and friends and such a love as ME.

do you trust me?

me

Independence

2011-02-02T08:03:00.001-08:00

Today I was wondering whether it is enough to know a certain person exists.

To know that, a few miles away from you, he pours milk in his coffee. Starts the day with an angry thought. Or an inspiring one. Or at least you assume he does. Everyone needs to perform some basicalities. Everyone eats, sleeps, and moves around. Most human beings work like that. That information you have. At least.

Quite surely he is struggling, doubting and trying too. Cashing in a little victory from time to time.

It is not unreasonable to expect that, once in a blue moon, he thinks of you.

So there you have it. You don't need to know more. Because you already know everything. -it's all the same in the end.

But then again, like the advocat with your coffee, the effect goes to the brain. You start longing for the details. Suddenly you're figuring out whether today he is at the club-sandwich or the mushroom omelet. At a latte with love or on the go. Checking out the main roads and the hours online. The long city walks are a fortunate side effect. A bit like Sherlock Holmes in disguise. It starts to cost you precious time, and a sense of direction.

But don't feel bad. We're all a bit like that. The exceptions are just the lucky ones.

picture from http://pascalcampion.blogspot.com/

Unexpected

2011-01-12T10:35:00.000-08:00

Something 's off the hook.

Normally I don't like fish. I can't even stand the taste.
Ok, it is acceptable to look at. When it's alive. Swimming in the aquarium.

But don't let me eat it.
The fiddly structure makes me nervous. Too much detail.
The taste is too fishy. As if something is wrong.
And these damned eyes always seem to smile at you - while there is nothing funny. Only bloody serious things.

But still, I like this particular fish. Very much. It makes me light in the head. And it tastes so fresh. I wonder how it ended up on my plate, how it decided: 'Hey, let's go there'. There must have something, someone, intervening. Anyone?

But for now, forget that I've said something, because I am going to devote myself to my meal. And I don't wish to be disturbed.
After all, soon I'm expecting pay-back time.

Fight

2010-07-14T01:29:00.000-07:00

Today she decides to stay hungry. It makes things easier.
There is no weighing the portions, no scanning the ingredients, no avoiding the snacks.

There is only the sharpness of the hawk. She moves around the house like a predator, inspecting signs that could signal her path. She will not taste.

He is shrewd. He knows about her plans, picked them up from underneath her window on his way to the zoo. He feels like the eagle today, he will make her listen to him. At strategic places he drops maple cupcakes, croissants, summer salads: near yesterday's pillow, on top of the cold shower, in the silver cigarette box.

She is recalcitrant. She acts as if nothing is there, looking away when her nose detects the ambush. She bends down and puts on an armor, it gives her the readiness to fight. There is no flow, only a clear goal at the end of the day. The determination of not giving in.

He invents new tricks: seasons her friends' conversations with his name, cooking her favorite rib eye steak with bell pepper sauce- carelessly leaving it on her doorstep.

Her stubbornness grows. The kitchen smells are everywhere, she finds them in her bed, detects them in her morning coffee. They pop up in the evening breeze. The armor gets dented.

At one point she cannot take it anymore. Fed up. The smells have to go. She is ready to pay.

For a good result certain limbs will have to be cut, olfactories will have to be taken away.

Activate

2010-06-28T02:13:00.000-07:00

The question is how to get your sanity back.

It might hit you, one morning, that you're stirring your coffee too long.
For two hours you are trying to mix the black with the black.
Possibly you are stuck, in a thought, or just alongside the road.
The milk is next to you on the table, the sugar on the bottom of the cup. You are wondering how to get moving again - how to get the chili in the stew.

There are some ways to proceed.
First you try mimicking the busy life. Force getting up at 8. Picking up three fights and having the checklist done. Dressing up as if important stuff to do. Saying 'hello', saying 'how are you?'. By noon you have run out of things to run for.

Then you could still cook the food. Impress the husband with a nasi goreng on the table, lead a Stepford's wives' life. The baby, the kitchen, the smile. There is no explaining to do.

Or, there is the office job. The structured day plan, the lunch away from the desk, the gossip near the coffee machine.

The baby and the scheme.
The unacceptable alternatives.

(picture taken from http://pascalcampion.blogspot.com)

full moon

2010-05-01T13:36:00.000-07:00

So for lives to come
when too dark a night
I'll turn into an animal
trusting you, howling wolf,
to help me find the water
to lavish my
awaiting
heart

Leaving myself

2010-03-05T11:35:00.001-08:00

This night I left myself.
I couldn't help it.

Hurriedly I did some attempts to prevent. Swallowed sticky whisky, gobbled down black chocolate, hoping for the glue. Long skinny fingers trying to grab just anything.

But the threads were too weak, they broke off immediately. It were all uncontrolled nervous gestures to hold on.

And then it was too late. There was total separation. A person that used to be me was shaking on the bed.

I tried to return, but the way back was full of barricades, thoughts that had no meaning, no chance of getting through. Quickly I even lost that sight, and with a broken voice called friends to ask whether they had seen me around, whether they could pinpoint me all right. Some had vague ideas, they had seen me the other day. The hints they gave me turned out to be useless all along.

It was me who had to return. Only I knew the directions. Vaguely, but I knew. Tonight I will try to stay.

The only piece I can play:

2010-02-06T12:33:00.000-08:00

"Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes".

Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

2010-01-24T14:45:00.001-08:00

Goethe sagte: Wuensche sind Vorgefuehle dessen, was wir zu leisten im Stande sind

Staying

2010-01-24T03:42:00.000-08:00

Everyone felt the wave was coming.

They had been predicting it.

Sailor-men standing at the shore, with their hands above their eyes, pointing at the distance. They told me to let her flow. To let her get me without protest.

I was hiding in the barn, looking at the wooden wall, with my hands on the straw. Head down, black eyes. There was a small stove in the corner, and a kettle was boiling. Some women were protecting the door. They were whispering, looked in my direction at set times, making sure I was fine. Men tried to get inside, but my guards sent them out ruthlessly.

The first wave came from below.
It hit me fast.
More intrusive than expected. For seconds I couldn't breathe, gasping, trying to get my head above the waterline.

The second one broke me down. My body rose up - ready to fight, not wanting to give up so quickly. An Indian woman came up to me, and pushed me back. She forced me to stay on the bed. Another one rubbed my waist. They were gentle, but their faces emotionless. They offered tea. Food was too dangerous.

With the third the sweat streamed down my hair. Black mixed with red. There was no screaming, all voice had stopped. Maybe my organs were on the outside, blood everywhere. The oldest of the women knew it was about time. She came closer, our eyes met. They tried to tell me something.

And suddenly I remembered.
It was what I had known all along, but it had been erased by a too easy life. In a split second, right before the final stroke, I finally knew what to do. My veins confronted the wave and I,
I managed
to
___sur
_____ren
________der.

End

2010-01-22T05:34:00.000-08:00

We all know the silent dinners.

The wife. The husband. Not having anything to say.
We see them in restaurants sitting next to us. They pop up at our table.
We recognize them through the windows of the empty streets.
We turn away our heads, not wanting to take part in that meal.

I am sitting in a restaurant now, looking at the man across the table.
He is eating. Creamy duck soup. We are silent.
I wonder how I ended up here. Why I came this way. What I should do with the menu.
Maybe I should gobble down my food. To stuff myself with ingredients. Talk to the nice couple from the next table.

Or maybe I have sit through it. Be silent for a while. Feel how it scares the bones out of me.

And then I should start to talk. Express what the silence means. That we have no more to say.

Wonderful picture taken from http://pascalcampion.blogspot.com/

Men

2010-01-21T03:01:00.000-08:00

They called this war a cloud over the land
But they made the weather
And then they stand in the rain and say:
"It's raining".

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

He ain't coming back, you know that
You must know that in your heart

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

Waiting for you is my last breath of courage

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

Are you alive? I pray to God you are

If you are fighting stop fighting
If you are marching stop marching

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

Come back to me. Come back to me. That is my request

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

for j.

2010-01-20T13:11:00.000-08:00

For so long I have looked up to the sky
Decades I have spent expecting
Something to fall down on my head
To touch me from above
To stir my shoulder on the go
I have scanned and searched
And waited for it to come
Until my neck started aching
With cramps and stiffness
With brittleness in my bones

But today I looked down
I looked at the earth beneath my feet
There was a barrenness and a cold
And I noticed the work the efforts that had to be done
The seeds that had to be planted
For the rice that has to grow
And the plants that will rise from below
Because then, with my knees on the ground
I can pick them
clean them
And boil them into a dish
For the world to get old

Time

2009-09-03T09:23:00.000-07:00

Today there is no time. The watch has been lost. It fell off making up for forgotten days - when the ticking was too loud, and the sun never reached its peak. It dove back into sleeping before you could see.

The rice cooks long. It starts between a seed popping and the glass of milk you left on the stove. We leave the rice, let it turn into porridge and notice breakfast isn't ready when we wake up, it talked to lunch and dinner to neglect the schedule. We combine the three of them on a stretched timeless afternoon. I have coffee with my minestrone, take breakfast as dessert.

The stories I read on this day vigorously agree. They visit, but don't hunt me down. I pick up cookbooks and select recipes, randomly. There is no blaming the absent ingredients. I prepare a pumpkin risotto without the rice.

Time peeks in now and then, but I refuse to look up- I keep on combining and mixing, stirring and baking - scale and timepiece behind locks.

With thanks to the Andrew Marvell poem 'To his Coy Mistress and J. Winterson, and the Pascal Campion blog for the picture (see favourites)

The Lonely Life

2009-09-01T04:06:00.000-07:00

There are many things you can disagree on: the size of the fish, the shape of the onion, the thickness of the porridge, the kosherness of the meal.

You disagree.
You disagree, because you feel things differently. As a person you want to do things more your way, so you can become balanced, one with your environment. And there you sit, in a fight with him, he, one with his environment. You feel at home in your habits.

Tell me why am I born with an appetite for ice cream in the morning and seeds on the road, why do I prefer tomatoes in the oven, rice cake on the go. Desire for equilibrium I need. Anything else: no.

And so I wait, I wait until I have enough of all these, 'til the ice cream has melted, and birds run away with the seeds. Maybe then I'll be ready for some harmony.

The outside life

2009-08-28T08:01:00.001-07:00

There is the life you can see. The house, the job, the food you eat. It tells you what to do after you wake up, it pushes you in the back. You might have forgotten the original reason for doing it after all.

And there is the invisible one. It creeps in from the wet walls and drips on you while you are asleep, you drink it with your coffee and swallow it with your cake. You try to wash it from your dishes, but it comes back and hits you during the meal. You wonder where the taste comes from, you search for weird spices you might have added during cooking, but there is nothing you can find. You do the test and boil plain brown rice, again you discover something you haven't asked for. You sue the rice company for unknown ingredients. You loose the case, your taste buds not enough as evidence.

You try denial. You concen- trate on the house, the job, the never ending meals. You set your alarm, gather the family for lunch, dinner. Oat porridge in the morning. You want a normal life after all.

But the smoke is there. It enters the building through the creaks and crannies. You watch it circling up. It doesn't make an effort to escape your house. From now on you measure the amount of sugar through a haze.

Finally you wonder whether you have any choice at all, who invented this invisible trick. You want to -pleaaase- eat boring tomato soup, and god keep the unknown seasoning.

You keep on figuring it out, inventing the recipes, you don't cease searching for the simple taste.

But then, unexpectedly, during an early nightly morning you can see who stirs the pots. It is you who brings in the flavour, it is you who has to stop.

picture from http://pascalcampion.blogspot.com

Escape

2009-08-05T04:19:00.000-07:00

Life

2009-08-02T15:01:00.000-07:00

'Are you hungry?'
'Always'.

Feeling

2009-08-02T08:41:00.000-07:00

So it was that she was waiting for him to call. Which meant she was doing all other things only to let time pass by- please save me the effort to sugarcoat this. A woman obsessed. Provoked by the silence she started leaving her mobile behind when going for walks and moving around in the house, only to quickly check the screen almost by accident. Having read plentiful in the selfhelp section, she knew she shouldn't do what she was doing, she, the pitiful, waiting for a guy.

'Don't put your life on hold,' her best friend advised her. Nevertheless, there she was, giving it all. And she didn't even care. She managed to sleep through the first two days, explaining her mom it were the effects of leaving behind her caffeine addiction. The third day she looked at her old bedroom walls, feeling comforted by the safe world of teenage posters. The fourth she distracted herself by alcohol and cigarettes, sparing an intervention with the coffee abstinence. The fifth day she googled his name. The sixth she started to wonder why the call was so important to her. So f*ing important. The last day she decided she couldn't find an acceptable, sensible reason for it at all.

A clear indication that some more waiting needed to be done.

No compromises

2009-05-29T06:26:00.000-07:00

Some things are worth having. Wisdom. Satisfaction. A silent bedroom. Possibly they are far-fetched, but at least they give you something to do. You know what to strive for.

I'm not so far yet, I am trying to stay calm when served bad food
in an expensive restaurant.

In the beginning I tried an impulsive 'I don't want to eat this'. The
waiter would give me a surprised look and walk away. I would stay behind with the food.
Now I have evolved to negotiating.
I explain the dish is not what I had in mind. That me too I know how to cook.
After that there is the menu translation, allergies, my confused mind. The longterm view.

There is the option of crying. You are hungry. You want good food for a reasonable price.
They just answer with giving the bill.

Finally you can calm down. Or accept what is given to you.

Rather just go to a better restaurant.

Unasked for Advice

2009-05-26T08:04:00.001-07:00

There are different ways to spend your life. You can start ploughing your garden, attempt sewing your clothes, you might want to classify your cds. By all means these are useless activities, they don't bring fame. One day you might decide baking your own sourdough bread. This is a complicated process. It takes more than 2 weeks, and the starter needs constant care. It has to be taken to work, on city trips, and you will have to get up for it in the middle of the night. Much flour will have to be thrown away. There is the risk you might have to start the process all over again after a week. It is easy to make mistakes. But when you finally manage to bake the loaf, the result will be gigantic. It will have to be shared with everyone you meet.

There will be many people tasting the bread.
There will be some people who might tell you have better things to do.
They will suggest you have to buy your bread in a shop.
They don't intend you harm, these people.
They only want the best for you.
They want to warn you for the pitfalls in life.

Then take your loaf and start running. There is nothing as dangerous as good advice.

Addiction

2009-05-26T03:32:00.000-07:00

She was very critical when going to restaurants. A dish could barely make it to her table. And when she liked it, she surely found a lipstick glass, or a waiter who wasn't fast enough. Music tended to be too loud. Smoke disturbed her, and sometimes she even interfered in the neighbouring table's conversation. 'Please keep your voices down'. The bill was incomprehensible. But she kept coming and the staff had to live with this. She was a loyal customer after all.

Some waiters had found a way to deal with her, smiling and explaining again. Others took the avoidance-track, what was an enterprise in such a small place. The easiest was to put her on the outside table and avoid going out for a smoke.

That evening the steak was too chewy. She had taken one bite and had called the waiter then and there. He hoped it would be too much for her now, he hoped they would have crossed a line. That in the future she would go out to other places.

'You can bring me the piglet instead,' she said, 'because I absolutely love this restaurant'.

True

2009-05-23T14:05:00.001-07:00

She couldn't choose, but she didn't know it yet. Guests would come over for dinner and she had decided to prepare it all: the nettle soup and the aubergine cream, the roasted pumpkin and the warm goat cheese salad, the hummus and the duck leg, the stuffed zucchini and the radish pickles, the chocolate mousse and the date truffles, the cheese cake and the raspberry tart. 7pm was approaching quickly and when she scanned her kitchen she realised nothing was ready. The nettles still stingy, the goat cheese too tasty and the raspberries lost during shopping. She regretted having put up her aims so high, now she risked having nada to show. Why not one big gorgeous dish, one plate by which she could prove her culinary guts.

For what there is you have to prove to the world.
yourself. your life. your interests. your existence. the validity of your tram ticket.
She decided not to participate and to stick to the unfinished mess.

Bread

2009-03-15T13:03:00.000-07:00

'You have to think rationally', he said.
I had to think rationally.
'All shops are closed now, there is nowhere where I can find bread'.
I had to repeat to myself what he had just said. He couldn't be serious.
There is no way anyone could ever say something like that seriously.
I didn't reply. I still expected him to get dressed and go.
Silently I continued the miso soup, I didn't leave the kitchen. There were no sounds in the apartment, no doors opening or closing. Maybe I got suspicious, but I walked to the bedroom, and a figure was quietly sitting there, staring at a computer screen.
It seems he was attempting to stick to his point. His incomprehensible point. His unacceptable, useless point.
How could I make this clear?
With calm reasoning? Hysteria? A physical act?
'I made a soup, and with it belongs a piece of bread. Find a shop'.
He looked at me, put on his jacket and left.
Sometimes you have to understand each other without saying too much.

Tricked

2009-02-23T12:39:00.002-08:00

At some moments in your life, you might have to go with the masses. You might have to descend the stairs amongst the swirling crowds. There will be thousands of you, knowing where to go so early in the morning. You will queue as an obedient citizen, show your pass to the man in blue.

This might get too much. Sooner or later. It might start to dawn on you, somewhere at the back of your head, in your faraway thoughts, even before you reach the end of stairs. But don't worry about it, it's not supposed to be good for you. Besides, preventative measurements have been taken to ensure your passing through. It starts with the alluring bakery smells hitting you full frontal. They make you keep on walking. At the point of no return there is the small hot black. After all, it isn't so bad- you think.

Focusing

2009-01-21T07:54:00.000-08:00

During our evening phone chat one of my sister's alarms went off at least every 10 minutes.
‘Excuse me a minute, would you? My cookies are ready and I have to take them out of the oven, otherwise they’ll burn’.
‘Sure, go ahead’.
…
‘Sorry, I'm here. What were you saying?”
“That’s ok. Are they tasty, the cookies?”
“I’ll try one for you”.
5 minutes later another ringing.
“The pumpkins must be ready now. You know, baked pumpkin”.
“For a soup?”
“No, for pumpkin spread. So you were saying, we have to live in the moment”.
“You’re really doing it, no?”
"You mean, living in the moment?"
"No, I mean the cooking. You really take care of yourself. Wonderful"
"It's not a big deal, it's just a shame not to fully use the oven when heating it. I'm preparing six dishes now".
"My goodness. So yes, if you only think about the aim, and never enjoy what you're actually doing, then you miss the whole essence of life'"
"There's lot of truth in that’.
Bell ringing
"Your bread is ready?"
"I'm afraid so".
“Sourdough?”
"Yes, and I even sprouted grains to add to it: brown rice, spelt, buckwheat."
"I wish I was there with you now. Please make one for me when I come home".
"Sure. I wonder how I am going to process all this food now. There is way too much".
"Let's think of something".

We tried to concentrate on life, but the kitchen kept us away from it.

The Right Question

2009-01-15T03:24:00.000-08:00

picture from http://pascalcampion.blogspot.com

There are many questions that have to be answered every day.
Today they asked her how they should label her picture.
‘So, what are you? A chef? A teacher?‘
She looked at him, but said nothing.
‘It is important, our readers want to know this’.
‘Your readers want to know what I am’.
‘Yes’.
She hesitated. ‘Drinker of Coffee? Reader of Cookbooks?’
He laughed at her jokes.
She tried again. ‘Lover of Discussions?’
‘What?’
‘Ok then, ‘Writer of Blogs’?
He shook his head.
She sighed. Maybe ‘Chef in the Night? Roaster of seeds? Rice taster? Vegetable-chopper? Learner of Languages?
‘Ok ok ok’, he said. ‘You win. We’ll change the question. Tell me:
What Do You Like?’

Teachers

2009-01-07T07:36:00.000-08:00

I wanted to eat an orange, but there was only a Jonared in the basket. It was lying there, looking at me, obviously mocking me. Angrily I looked at it, denying its being. It didn't work. No transformation took place, no help of the universe in whatsoever form. I started loudly wishing its change of form. No success. The craving got intenser, the needing even more. There wouldn't be life today without it.

So there I was, beaten by an apple.
Of course I could dress up, go out, find a job, earn money and buy the f*ing thing. Resistance bubbled up. Some things should be given to you in life, they should be there, naturally. The seriousness of my situation struck me: 'What do you do if you want an orange, but there is only an apple staring at you?"

Peel it, wrap it with polystyrene and paint it orange?
Close my eyes, squeeze my nose, bite and imagine?

Oh no! Let me quickly cover my ears...
I should ACCEPT?

How much do I resent spirituality.

Forms

2008-12-26T15:11:00.000-08:00

Some people cook. Other people meditate.
She would like to do the second one, but she was drawn to the first. She was jealous of the white rooms of the meditators, where the minds were magically ordered by silent minutes. She, on the other hand, had to wrestle with pressure pots and vegetable left-overs, fish stock and lobster killing. One time she had to take a carper and smash it on the wooden board to make it die quickly. She ended up with too much food and a dirty kitchen to clean. In the end she turned out not to be hungry anymore, she only felt sorry for the fish.

Her strategy needed to change, she wanted to escape the noise and the metal banging, the smells and the people queuing up for food. From now one there would only be slow stews and pickles fermenting at least 3 days; onions that needed to be very finely cut. The vegetables would be boiled 10 breathings long, and only 2 racks of the fridge would be filled. She would take out big plates and order the meals so that there was more empty space than food.

That evening she sat down and had her meal. It is useful to try out different forms.

Answers

2008-12-14T12:57:00.000-08:00

Strange things can happen over dinner.
You can eat. You can try a new vegetable aspic. You can make your world turn around. It's a matter of choice. Lots of possibilities are hidden in the process of dining.

Strange things happened over dinner that evening.
We were waiting with a 4-course meal and a bottle of Tuzko white. At exactly 8pm two smiley faces appeared on our doorstep. We were thrilled to welcome seemingly happy people. Both sides were slightly nervous- quickly starting with the hijiki-beetroot was therefore strategic. Eating helps. Eating can solve. My mind was calm and I felt it floating towards the corners of our library/dining room. The others seemed busy talking. They were interesting personalities with meaningful jobs.
Then, very unexpectedly, between soup and main course I wondered what I wanted in life. The question that was buried on the tip of my tongue for oh so long, suddenly popped up and gave birth to itself. It was a question you wanted to get an answer to. And if no answer available, you didn't want to ask.
I made it until the end of my saffron rice, but then the guests were at my mercy. They would have to consider it as well.
'Of course you cannot give an answer to that. It is a totally wrong question. You don't have full information. How can you answer what still has to be revealed? Now eat your dessert'.

Suddenly it was easy. I even took a second turn.
Picking the right guests is crucial.

Life

2008-09-18T12:39:00.000-07:00

Je knippert met je ogen en het is voorbij. Je had het moeten doen, gisteren, of daarnet. Of misschien nog net nu. Nee, nu is al te laat, het gaat vooruit en het is onverbiddelijk, de stappen zijn misschien schoorvoetend of blijven soms even staan, maar ze gaan maar één kant uit, verder het pad af, totdat het is uitgewandeld. Elke seconde dat dit door je hoofd flitst, ben je kwijt, je hebt dan even niet geleefd, maar de vergankelijkheid benadrukt. Soms helpt het om op één been te staan en het andere achteruit te strekken, met je beide armen recht vooruit en te balanceren op slechts een deel van wat je bent. Elke dag doe je het met minder om zo op het einde meer over te houden. Misschien wil je langer leven, misschien heb je nog iets te doen. Je denkt: ‘Op een dag zal het komen, op een dag schuif je al de rest opzij. Dan is er een recht pad en één zuiver uur’. Je kijkt rond, denkt, weegt af. Proberen doe je niet. Je verwacht dat het komt. Het zal op je deur kloppen of aan je jas trekken in file. Misschien struikel je er over in de gang. Het zal stil samen met andere brieven arriveren. In je ooghoek als je wakker wordt. In een spleet tussen je tanden. Uitzonderlijk tussen de lippen van je geliefde. Een enkele keer gebeurt het dat je ziet, maar niet toeslaat. Je hebt een seconde geaarzeld, en daarna is het onverbiddelijk te laat.

Thank you

2008-09-15T12:17:00.000-07:00

We like to pay people with love. Real Love. That's why in the basket there was a sourdough bread, eggplant spread, oat cookies, a sweet pie, a salty pie and a bottle of wine just to be on the safe side. With the heavy big basket in our arms, we rang the door bell, looking like two overprepared sweet old aunties ready to visit the young niece. The young man opening the door looked at us as if we were strangers, not quite sure what we were bringing him, even doubting to let us enter his house.

'Didn't you know we were coming? We only drop by to give you this'. We pointed our chins to the eye-catching object in front of us.
'Yes yes of course, come in please. We were expecting you'.

Together we sat down on the kitchen table. They poured us a cup of coffee and we ate a piece of the sweet pie. There was silence, we were listening, they had room to talk. The house was quiet and empty. There was still something left that could be filled.

After a brief hour we went home, leaving some of our time, ingredients and attention behind.

They had understood our gratitutde.

Unexpected

2008-09-12T13:00:00.000-07:00

We had been cycling a full day through the woods and fields of Central Scotland now. The weather was rough and cold and we were dragging a tent and sleeping bags with us.

I was the Supervisor of the Food, a Designor of Dishes. My compagnon was the Builder of Tents. During the trip I made sure we regularly visited local corner shops, providing our pockets with power snacks and icey lemonades. My fellow cycler was an artist in shelter construction, showing his skills during dusk, while I was blowing the fire.

This task assignment was nothing we had decided upon, it had just happened by the tendency of our personalities, by the move our hands. That day though I felt some slight resentment against my newly aqcuired responsibilities, so I neglected checking our goods in stock. I hoped that ignoring would magically solve.

After 63 km of cycling we ended up near the Atlantic ocean, finding nothing but a rocky campsite with an even rockier ground. Sitting on a rock, we shared the wideness of the view. The tent was standing, and in the night darkness, with a dark breeze playing with our braids, we shared one small hard-boiled egg.

How the absence of something can prove to be so much more.

Innocence

2008-09-11T11:45:00.000-07:00

They had opened the refrigerator 72 times that evening. 14 times they had put something into the refrigerator, 21 times they had actually smuggled something out of it and 37 times they had studied the contents of the icey shelves. They opened the big white doors when they took a break or when they passed by on their way to the bathroom. It seemed there was a hole in their stomach and they tried to fill it, partly by looking at exhibited foods and often by breaking little pieces of leftover bread slices and coconut cakes. Pudding desserts were slightly more difficult, fingers were insufficient - you had to take a spoon and manoeuvre between the piled up veggies and soup bowls. At one occasion one of them accidentally dropped the pink icing of a birthday cupcake in the celery soup of the day before.

It was around 9.30pm they became aware of their behaviour. The kitchen was silent, and one of them was standing in front of the cold racks, again. Her hand was resting on the steady white door. From the food treasures her eyes moved to her sister, then back into the big white box. With a firm gesture she slammed the door- closed. They were each other witnesses, and both knew what the other one was thinking. No more late night shows after dinner.

Deciding

2008-08-29T14:57:00.000-07:00

'You will have to choose' he said. He looked at me with a big smile, as if he liked the fact that I had difficulties deciding. Two cakes were looking at me from the counter: a warm chocolate orange cake and Italian ricotta cheese pastry. I was standing there, jumping from one leg to the other, both sugarbombs definitely had assets. Chocolate always works, and the orange would make me feel special. Ricotta cheese on the other hand would prove soft and delicate. Only one I could take. I moved myself closer.

Maybe I could take both and silently eat them crouched down in the dark alley, straight from the box. I would taste the cream with my fingers and use my tongue to clean my lips.

No, today i felt like taking a table and eating with a fork, looking the other customers into the eyes and tell them: ‘Yes, I eat cake. Yes, I eat this whole damn thing, here, on this table, and I use cutlery in the process’. They would admire me for my determination.

The old man was still smiling at me, waiting patiently, not disturbed by the queue that was formed behind me.
‘Will tasting a little piece be of any help?’
‘No, no, thank you’. And pushed by the sighing waiting customers I pointed at the creamy ricotta, trying to look satisfied and convinced.

With a bright looking plate I walked over to a table on the left of the small patissier. Just when I wanted to take the first bite, the waiter passed by.
I couldn't help it.
‘Also bring me a piece of the chocolate orange, please’.

Never deny what you desire.

thirst quenching

2008-08-28T02:41:00.000-07:00

It was an ordinary morning, but the moment she opened her eyes drops started rolling down her cheeks.
Maybe it was sadness, maybe not. At first she didn't notice anything, walking down the room and pulling the curtains while silently leaving wet traces on the loom-woven carpet. Then the mirror showed her shiny eyes and wet skin. Nice, but she had to get going now. So she brushed her teeth in tears, took a shower and let the salty and sweet water mix. She drank her morning coffee but never finished the cup, the salty tears kept refilling it. She ate while crying, drove to work with hazy eyes and hid herself behind her computer cleaning her desk constantly. She attended a meeting and excused herself with a sudden allergy. She searched her surroundings for hidden onions and spicy ingredients, but nothing could be found. Strangers in the street started talking to her, trying to figure out what was wrong, padding her on her shoulder and handing over fresh handkerchiefs.

When she arrived home that evening the tears were still streaming down her face. So she sat down, pressed her eyes, locked them so long until the tears had to turn back inside. From that day she never had to quench her thirst anymore.

Beware

2008-08-23T14:20:00.000-07:00

It was their first dinner. For weeks she had invented little tricks to avoid eating together, finding it too intimate, worse than sharing a tootbrush or peeling nuts from one plate. She would say that she had already eaten, or that she felt filled from his love. The whole idea scared her away, she would see the cutting, slicing, ordering, chewing, thinking and playing. She would see how he composed his plate, the colours he chose. There was the tempo, the opening of his mouth, the eye contact and most of all, the touching of the food with his hands.

They had chosen a small cosy French place, with black windows and wooden tables. The food was offered on a daily basis, no use to try to figure out a dish beforehand. They sat down on a small table in the middle of the place and warmed up with a hot saké. Unnecessary.
He took grilled fillet steak with creamy white and red beans and leeks.
Meat.
She courgette salad with mint, garlic, red chilli, lemon and extra virgin olive oil.
Veggies.
A man and a woman.

He started. With his knife he cut a small piece of the meat, then used his fork to put it in his mouth. He slowed down eating and tasted. For seconds. Then he listened to her, asked questions. Was slightly fascinated. When she was telling him about the chill in the air, he stopped chewing. His hands took a little red azuki, he played without noticing. She easily finished his plate before him.

A success no doubt.

M

2008-06-28T13:41:00.000-07:00

Miklos was talking about the menu with a contemplating low voice- in Hungarian. Next to me someone was translating: I really wanted to get the full picture. Suddenly the translator kept silent, but Miklos continued. My translator looked at me with an apologizing face. 'Ne fordítsd neki' Miklos had said. 'This part is not for Isa' he had thought. He was now talking about duck liver patés, cow stomach stews, fat fried in fat, goat moussaka, rooster soup and some other organs they love to eat in Hungary. I guess he didn't want to spoil my ears. That was a wise decision.

Family dinners

2008-06-18T05:56:00.000-07:00

The kitchen was silent. For a few weeks no cupboard had been opened, the crumbles of breakfast were on the table and the shelves were collecting a subtle layer of dust. The fridge had life inside, food was getting active, the yoghurt making deals with the smell of the Danish cheese and the milk turning into a white mud-bath. Fruits had provocative colours and veggies were soft and too flexible.

But no human signs were found. Could it be they had lost interest in the act of eating, the art of the daily meal? There were no footsteps on the floor, no stewing vegetable pot, no impatient opening of fridges and cupboard on the search for a tasty little snack. It must be the fault of the new Taco Palace on the corner, the discovery of the Pokey Bacon crisps or the fast new coffee place that took away their appetite.

The situation didn't change, but if you listened carefully some quiet voices and noises were heard in the other rooms. It were two, maybe three, people talking. It was loud talking, sounded like arguing. That is what happens when you don't share your meals.

Real Life

2008-05-24T06:41:00.000-07:00

'I don't understand what young people like about this place. It is crowded, you can't breathe and there is no nice food to go with your beer. I've just drunk a palinka that was so bad that I decided not to drink here anything anymore'.
I felt overwhelmed by this older man's wisdom, being ashamed about my own apparent contentment. I looked around, and indeed, he was right. Big white clouds were inhabiting the pub and I could hardly recognize my friends' faces. Eventually we had to go outside to smoke, because the place couldn't take it anymore. In the cold dark air I started thinking about our standards; how come we preferred a packed old warehouse over a stylish airy lounge? It gave us the feeling we found the heart of the city, that now, we were part of the gang? The dodgier the place, the more we felt alive. When I had recently moved to Budapest, people took me to garages, gardens and old communist cellars- proud to show me the real stuff, where things were happening. Where it was cold, the glasses wet and each time a so called musician was so generous to give a live session, much to the satisfaction of the customers. They were getting it all. The true life, the vibe of the town, the pulse of the city. Tourists arrived with guide books: relieved they finally found what they had been looking for. After an evening in the dirt, they could finally go home.

And there I was. Longing for my warm neat soft couch and immaculate surroundings. Must be something wrong with me...

Unavoidable

2008-04-04T05:28:00.000-07:00

'Will you buy me an apple?'
'I will buy you an apple'.
'Really?'
'Yes'.
'I prefer these smooth green ones'.
'Plenty of green apples'.
'Not just a green apple'.
'Ok'.
'Shouldn't contain a trace of red'.
'Got it'.
'And the skin far from shining'.
'You mean not gleaming?'
'That's right'.
'Do you know which apple I mean?'
'I guess'.
'You guess or you know?'
'I know'.
'It has a sweet & neutral taste'.
'Now I see what you have in mind'.
'Are you sure?'
'Positive'.
'Absolutely sure?'
'You can trust me'.
'So don't bring me the sour ones'.
'Not the sour ones'.
'Not Jonagold, but this other kind'.
'Do you know the name?'
'I forgot it I'm afraid'.
'No worries. 'I'll be back in a sec'.
'Thanks'

'My God'
'What?'
'You brought the wrong apples'.
'Are you sure?'
'It's the wrong apples''.
'They are green'.
'You brought granny smith'.
'Suddenly you remember the names'.
'This skin is gleaming'.
'Let me see'.
'And these apples taste very sour'.
'You're never satisfied'.
'You don't even know which apple to bring'.
'At least I brought you an apple'.
'Maybe we don't understand each other'.
'You are too fuzzy'.
'Maybe you don't listen enough to what I say'.
'Really?'
'I'm starting to get a bit worried about us'.
'Gosh'
'Let's end this here'.
'Aren't you overreacting?'
'Darling I know what's best for us'.

Moeders en dochters

2008-03-05T02:29:00.000-08:00

Er stonden 250 moeders aan de zijlijn en ze riepen: 'nee'.
Het weergalmen van hun stem reikte 7 bergen ver. Ze bewogen als razenden: ze sprongen en dansten, schudden en trilden, krijsten en stampten op de grond. Hun armen gebaarden wild en als je goed keek, dan kon je er een weigering in herkennen.
Ze stonden langs een grote rechte weg vol stoffig zand. Je kon niet zien waar hij naartoe ging, evenmin waar vandaan. In de verte bedekte een stofwolk de horizon, als een achtergelaten slurf vol modder en zand. Stilaan kwam de zandhoos dichterbij, maar het getier werd er niet stiller van, de stemmen sloegen over- golven van gejank. Onder de stofwolk marcheerden jonge vrouwen, het waren er honderden ze gingen hand in hand. Hun ogen hadden iets in het vizier, hun komst was gepland. Ter hoogte van het gebrul werden ze gestopt. Het geluid was onmenselijk, de moeders graaiden blindelings in het rond, grepen alles wat ze konden krijgen, armen, benen, een plukje haar, een hoek van een jas. Ze trokken en sleurden en gooiden ook zichzelf in de strijd. De jonge vrouwen hielden zich recht, hardnekkig bleven ze bij elkaar. Stilaan bewoog de stoet zich weer verder. Eén van hen draaide zich om, keek haar moeder in het gezicht en zei: 'wij gaan'.
Niemand kon hen stoppen.

Stories. Part 1

2008-03-03T06:25:00.001-08:00

For M. preparing a meal was telling a story. He would never think of vitamins or calories, of health or quality. For him it were the colours and the composition, the aromas and the memories. He'd never touch recipes nor cookbooks, but walk through markets and find vegetables by smelling and weighing. At home he would invent meals based on the mood he was in. He'd crush apples when angry and roll sushis when wanting to keep things together. He'd peel onions when trying to get to the bottom of things, knead bread when missing his misses. When everything was a mess he would start counting grains. His cooking he never planned, he'd just know when to take his Japanese knife. On a specific cold Saturday morning in February M. felt it was time to get ahead of things, to prepare for things coming. So he started to chop and cut, slice and peel, mix and blend. He invented a Chinese salad and threw seaweeds in the soup. He mixed grains and chopped leafy greens. Sauteeing carrots became painting and simmering veggies was only to clean the air. He started to gather and pile and when the sun slowly started to set, his kitchen contained more exotic dishes than a king could wish for. There was one thing: M. had forgotten to invite guests.

And that moment I walked by.

Onverwacht bezoek

2008-03-02T13:43:00.000-08:00

Iedereen heeft iemand nodig die af en toe onverwacht langskomt om ervoor te zorgen dat je ’s morgens de tafel leegruimt. Sinds kort had zij de vrouw van de stad. Melk had ze nu altijd in voorraad, vaak zelfs verse appeltaart. Spijtig genoeg kon je die niet eeuwig bewaren. Ze begon er zelf van te eten, maar werd de zure smaak beu. Dus schakelde ze over naar kruimeltaart met bramen, vervolgens naar vanillecake, jamgebakjes en hazelnootkoek, tot ze begon te experimenteren met gepocheerde peren, rijstpudding en kokostaart. Die laatste moesten echter nog sneller op. Na een tijdje kon ze het niet meer bijhouden, ze sloeg ontbijt en middagmaal over om zoetigheden in huis te kunnen houden. Af en toe zette ze ’s morgens zelfs haar wekker op. Toen hij een paar weken niet kwam, zag ze kringen op de muren verschijnen. Ze vergat ramen te sluiten, regendruppels ketsten af op de wand. Haar bed bleef onopgedekt.

Coffee measurements

2008-02-28T02:28:00.000-08:00

My relationship is based on coffee. It loosens our tongues, it opens us up. We sit, have a coffee and straighten everything out. If he says: 'Shall we go and have a coffee?', I know it's time to gather our thoughts and make a next step in the day, sometimes in life. We have a coffee when we meet and we have one before grievous goodbyes. After goodbyes I have a lonely coffee at the airport.

We can enjoy our occassional coffee at home, but if things are really serious, then we go out and have one somewhere else. In worst occasions, we skip lunch and only have the black bitter. A cigarette indicates we're on the edge.

Today we haven't had coffee yet. I wonder what he's thinking, whether there is no need to talk.

Wonderful drawing from http://pascalcampion.blogspot.com/

todo esta en la mente

2008-02-25T14:21:00.000-08:00

Wonderful drawing from http://pascalcampion.blogspot.com/

Now it was sure: I had to get rid of it. It was ruling my life, it was governing my thoughts, it was freaking me out. I wanted it out, gone, deleted, destroyed or simply smoothly removed from my apartment. I tried everything. I started the new year with good intentions, I tried again at the first full moon, did yoga, gave in to sweets, but absolutely nothing did the trick. It seems I had a persisting addiction and all my inspiration had died to make it sweep away.
'Acknowledge it, accept it and let it go', friends advised.
'Get busy', someone else said.
'Get a life', someone else thought.
'I'll deal with it', I answered.
So if it would be unmistakably get in my way, it'd better do it in style. On a breezy Friday I walked over to a decent shop near my house and purchased the most expensive and qualitative coffee I could find. At least I was drinking the good stuff now.
But the guilt remained. And the bigger the guilt, the plentier the cups.
By the time the weekend had passed demons overruled and I punished myself by drinking multiple shots in a row. It was at the fourth cup that it started to dawn on me: I felt not chased by a lion, I didn't act aggressively in the car.
I took the 'Landkaffee' and read the ingredients carefully. 'Fruits, grains and beans', it said. 'Koffeinmentes kávé'.
For four days I had now been completely caffeinfree, only by thinking I was the worst addict ever.

coffee

2008-02-21T10:56:00.000-08:00

A month ago I joined the green-tea-drinkers-club. It was my very last attempt. My mother was the other member and we were discussing our club all the time. With each other and with everyone else.
The first week I talked presumptuously, as if it was easy for me. I just drank green tea and didn't miss anything in life, in fact, now I felt even healthier than before. Perfectly balanced, clear thoughts, no shouting and no impatience in traffic jams. I had everything under control. Noooo problems with my addictions. Quiet person, quiet life.
The second week the pulling started.
One morning the third week I got up early and drank my green cup.
I took my bike, cycled slowly in a convoy with the trucks- had to wait for the traffic lights.
Next to me a guy stopped, he was in bicycle costume and looked as if he had been travelling for at least an hour. He looked at me and said: 'Always the cycling- always the cycling'.
And always life.
Maybe that was the problem, that I understood.
I parked my bicycle, went up to a café and surrendered. I ordered a smooth white strong cappuccino.
The eternal and only solace.

Ultimate love

2008-02-06T00:15:00.001-08:00

Many things can be done for the other. You can make breakfast in the morning, prepare your husband's favourite pizza and keep your mouth shut when you want to complain. You can go to his favourite pub and meet his friends. You can keep the apartment tidy, try to be positive in life and let him work at your birthday. When you're really into it, you can work out to look better and get a shiny face.

But maybe you think these things are not enough.
Maybe you want to save his life.
Suppose he's suffering from a typical male illness.

Then you can cut your hair, roast it, mill it and mix it with water. Let him drink it, but don't tell him what it is. It should be women's hair for a man, men's hair for a woman. It will stop the bleeding if nothing else works.

Make sure your hair isn't dyed when using it.

How to keep down your body weight

2008-01-10T14:39:00.001-08:00

Get up at six.
Don't eat, you feel too sick so early anyway.
Cycle your one hour trip to the city. Keep up the tempo, otherwise you'll be late. Try to avoid buses and trucks.
Start your working day with a soy cappuccino and destroy your stomach for any further eating.
At 11 drink another coffee against tiredness.
Eat hot soup.
Finish at four.
Change at work and go running in Regent's park, raining or not. Push the limit, tomorrow you maybe won't have a chance to come.
Actively search the city to have a cosy tea somewhere. Never use the metro, only use your bike or walk.
At six cycle to the most trendy restaurant in town. When you realise you have a flat tyre, accept this and walk the rest of the distance by foot. Walk fast, in order not to come too late.
Eat a great prawn risotto.
Leave the restaurant and fix the flat tyre. Do not wait for any handy men to pass by.
Fight the head wind and cycle home.
After 40 minutes realise you have a flat tyre again. Walk. Keep up the tempo.
Arrive home.
Sit on the bed and relax at least 10 minutes.
Indulge in roasted sunflower seeds. Eat yesterday's dessert.
Fix the tyre again.
Sleep before one.
Get up at six.

I was curious to found out how my sister did it. Supermodel looks. Now I know. I even tried it for 4 days. The coming 4 days:

Honesty

2008-01-10T04:51:00.001-08:00

Once upon a time a woman went to live in London.
She wanted to learn about food, so she started to work in EAT.
That seems very logical to me.They showed her how to make sandwiches, they taught her how to heat up soup. Above all, she learned how to smile to customers. Do you like turkey-cranberry, homous-carrot, bacon-lettuce-tomato, crayfish-lime-coriander, chicken-aioli, tuna-red-onion or prawn cocktail? Eat-in or take-away?
She served busy people with important jobs. They came in decent suits and elegant coats.
They had money to pay 5 pounds for a crappy 'smoked mackerel superfood' salad.
Yes, crappy. She tried it and could only identify a broccoli from the form, not from the taste. Water wrapped in the form of a vegetable. Chemical experiment that tricks the eye.
The clients got cute bags to walk their food 50 meters from the shop to their office.
In the evenings the woman threw out 50% of the food. Label: 'not sold' connected to 'food with a one-day shelf life'. At least, one-day before it enters the shop.
After work she walked to the beautiful square in front of the shop and sat down on a bench.
All buckets were full. Cups, boxes, napkins, cutlery with only one label: EAT.
'So far for this experience', she thought. 'Let's mmooove on'.

Nodig

2008-01-09T10:07:00.001-08:00

Guillaume Apollinaire wrote: "We took them to the edge and bade them to fly. They held on. 'Fly!' we said. They held on. We pushed them over the edge. And they flew."

Guillaume Apollinaire schreef: "We brachten hen naar de rand en gelastten hen te vliegen. Ze hielden zich vast. Vlieg zeiden we. Ze hielden zich vast. We duwden hen over de rand. En ze vlogen."

Determination

2007-12-26T01:10:00.000-08:00

Her children were on top of her mind. Always. The class was about Japanese food, but the topic had now clearly shifted. To her second youngest son. He would sit around a campfire and would even eat there too. Maybe snowflakes would decorate their heads and cover their clothes, but they would sit outside and eat.
'So what will they prepare you?', she asked
'Probably sandwiches with ham and cheese', he answered.
After 30 years of working herself to the bone, and not skipping one day of cooking her family a warm & balanced meal this was not an answer she was going to accept. This was a call for action. She dialled the school's number.
'I've heard you're going to organise a campfire for the kids'.
'Yes madam'.
'And that their meal will consist of sandwiches and cheese'.
'Yes indeed, and ham of course'.
'They need a warm soup. It's freezing cold outside'.
'We don't have time to make it'.
'It doesn't take long'.
'I's for fifty people, madam, it's out of the question'.
'Ok, when exactly is the meal?'
'Monday evening at 18.30'.
'You'll soup will be delivered Monday at 6 pm sharp'.

And that's what she did. Together with two of her other kids she cubed carrots, made a celery stock, peeled and sliced hokkaido pumpkin, collected fresh thyme and parsley and delivered a bucket full of fresh & creamy pumpkin soup at an open campspot near the great woods of Antwerp. On the bucket was a label with the ingredients, the little time she spent on the preparation -40 minutes- and the very limited costs she had.

We absolutely need more crazy women in this country.

Accepting

2007-12-22T12:51:00.000-08:00

They say I'm a bird 'cause I eat seeds
But I've been born as a cow
The name 'Bella' definitely misleads
had to get rid of it somehow
For a while been an ape in the Antwerp zoo
Then ate grains to become human
But the others there...
gave me no good review

Hearts

2007-12-20T03:24:00.000-08:00

'When you give a person this drink, his heart will start beating again'. And mine missed at least one beat when hearing this. My brains should have intercepted this information 8 years earlier, saving a certain person from falling down the street. Or rather to help him to get up again. Maybe my life was running backwards, salving past events and trying to rewrite history. All the time I had despised synchrony, considering presence as a mixture of future and past, always being able to grasp the truth at each humble second. My head felt as if smashed against a wall. Time had definitely tricked me and it was now up to me to find a way out. A few days before I had just accepted that my life was how it should be and that nothing had to be changed. But now, if I had the chance to throw everything in a box and shake it all around, would I do that? Would you? Advices are always welcome.

Kyoko's secret golden trick mix one raw egg with a spoon of shoyu sauce and give this to whom already felt down

Distance

2007-12-14T05:50:00.000-08:00

'So who's enjoying your food now?'. Her voice sounded slightly emotional but mainly curious.
'I give it away to friends. I have to. There is always much more than I can eat'.
I was thinking of the bags full of boxes, filled with cherry desserts, the little glass cups topped with coconut pudding, the plastic plates with honey endive tarts. How I was dragging them around the city, holding the handle bars with one hand, balancing the food bags with the other. My friends and I went to cafés where no food was served, so we could dig up my left over chocolate cake and sesame cookies. We would eat one fourth of the cake, the other half would be a gift for the pub owners, they could sell it to hungry coffee drinkers. Lately I was surprising friends on their birthdays with macro-desserts in nice bowls and candies in cardboard boxes. And sometimes Max came buy and ate a bowl of soup.
'Gosh, I feel like the perfect candidate for your delicacies, only I live 360 km too far. I have to stick to black pudding and jellied eels. But I dó shop where Madonna food-shops, or at least, where her assistant goes', she hurried to say.
I knew she missed my cooking, but I surely missed my audience. Tine was my biggest fan, and through her eyes my dishes reached excellence.
'What do you eat exactly?' I asked
'The soups in EAT are excellent, and there is always a leftover baguette. But there shouldn't be too many managers around then. We can only spend 5,50£ a day. And you know, that's not enough for me'.
My sister and I like eating. When we lived together we always had big meals, we constantly surprised each other with self-made salads and spreads. Tine was an expert in sourdough bread. After she left I found sourdough leftovers on the top of my kitchen cupboard. It had beautiful colours- just a bit too much fermenting.
'Do you manage to cook?'
'Yeah, sure, my Berley is still a great help. I made an impressive 'Shepard's pie' the other day. But how have you been actually?'
'Good'. And then slower: 'Good. Often spending too much time on cooking and then swearing I will never use that damned kitchen again. But the next day I'm experimenting again'.
'So take care'.
'Yeah, you too'.
After I had hung up the phone, I realised I hadn't asked Tine how she was doing, as if what she ate was more important to me. But in fact, by asking her about the small facts of her new established food pattern, I had figured out she was doing great.

if you want to meet Tine, go to Picadilly in Londen and drop by at EAT
http://www.eat.co.uk/
my favourite smoky coffee place in Antwerp with excellent coffees and great waiters:
http://www.caffenation.be/

Slow

2007-12-04T09:33:00.000-08:00

She had never liked new clothes, new outfits had to be worn at least 10 times before she felt comfortable. But even worse were new kitchens. She was terrified at the prospect of having to blemish spotless cupboards and new wooden working spaces. If she saw people moving furniture or rearranging cupboards, she would consistently turn her head and pretend nothing was happening. So it happened she was like a rock in her rapidly changing surroundings. People called her to check how it used to be, to ask about old loves and forgotten chopping techniques.

But sometimes changes cannot be avoided. You quickly try to hide under the kitchen table or desperately cover the stain with your hand. The doors are locked but you hear them knocking on the wooden frame. You turn the radio louder and keep turning the pages.

It was late autumn and day after day she had noticed him changing. His words and phrases had been shifting, until finally the result had become undeniable. For two months she hadn't prepared any meals, circling around her stove from a distance. Quietly she entered the kitchen trying not to touch anything. Why would she touch what she didn't know? From then on she'd walk in the kitchen with fabulous ideas for dinner and end up with only serving a little plate of olives. Fruitlessly she would chop vegetables from a distance or peel onions in the air, choosing recipes that were simpler than pouring juice from a bottle. Each meal she saw her family eating less and less, getting stuck in the boredom of raw salads and ravioli cans. They started asking for barley cakes and buckwheat salad, noodle sushis and corn soup, their faces getting thinner, their eyes bigger. One night her empty stomach woke her up and in the deep blackness of a dark night she started cooking again.

Appèl

2007-12-01T07:36:00.000-08:00

First I will eat myself, then I will eat my mother and finally they will give me food. This will not last too long though, soon I will have to find my way in supermarkets and corner shops, market places and fish auctions. I will have to smell and feel, touch and rub, weigh and shake. Sometimes I will guess, take risks and entirely trust on my intuition. When tasting, the result of my choices will immediately become clear. At dinner parties I will explain, fight and say no. I will swap plates and sit next to indoor plants. During my travels I will carry my own fire on my back, walk for miles and not complain. I will stop alongside the path, cook the grain and smell the sweet vapour, hungrily eat it with my fingers. Then I will run to catch up with the others, for they ate snickers and kept on walking. In small far away cities I will learn local languages, talk to foreigners and search little streets, examine unknown maps, only to find a mama who wants to sell me honest food. If I ever end up in hospital, I will accept and struggle to get better, but being confined to the menu of the ill, I will count on You to bring me some brown rice and miso soup.

Autumn

2007-11-30T07:12:00.000-08:00

It is time to think. Cold winds chastise the landscape and plants store their juices deep down in their roots. I know the moment has come to reflect on my past days- explosive summer days and colourful autumn moments, where life seemed so much more extravert. So I drag my old sofa to the window and start feeling comfortable. My friends recognize the signals and seriously respect my wish to stay in. Chilliness outside asks for warmth in my body. Time to get my body tuned to the season. I know the pizza delivery service won’t do the trick, but I have a handful of guidelines to escape the cold toes and frosty fingers. First of all my stove is my friend and I try to leave the refrigerator closed until spring. I still like salads, but only to look at. I just use a few pickles on the side. I’ve learned that veggies like the cosiness too. They want each other’s company in heavy pots to gather warmth and sweetness in slowly simmering vegetable stews. Especially round vegetables such as onions, pumpkin and turnips are fervent candidates. To get your protein, add some cooked beans. Your body needs hearty seasoned dishes and slightly more oil than in summer.
Avoid cold drinks, but choose instead for warm teas or cereal coffee.

Winter wonder: heat some apple juice in a little pan and add some drops of fresh ginger, a pinch of salt and cinnamon. Gives you a kick and gets your energy moving!

Choices

2007-11-24T10:54:00.000-08:00

'No', I screamed. 'Don't lift the cover.' Judging his look I had just said something incomprehensible. His sleepy eyes looked startled, his fingers were tapping on the pot.
'I'm a bit much curious what you are preparing honey'. His mouth showed a glamourous smile.
'You can't open the pot now, it'll destroy the dish'.
In two seconds I went from loveable to madwoman.
'Come on, only to see what's cooking.'
'I think you'll have to leave this kitchen now'. I noticed my voice getting slightly upset. Actually, my whole body was shaking.
He was stunned, didn't believe me saying these words.
I couldn't help it. These veggies had to be alone now. It was cosy in the pot, no doubt. I felt pieces of butternut squash melting, chunks of carrot sweetening, onions caramelizing and quarters of rutabaga communicating to the burdock on the side. Warm friendships started and life stories were told. No curious human being should interfere.
A door slammed. I was again alone in the kitchen.
Thirty minutes later I went to the library. He was waiting for me, but stubbornly kept staring at his page. Finally he took his plate and slowly started to chew. Only a few bites later he looked up at me with a happy face.

Language

2007-11-21T15:54:00.001-08:00

There was a piece of chocolate missing. The golden box was full except for one coffee & cream. A delicious coffee & cream. Taste he surely had. I slowly looked across the room, vainfully hoping I could still unmask hidden offenders. The kitchen was shining. For hours I had been scrubbing, mopping, rinsing and washing. I had bumped my head, had sat on my knees. I had removed all the food from the refrigerator and wiped the inside with warm soapy water. Even read the vacuum cleaner manual. The high-gloss cupboards were glittering, the floor was like a clean plate. But there were no silent fingerprints, no forgotten crumbs. No fallen dust to write YES on the kitchen table. All traces had disappeared in a bucket full of water and a microfiber dust mob. So I knelt down and scanned the floor with the palm of my hand, drawing contours of a man's footprint, but nothing I found. Disciplined I had guarded this box from my own greedy taste buds, to discover that someone else had broken into my treasure. I heard my ears whistling and felt my eyes burn, my heart started pounding in my chest. In one swift swing my fists landed on the table, making a cracking sound that was not coming from the wood. Tiny drops of beetroot red coloured the immaculate room. How easy it is to hurt yourself. Finally the pain took over my raging anger and slowly the comfort of lost possibilities touched down on me. It was only me and the box now. No long expected passers-by at the kitchen table. So I gave in and took what I had kept away from myself: the second and last coffee & cream, which, in the end, I now had shared with some one else.

walls

2007-11-13T05:43:00.000-08:00

'I'm gonna sleep in the kitchen', he said. 'From now on I'll lay myself on the black&white tiles'. I was not surprised, for months I had been expecting these words. I clearly remember when it all started. It was on a cold dark Tuesday night in late autumn. He was reading in the old armchair, I was peeling chestnuts in the Knowle sofa, there was a big fire between us. 'We have to break down that wall', he stated. 'It has disturbed me since we moved in, there are too many small rooms in this appartment'. I looked at him with surprise, I had always thought that escaping into narrow spaces was his second nature. He could sit at only one meter distance from me for a whole day, but there were always bricks between us. Next day he called his buddie, and for hours they put all their force into taking down that wall, I could only see their backs. He had confined me to the chestnuts and the sofa. Slowly every object got covered with fine dust, even I looked as if crusted with snow. I turned into a statue, present but superfluous. For weeks the knocking and hammering continued, until it pulsed simultaneously with my blood stream. One morning I woke up early, the house was silent and the bed next to me empty. In my nightie I softly tiptoed to the kitchen and there it was: a jewel in high gloss crema and American walnut, gracefully framed in the wall protrusion. Its mere beauty blinded me. At that moment I knew it was over. That same night he moved to the kitchen floor.

Alleen

2007-11-06T11:07:00.000-08:00

Vanavond kruip ik in bed met een gloeiende mand gele sojabonen. Ik zal ze warm houden zodat er vannacht iets moois kan groeien. Ik zoek altijd oplossingen als er geen mannenlijven, of liever, als niet dat ene specifieke mannenlijf in de buurt is. De bonen zijn geweekt, gekookt en zorgvuldig in bakpapier gewikkeld. Ten slotte heb ik mijn oranje mohairen deken afgestaan- ik weet wanneer ik moet handelen.

Met zijn tweeën liggen we stille uren in een doorwaakte nacht, het pakket raakt mijn bovenarm. Af en toe strek ik mijn vingers uit en controleer of het nog genoeg lichaamswarmte heeft. Voorzichtig draai ik me dan om en rol ik me rond het deken. Zo slapen we afwisselend samen en apart.

In de vroege ochtend schuif ik mijn handen een voor een onder de bonen en draag ze plechtig naar de keuken. Daar mix ik ze door de misosoep.

Big Dinners in Marbaix

2007-10-22T09:46:00.001-07:00

I'm schizophrenic. One day you'd define me as an action-hero, only to find me contemplating under the kitchen table the next day. A thinker collecting the lost crumbs from weeks-old bread. Today I am on that side, dealing with serious matters, i.e. evaluating my weekend. On Saturday evening my sister Tine and I welcomed 18 respectable guests in our tiny Marbaix appartment for our fourth 'In the Kitchen' diner. For two days we had been preparing the menu (are you interested?) and arranging the rooms, keeping up appearances by being nice and shiny at 18.30 when first guests arrived. 'I'm sorry, I need a nap', wouldn't have been appropriate. During the evening my habitat was the kitchen, so I could concentrate on the dishes, trying to keep everyone at a distance by a sign 'please don't talk to chef while he's cooking'. The regular bursts of laughter from the distance made sure I kept on shaking my hips between the pots and pans.

The truth is the following: I love to cook for people, but when they're about to serve the food, I run. Out. Away from any tasters who meticulously turn and try the food. So, why do I keep on confronting my dishes? Somewhere short before sunrise I found my answer: I could feel 18 lines vibrating into new directions, 18 little souls who had silently passed their social borders and had discovered some new form of sharing. Eating food that nourishes body & mind. Talking to new people who also want to talk to you. Doing yoga at 3 o'clock in the night without questioning this. Sharing ideas. Creating energy that lasts.

Now it's Monday 18.30. I see Tine crawling into her bed, she needs extensive wandering in soothing dreams. There is silence in the appartment. We both know why.

menu:
roasted autumn chestnuts
Japanese Bancha tea with shoyu for strenghtening and focus
Orange Indian lentil soup with coriander
Finely shopped maquerel salad with warm sake
mashy pumpkin-beetroot pie, yellow wild rice with balsamico and broccoli, sweet Belgian endive and tasty winter stew with wheat gluten, celeriac and carrots.
Hot amazake drink with orange, oat cookie and intenstive chocolate mousse
soy energy bar to take home

Money for nothing

2007-10-08T12:28:00.000-07:00

Today I thought about money. How we all accept so easily that one person gets huge amounts and that another gets hardly anything. Often we pay big sums for details, and in many cases we pay little for lots. Is it with money that we prove the world -and convince ourselves- that we've done well so far, is this how we measure our value?

I was at Ecover yesterday, representing The Cooking School and explaining eco-minded people about food and being clean not only from the outside (Ecover) but also from the inside. What sense does it make to endlessly clean your house with environmentally friendly products if your inner isn't strong and pure? Ironically enough, acquiring this pureness and strenght is so simple that most people even don't take it seriously. You just have to eat a fresh natural diet and put in as much variation as you can. Discover new vegetables and prepare them in many different ways. Apart from that healthy thoughts won't do any harm as well.

So where does money slip in here? Many Ecover visitors didn't realise our message was golden information, worth more than anything else in this world. Gaining energy, feeling more peaceful and satisfied, radiating more joy into the world, all without any pharmaceutics at hand. But cheap and simple advices don't seem to convince anymore nowadays, 'cause', said an older woman, 'our health is priceless' and 'isn't life difficult?'.

www.denatuurlijkekookschool.be
www.ecover.com
www.openbedrijvendag.be

wachten

2007-10-06T11:46:00.000-07:00

Ooit heb ik eens zo lang op iemand gewacht, dat ik na een tijdje iets wilde doen om hem te laten komen. Hem contacteren kwam niet eens in me op. Eerst begon ik mijn huis op te ruimen en toen het helemaal leeg en proper was, begon ik het te vullen. Het aanrecht kwam vol groenten te liggen, alle kleuren door elkaar. Ik zag al dat mijn communicatie verwarrend was. Het fruit hing ik in trossen aan het plafond, alle vissen zwommen verder in de groentebak. Mijn keuken werd een rariteitenkabinet, maar ik zorgde ervoor dat ik alles netjes hield. Eerst kwamen de herfstgroenten aan de beurt, die kon ik drogen, pekelen en zo langer bewaren. Ik werkte maanden lang en de gerechten stapelden zich op, af en toe nodigde ik een voorbijganger uit om opnieuw plaats te maken voor het volgende gerecht. Ik was zo onverdroten bezig dat ik de ochtend de nacht niet zag begroeten, seizoenen slopen binnen en gingen weer weg, ongemerkt. Op een stille avond werd ik plots een beetje moe, ik had lang gewerkt en mezelf niet veel rust gegund. Ik zou nu moeten pauzeren, dus ik ging zitten aan de oude keukentafel. Voor mij stond een glas, halfleeg, daarnaast een kopje. Ik bleef staren, minutenlang, tot ik besefte dat hier een mens was geweest. Ik hoefde niet meer op hem te wachten.

Het Begin

2007-10-05T15:10:00.000-07:00

Twee weken lang waren we al onderweg, we hadden geleefd van brood, brood en nog eens brood. Soms stopten we de auto langs de kant van de weg, gewoon omdat ik niet meer kon zonder eenvoudige gekookte groenten. Die dag zetten we onze tent op op Vancouver Island, al snelde speurden we de omgeving af. Het leek een klein onooglijk winkeltje, maar de opluchting die ik voelde toen ik door de deur stapte, valt met geen boterham te beschrijven. Deze mensen wisten wat eten was en hoe je de ziel kon voeden. Eenvoudig, eerlijk en net wat ik nodig had om verder te kunnen reizen. Verse sushi, zuivere soep, warme eerlijke groenten. Sindsdien besef ik het belang van écht voedsel onderweg, op de weg, of in het leven.