slow baking

we finally tried our hand at making sourdough bread from scratch (i know, i know, next thing you know, we'll be making soufflés...). the result was fantastic (although isabelle wouldn't touch it with a barge pole). but the process... the process changed my life. it started last week sunday, when i cooked some potatoes and mashed them into their cooking liquid with a bit of flour. then i put the mush away. on tuesday, i stirred.

(ok, seriously, don't you just want to scream from sheer joy? imagine, that's the actual recipe: 'stir on tuesday'. i love just saying it, 'on tuesday, i stirred'. doesn't that completely rearrange all the thoughts you've ever had about this life? and it gets even better...)

on wednesday, i stirred again. and added a bit of flour and some water.

on friday, i stirred once more and added a bit more flour and water.

on saturday, i added lots of flour, lots of water, some salt and some oil, and then kneaded the (very very wet) dough and put it away to rise.

on monday, we baked.

it lasted three days, we were savouring. the flavour just kept getting better. as did the smell.

(8 days, it took 8 DAYS... that's a day longer than you-know-who needed to make the world!) (and i know i am a weirdo, and a blasphemous one at that, but humour me here, i just really enjoyed making this bread)

(... and of course forgot to save a piece of the friday dough for future bread, which means we have to start from scratch next time...) (oh... can't wait...)

dividing time

in The Miracle of Mindfulness by Thich Nhat Hanh, there is a story about Alan (or is it Roy?), a father of young children, who had the most amazing revelation when he stopped dividing his time into categories (time for the children, time for the wife, time for work, time for Alan) and realized that all time was his time. i read this story for the first time a couple of years ago, at the peak of our 'time division' era (more on this below), and i remember feeling that this story was my koan. i could feel that it held the wisdom i needed, but for the life of me, i couldn't crack it. i mean, of course, wouldn't it be wonderful if all time was my time? but where did that leave 'time for the children', 'time for the husband', 'work time', 'cleaning time', 'social time' and all the rest of it?

a year or so after the birth of isabelle, and strangely coinciding with my bout of post-graduate obsession with feminism in all its forms, i introduced the category 'time for myself' into our lives. soon, it turned into a deity. many idols came and went, but 'time for myself' was inviolable, and much was sacrificed to it. marc and i experimented with various systems (half a day for him/half a day for me, splitting weekends, week-nights being divided between the two of us, hiring baby-sitters, etc.) over the years, and although it often felt as if we were somehow missing some point somewhere, neither of us could figure out what or where. and don't get me wrong, it wasn't bad, those were my most productive years here on the blog and in my studio. but somehow, there was a vague unease and disatisfaction about the whole thing (not to mention the incessant bickering involved in defending one's 'time zone').

in the meantime, of course, the koan was doing its work on the inside, steadily and with stealth.

one of the first times i met Mirjam, i happened to mention the 'time to myself' issue, and she said something along the lines of (please feel free to correct misquotes) 'not really wanting time for herself because it seemed to her that if she had any, she would end up wanting more and more of it'. that pissed the hell out of me...

... which is usually a sign. of truth and wisdom (nothing pisses me off quite as much as truth and wisdom...). i went home and thought. and came to the painful realization that this was true for me too. that the problem with 'time for myself' was that i never ever EVER seemed to have enough of it. and the more of it i had, the more i wanted. i also realized that there were so many things i wanted to do in that time for myself that it was seriously vying for the position of 'most stressful time'. finally, i was forced to conclude that far from making me happy, my 'time for myself' usually resulted in me feeling disconnected, from myself and everyone else, grumpy, impatient and mad.

but it sounded so right, this 'i need time for myself'. so what was wrong with it?

and then, unanounced, Alan's (or Roy's?) story made its reappearance (when i accidentally borrowed The Miracle of Mindfulness from the library, having confused it with another book and having forgotten that i actually own it). reading it again, the koan cracked over my head like a ripe egg. and i got it. just like that, i knew what was wrong with 'i need time for myself'. the answer is: time and myself.

consider the latter first, since that's the one Thich Nhat Hanh illustrates so well: if i divide time into categories, and one (only one) of these categories is 'time for myself', that implicitly means that all other time categories are not mine. and that in turn means that the more categories there are, the more areas of my life, and hours in my day, are not mine. no wonder my to-do list for those few hours was insane: i was trying to cram an entire life into a few hours per week! no wonder i felt unhappy and unfulfilled 'the rest of the time', since all my needs always had to be postponed until i had 'time for myself'. no wonder this made me feel depressed and gave me the feeling that 'my life was not my own'. it wasn't. i had given it away. with one little well-meaning sentence: 'i need time for myself'.

deep down (and close to the surface too), i wanted all of life to be 'time for myself'. of course i did. and the irony is that it was, and had been all along. the time i spend with my children, with my work, with my husband, with my meditation cushion, with my paint-brush and my toilet brush, with my friends and family, all of it is time for myself. it is all, in the most real sense, my time.

and then there is the 'time' thing (i did warn you, didn't i, that i am obsessed with this...). 'i need time'. what does that mean? time is always here. in abundance. if i want it, here it is. it never goes away (if it is there at all), every second follows and announces another second, every hour, every week, every year brings more and more of itself. what is there to need? saying 'i need time' is like standing on a beach and saying 'i need air'. ok. done.

but by saying 'i need time', i am creating the illusion of scarcity. and if i create the illusion of scarcity for something that is so intangible, so all-pervasive, and in the end so utterly inexistant as time, i am in for quite a ride, aren't i! suddenly, that which is all around me has to be carved, shaped, measured and divided. using the image of air on the beach once again, i can see how utterly pointless this is. i can also see that it is more than pointless, it is toxic, because it succesfully disguises the real need underlying the utterance 'i need time', which then goes unnoticed and unmet.

so what do i mean then, when i say 'i need time for myself'? any and/or all of the following:

i need solitude, i need to work, i need to read, i need to do yoga, i need to connect, i need to disconnect, i need to day-dream, i need to crawl under the blanket, i need to sleep, i need to meditate, i need to stare at a blank wall, i need to think, i need to rest, i need quiet, i need music, i need to dance, i need to love myself, i need a bath, i need to draw, i need to write, i need to take a photograph, i need to listen to the birds, i need to lie in a hammock, i need to walk, i need to do absolutely nothing, i need the beach, i need the forest, i need a snack, i need to plan a meal, i need to play, etc.

(note that of these, only the need for solitude actually strictly requires, in and of itself, the absence of other creatures. which is not to say that many of these things are not gorgeous lovely when experienced in solitude. but how do they feel in the company of two adorable under-six year-olds? in view of my life's circumstances, it's certainly worth finding out...)

if i let 'time' off the hook, i can begin to experience its sheer endlessness. if i learn to formulate and express my real need, i need not postpone its fulfillment. instead, i can concentrate on creative ways to meet my needs right now. right here. in this time of mine.

gardening dilemma

(Little Weed, snugled between Bill and Ben)

it's clearly time to start planting now. the original, humble, plan for this year's harvest (strawberries (mara), strawberries (wild), strawberries (gariguette)) has oozed and spread somewhat (a herb garden, tomatoes, bell peppers, salads (only because came free with strawberries (wild)), and gerkhins (because can't be bought fresh anywhere)). (not to mention the sunflower house project) (not really edible) (but oh so lovely)

of course, all this is so far in the head (or in the seed). seedlings still have to be started, it will take weeks, and then and only then will the dilemma (which i have still failed to mention) make itself felt. still, one likes to stay ahead of the game (especially where dilemma's are concerned) (being a theorist despite all and sundry and all that). anyway, yes, the dilemma: where should i plant these wonders? on my balcony in town A or in my garden in town B? wherever it will be, i'll need to take care of it all, and at this point, i can't figure out where i will be this summer, because if the little summer house turns out to be wonderful i'll spend most of my time there, but really, my kitchen in town is much better equipped, and if i don't end up liking the summer house, i'll have to drive up and down 50 km to go and water the wonders in the garden of town B. On the other hand, if i do love it at the garden house, and my whole vegetable garden is on my hot very very hot south-facing no-wind-at-all balcony in town, i'll have to drive 50 km up and down EVERY DAY to water the wonders on the balcony in town A.

you can see why my ever helpful son is looking so puzzled (having been given this particular rant at 8 in the morning, while he was trying to enjoy the morning sunshine)...

please to advise.

illness

(self-portrait with new head-kerchief)

things have been rather sad and subdued around here this week since we heard that my grand-father has suddenly been taken ill, which at the age of 90 is no good news (although knowing my grand-father, he might surprise us and go on to live for another 30 years). we immediately started organizing ourselves (passports/visums/etc.) and we are leaving on the 21st.

since hearing the news, i've been phoning him every day, but he tires easily, and i realize in only have about 5 minutes a day. for a story. so i collect for him little nuggets from our life, i embellish them just a little (the way one sometimes adds a few drops of balsamic vinegar to a bowl of fresh strawberries), and i hope he will laugh.

(yesterday's nugget involved hand-made head-kerchiefs, today's was all about isabelle walking around the house with her hand-held microscope discovering the wonders of the micro-world)

this morning i was standing in the kitchen and it struck me that almost 30 years ago, my grand-father was the one who had 5 minutes a day. as a child, i used to stay with my grand-parents in moscow and the days were filled with rituals, one of which was the bedtime stories my grand-father told me every night. these were tales of his childhood in ukraine, some funny, some sad, some wild and scary, all of them, i found out quite recently, fictional. they have formed me, stayed with me, and i can still remember most of them. in 5 minutes a day, he created a world for me.

now the roles are reversed as i try to create a world for him, entertaining him with stories of my children's childhood.

tonight, as we lay in bed, all four of us under the big white mosquito net, marc was reading from Het Sleutelkruid and it suddenly dawned on me that for weeks now, we have been listening every night to the story of a very old dying king whose life is being stretched out, one day at a time, through the stories that the animals of his kingdom come to tell him.

it will be many many nights before we know how the story ends.

music lesson

we fell collectively and instantaneously in love with Lisa Hannigan and her song 'Lille'. there is still a debate on whether we prefer this live version (i want to see her face while she sings, mama!) or the official video with 'the amazing pop-up book' (or is there?) (mama, i don't have to choose, i like them both!). we play these videos a number of times every day, and all four of us (including the local long-haired two-foot-tall head-banger) go completely quiet each and every time. it's magic.

i have been finding myself humming the song on the bicycle, in the kitchen, and in a number of other places. on one of these occasions (bicycle), isabelle said she wanted to learn to sing the song. 'aha!', said my big fat teacher's brain 'an opportunity for learning!'. i proceeded with a long lecture on the advantages ('oh, what a wonderful idea! you can learn some english, and some poetry, and some singing, and maybe we can take singing lessons together...') followed by a lecture on the various pedagogical approaches we might try ('so do you want to learn the lyrics first, or just hum the melody? or do both at once?' 'should i first translate the lyrics for you, so you know what she is singing, and THEN we learn them in english, or do you think we should learn them in english first and THEN translate?' etc. etc.).

she interupted me, this daughter of mine, a while into the lecture, and said: 'mama, we don't need to do all that. let's just listen to the song a lot and then one day we'll know it...'

(i bow to thee, oh great live-in teacher of mine!)

dialogue in the guest-house

i woke up this morning still filled with the image of a guest-house from Rumi's poem (see yesterday's post). bleary-eyed, i picked up my early-morning-diary (and yes, that is an actual existing concept), but instead of the usual litany ("didn't sleep well, feel tired, Antoine nursed all night, what shall we do today? blah blah blah"), i found myself writing: "so, who's come to visit today?". the answer appeared on the page, as if by magic: "Apathy, Tiredness, Tension and Depression". as i moved my pen to resume the litany ("see, i knew it, my life sucks, look at that, what a list, what's wrong with me anyway? blah blah blah"), i stopped in my tracks. remembered the poem. and with much effort, wrote: "Welcome!". the following dialogue ensued:

me: Welcome! Come in, can i get you something to eat? to drink?

them: no thanks, we're fine.

me: so, they say you all come bearing gifts, is that true?

them: yep.

me: and what did you bring me?

Apathy: actually, i am here to carry some of your pain for you for a while, so that you can rest a bit.

me: really???????

Apathy: yes. in principle, of course, you should carry the pain yourself, but sometimes it gets to be a bit much, and then i come around for a while and do some of the carrying for you.

me: wow! that's nice... thank you. What about you, Tiredness?

Tiredness: oh, my job is simple, i am here to get you to sit down. it's pretty simple, whenever you feel my presence, just sit down. simple. just. sit. down.

me: oh, but... there is so much i have to do, and so much i want to do, and if i am tired, i can't, and ...

Tiredness: well, that's it, isn't it? so the gift is pretty simple, really: just. sit. down. if you didn't have me, you never would, you know, sit down.

me: you're right, you're absolutely right, that is exactly what i need, i need somebody to walk around with me all day, reminding me to occasionally sit down. i really do need that. thank you!

Tiredness (in a weary voice): you're welcome.

Tension: so, are you going to ask about my gift? no? i'll tell you anyway: i'm here to warn you when you overreach yourself, trying so hard to be something that you are not, because you just keep forgetting that you are fine just the way you are. and so i try to remind you that there is no need to pretend, no need to try so hard.

me: that is so important, now i think of it. thank you!

i turned to Depression, just on time to see him backing out of the door. "i think i'll come back some other time", he mumbled, "this just isn't my day..."

hard

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be cleaning you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
Because each has been sent
As a guide from beyond.

Rumi

why is this so hard to live by? why wring my hands in despair, whenever despair appears? why be angry at anger? or saddened by sadness's smile? why try to reason unreasonableness away? why rush to fix that which has yet to be broken? why is the weather inside so much harder to live with, than the weather outside? and the bird in the tree said: twee twee twee twee twee twee twee twee...

spilled milk

theoretically, the down side of only shopping for groceries once a week is that you end up either missing something and/or having way too much of something else. of course, in real life, these are rich sources of creative possibility. for instance, there was the miracle that ocurred the time i didn't have any regular chocolate to make brownies from (having woken up with one thought only on my lips and hands: MUST MAKE BROWNIES NOW!) and ended up using my secret stash of G&B Mint with amazing results (i know at least two grown women who still sigh deeply at the mere thought).

more recently, two full packs of whole milk, almost over their date, were found lurking at the back of the fridge. having pestered my usual founts of wisdom (thanks again, Pauline), and carried out some serious field-work, here is what you can do with a whole pack of milk almost over its date:

- bread pudding

- custard (or the local version, vla)

- far breton

- loads of béchamel sauce

- your very own ricotta cheese (i made cheese, i made cheese, i actually MADE CHEESE!!!!!!!)

(Miracle Brownies Recipe

- 100 gr. G&B Mint (or any 70%+ chocolate with a mint flavor)

- 100 gr. softened butter

- 250 gr. sugar (or equivalent in whatever sweetener you like)

- 1 dl. milk

- 3 eggs

- 125 gr. flour

- 2 tbsp. cocoa powder

- vanilla (to taste)

- pinch of salt

- 100 gr. of whatever nuts you like, chopped

preheat oven to 180 degrees; melt chocolate au bain marie; in large bowl, mix butter with sugar (or whatever else you're using), add chocolate plus all other ingredients (nuts last), pour into baking tray lined with baking paper. bake from 30 to 60 minutes, depending on your oven (knife should come out clean)

try to not eat them all before they have time to cool down. try to share with other members of household. try to not tell EVERYONE you know about them. try to forgive yourself if you fail in any and/or all of the above)

knocked out

of mice and men

just imagine: i was sitting on a train last week, by myself, reading The Joy of Burnout, by Dina Glouberman (which incidentally really is the best book on the subject), and there are all these visualisation/meditation exercises in there, aimed at getting one in touch with one's inner process and stuff, and just as the train pulls into the station, i'm reading about this exercise where you sit and meditate until an image appears in your mind that symbolises your particular burnout, and then you can take some time to explore that image and what it means to you,

so i'm getting off the train, and the sun is shining warm on my face, and i'm all the way at the end of the platform where nobody ever comes, except, well, the trains, and i'm thinking what the heck, no time like the present, so i plonk myself down right there on the platform in the sunshine, i close my eyes, and i wait. and almost immediately, in a flash, i see running across the inner screen of my mind, a mouse. you know, the regular little brown/grey kind. and it's no more than a flash, really, because quicker than you can say jiffy, the bit of my brain that gets to do most of the talking most of the time intervenes: a mouse, what do you mean a mouse?? don't be ridiculous! clearly, that's not our image! just concentrate, will you!

so i sit some more, and concentrate, and for what feels like an eternity, nothing happens. until eventually, slowly and painfully, something sort of vaguely emerges. Ah! Sisyphus. now we're talking! now that is a real image! condemned by the gods, a man is struggling to roll a huge rock up a hill, and just as he gets to the top, the rock rolls down. man climbs down the hill, hoists rock up on shoulder. repeat ad infinitum. now this we like. it's dramatic, it's scholarly, it's famous. it's us.

on to the next step: the book says once i have the image i should try to inhabit it, actually feel my way into what it would be like to be that image. right. so here i am, still sitting in the sunshine on my train platform, concentrating really hard to imagine what it would be like to be a bloke with a big rock on my back, but for some reason, and despite my best efforts, all can come up with is what Sean Bean would look like, with a big rock on his (naked) back (because of course, instead of doing the 40-day-no-tv-programme, i've been watching Lady Chatterley on repeat for over a month...) (what can i say, it's spring fever...)... and i'm thinking this is not such a useful exercise after all (although quite enjoyable, what with the sunshine, and Sean...), when suddenly... there is this odd scratching noise, right next to my foot.

(of course, all the time i've been sitting there, trains have been rushing past, making a hell of a racket, but one sort of expects trains to run past train platforms, whereas scratching noises... and so close to one's foot...) Startled, i open my eyes. and guess what? right there, by my foot, looking up at me: A MOUSE. a real, brown/grey MOUSE.

(short break to give sensitive people some time to recover their composure)

i almost jumped out of my skin. obviously. breathed deeply. looked back at the mouse and said in a resigned tone of voice: all right, then, a mouse.

so i sat and watched the mouse until it disappeared below the platform. then i closed my eyes again, and it all came to me in a rush: about how a mouse is so nervy, isn't it, it's so small, and everybody is always out to get it, and it's terrible, really, being a mouse, you never get a break, constantly foraging for food, and looking out for all those threats and dangers. Seriously, have you ever seen a mouse relax? or lounge? or just be bored? of course not, it can't afford to. i mean, mice are pretty low on the food chain, aren't they. oh! and those huge chocolate brown swimming eyes, and those twitching always twitching whiskers, poor poor little mouse... being a mouse is nerve-wrecking, i mean do they ever even sleep? the ones who used to live in my kitchen certainly never did... and how fast does a mouse's heart beat anyway? way too fast, that's how fast.

so yep, that's my burn-out. a mouse. and thank You for the subtle hint.

(is the universe being really literal with you too this month? anybody want to share spooky sign stories?)

inside

we've been stuck inside for a few days because of an ear infection/bad cold/hoarse voice thing that isabelle developed. the first day was spent lazing about in front of the telly, but by the end of the second day we needed something more to keep the insanity monster at bay. this lovely project appeared just on time. isabelle chose the fabrics, made the drawing, embroidered most of the big flower (leaving the rest to her minions) and sewed the whole thing on my machine (with just a little help). and of course, although she really enjoyed the making, she is much more circumspect about the result than i am. in the midst of my oohs, aahs and spastic photographing, she said: it's a bookmark, mama, let's put it in a book. it's safely tucked in het sleutelkruid now.

ostara

resume

(top photograph taken of Nikki McClure's 2009 wall calendar)

...

12:00 (as in midnight). my husband, son, daughter and cats are peacefully snoring all around me. i am reading Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert (finally, two years after everybody else, and thank you R. and G. for the fantastic library service). and i get to this point in the story (on p. 15) where she is lying on the bathroom floor of her lovely home, sobbing for the umpteenth night in a row for the imminent demise of her marriage and life-as-she-knows-it, when suddenly, revelation strikes: in the throes of more despair than she can bear, Elizabeth starts talking to god. out loud. she cries: what should i do? what should i do? WHAT SHOULD I DO?...

and god answers. god says "go back to bed!".

12:01. i almost shriek. delight. revelation. hallelujah. after 35 years of sort-of-not-quite-maybe-i hope-do-you-think-that-perhaps faith issues, i have certainty at last: god exists.

how do i know? because every time (many times over the years) that i have come to the edge of the cliff, the point where all seems lost, but most painfully hope, when the dark night of the soul had spread all the way down to the little toes, and flinging my agnosticism/ buddhism/atheism and other suits to the wind, i have cried in despair: what should i do? WHAT SHOULD I DO? someone has answered. and every time this someone has said (in the calm and kind voice that Elizabeth describes on p. 16): "go back to bed!".

Q.E.D.

12:06. i am standing in the dark kitchen. the cat is rubbing up against my leg in an effort to convince me that the real reason i came downstairs is to give her a snack. my heart is beating too fast and my mind is whirling. "so there really is a god then... and she seems to be strangely obsessed with sleeping... alternatively, maybe i should try talking to her at some other time than in the middle of the night... maybe god is just a 'here and now' kind of girl... but this is amazing, absolutely amazing, i have to tell it to someone. right now. maybe i should wake up marc, would he get mad if i woke him up to tell him there is a god? or should i turn on the computer, e-mail someone about this? there must be someone out there who is still awake and who wants to know about this right now, because it just blows your mind, doesn't it? and it can't be coincidence, it's too big, it's too too big. so what should i do with it? what should i do?????"

12:07. god speaks. "go back to bed!", she says.

process

last night i watched a phenomenal talk by Elizabeth Gilbert on creative genius (you've got to see it, it's so good), and she talks, among other things, about the creative process of Ruth Stone, which apparently involved ready-made poems galloping across the fields and running straight into and through Ruth, at which point she in turn had to run to make it to a pen and paper before the poem galloped on and out of sight. and listening to it, i realized that, crazy mad as it may sound, that's pretty much how my creative process works (the process, mind you, not the result (which fails to even vaguely visit the vicinity of the work of Ruth Stone)).

now with most things creative (writing, sewing, drawing, painting, etc.), i am a slow, hesitant creature whose efforts revolve around the dreaded yet comfortable concept of 'discipline, discipline and more discipline'. but there are some things, specifically poems and little white clay women, which freakishly run at, through and out of me fully formed, and at mind-blowing speed (if, that is, i manage to get to the materials on time). the little white women in particular fascinate me. i never think of them as art or anything, but they come out with great urgency: i sense them before they are there, and then suddenly, have to rush to get to the clay box (yes, sometimes (often) in the middle of the night). the most amazing part of it to me is the speed at which they are realized. and the utter lack of thinking. within two to three minutes from sitting down, it's done. and they always look exactly right. there is no hesitation, not a single false movement, my hands know exactly what to do, and they have to rush to keep up with whatever it is that is working through me (the local creative genius, according to Elizabeth Gilbert and the ancient romans). it's a bit weird.

i call them little 'goddess figures', and prop them up around the house, to do their protective work, like the good-intentioned spirits that they are. the only thing is that i can't get too attached to any of them, because Antoine breaks them with greater gusto and at greater speed than i make them.
(RIP little standing goddess in the kitchen window sill).

bibliothèque

it has been said before, here and elsewhere, that we have a fantastic public library in this town. not only does it contain 'almost everything' in many many languages, it also has amazingly deep comfortable armchairs in which one can while away many hour (days) reading magazines or staring at passers-by. my former approach to the library was rather result-oriented (hhmm? really?), as in 'find required book in the online library system', 'get to the library', 'find required book', 'get out'.

nowadays, with more hours to while away, and fewer things to do, i end up strolling in unknown sections, browsing through mysterious shelves. and making wonderful discoveries. such as the series of cups and saucers that Japanese artist Shizuka Yokomizo designed once upon a time for Illy. the titles alone (carrot dog, white wall, book) are worth it. not to mention the artwork.
and then true treasure: Honey from a Weed, by Patricia Grey. a magical book, so infused with warmth, food and deep connection that i cannot handle reading more than a page of it at a time. it tells me all kinds of things i really really want to know, without even the shadow of a chance of ever using the knowledge, such as: the pots and pans one needs to own for a nomadic existence among the mountains of Catalunia. the kind of fire you get with dry fig twigs, as opposed to rosemary twigs, or vine twigs, or citrus branches. and how far one can swim across the bay on the greek island of nexos before the fire under lunch burns down to ashes and one must return to eat it. and the strong anti-depressant effect of pounding fresh basil leaves in a stone mortar. it is a book about the richness of experience, and how to make a feast out of poverty. a book about slow food and slow life.

i want a life in which i need to know these things. and i want it now.

sap moon giveaway

woke up with a start last night and the irrepressible and immediate urge to 'make something'. grumbingly and grudgingly got out of bed. observed a) the full moon, b) that it was 3:15 am. grumbled and grudged some more. stumbled downstairs through the silent house (even the cats were sleeping) to make myself a cup of tea. went to the studio. turned on the lights. got the supplies ready. sat down. i have learned not to argue with the full moon.

by 6:30 am when my son called me back to bed for his early morning serving of a 'little something or other' (if you saw toini in the early morning, you'd think of pooh too), it was ready. it's a postman-style tote sling (yes, i know you can see that...), made from a very soft thrifted felted light brown sweater and adorned with some lace i got off an old shirt of mine. it is rather low-slung which makes it perfect for cycling and for combining with a baby-sling. the strap is cut in a curve which makes for a comfy fitting. it's much cuter than in the photograph...

... and it's packed with whooping full moon energy!

(if you want it, just leave a comment/send me an e-mail, and if there are more takers, i'll devise some kind of eeny-meeny-miny-moe system)

time and again

marc told me the other day that one hundred years ago it took a whole day to travel the distance between leiden and den haag. by barge and horse. we've been thinking about giving up our car (as in not replacing ours once it breathes its last breath). partially, it's the costs of course, but the more i think about it, the happier i am with the idea.

without a car, we would end up walking and cycling more (and taking more trains). without a car, we would have more fresh air and exercise. without a car, we could stop and look and smell, and listen to all that we come accross. without a car, my children could have my real attention and presence while going places. without a car, we would have memories of travelling (all car drives now seem to end up on one greyish indistinct pile of memory sand). without a car, we would often be late, sometimes be early, but never stress out about either (hmmm, a bit of wishful thinking there?). without a car, the journey would actually become part of the journey again.

and time would slow down.

plus, as sam pointed out, i would think twice before going places, and so i would end up only going where i really want to go. and staying longer once i get there. and time would slow down.

and time would slow down.

8 march

"We are all filled with a longing for the wild. There are few culturally sanctioned antidotes for this yearning. We were taught to feel shame for such a desire. We grew our hair long and used it to hide our feelings. But the shadow of Wild Woman still lurks behind us during our days and in our nights. No matter where we are, the shadow that trots behind us is definitely four-footed."

Clarissa Pinkola Estes

to the women in my life, those marvelous four-footed creatures, to the ones who have seemingly been there forever, and the ones who have recently trotted in, thank you for the inspiration, the support, the scent, the trails, the nourishment, the strength, the wisdom, the love and the laughter.

too

she insisted
she really wanted to
not because i...
.. or because it was there...
but because she wanted to
she insisted

now, being an apple
from this particular tree
in the morning
in the evening
many times
in between
she practices
before breakfast
after breakfast
in her pajamas
always in her pajamas
it slides off my lap,
mama,
if i wear my princess dress

and so we play duets
in our pajamas
before breakfast
because what else
would we do?

wednesday

i wanted to write a completely different 'wednesday' post, but couldn't resist the high cuteness quota of the above photograph. therefore.

we are truly blessed with our local thrift stores. there are four of them within easy walking distance of our house, and one in particular, the idealistic emmaus, is a true treasure trove. they are only open on saturdays and wednesdays, from 1 to 4, so that often we end up staring at an item in the window for days on end before we can purchase it, and then we have to be lucky that nobody gets there earlier (there are long cues in front of the store every wednesday and saturday, as you can imagine). and it is so very good, this having to stare for a long time, and think about whether we really need whatever it is, and whether we really want it. and trusting that if it is meant to be ours, it will wait for us. as it does.

for instance, today. for a few pennies, we became the proud owners of a (much stared at) brand-new children's microscope with accessories; a shoebox containing somebody's entire collection of stones and minerals, with labels and information cards (as a child, i wanted to be a geologist, and had quite a collection, lost in a move, mourned ever since) (happily, at least one member of this family seems to share the interest, isabelle kept excusing herself from whatever we were doing this evening to 'go and look at the precious stones'); three educational CD-roms focusing on reading/writing and maths for 5-7 year olds; one educational CD-rom on travelling around the world; a polaroid SX-70 camera; a hand-puppet, and...

... a lambswool stripey hat.
(honesty bids me confess in passing that the sugarless project died an unfortunate and somewhat unexpected death in the throes of a sudden and vicious bout of pms that had me woolfing down the better (if not best) part of a large milka choco-biscuit bar, followed closely by all of the very very dark chocolate i had saved for special emergencies, followed by... well, i will spare you the gory details. in the spirit of point (6) of the programme, i am thinking of resuscitating the sugarless project in the morning)

the day after...

... the mayonnaise, we had to do something with the egg whites. Pauline's recipe for these involves two huge egg whites, beaten stiff with a pinch of salt, and then sweetener (in our case the ubiquitous maple syrup) and 150 g of shredded coconut. preheat oven to 160 degrees and bake for twenty minutes. they were gone in a jiffy. in fact, their appearance in our house was so short that they have something of the quality of a dream and antoine still insists on checking the cookie tin every morning to see whether they might have, by magic, reappeared.

on time

time is truly giving me a run for my money. i read somewhere that einstein didn't believe in it. apparently, he thought there was no such thing. hhmm (seriously raises the question of whether it's better for a theory if the theorist believes in the principles the theory is based on or really really not). then there is all those languages in which 'soon' and 'a short while ago' is the same word. more hhmm. plus the idea that time, should it exist, is nowhere like the sad linear concept us poor westerlings have come up with but a wonderful cyclical turning wheel. hhmm hhmm. and then of course the buddhist notion that since both future and past are but a figment of our imagination, there is no other time than this very second (i guess that's where buddhism and einstein meet?). and what was it again that i learned at school about time and the hopi indians?

so where does that leave little me? how can i spend year in year out in constant shortage of something that doesn't exist? and how can i ever be wasting it? or saving it? and what about all those eighteenth century people, the jane austen character types, whose time was (they say) so much slower than ours? how did they get to have slower time? and can i have some too please (am reading a book called Slow in the hope of finding out how, but have so far fallen asleep three times in the course of the introduction) (nothing to do with the quality of the book, am just very tired)? and why does it seem like such a good idea to split time up, but then the more i categorize it (time with the children, household time, social time, work time, my time), the less of it there seems to be (and is that how it works with birthday cakes too?)?

hhmm. hope you have something illuminating for me. in the meantime, i'll keep reading and thinking, and keep you posted.

in the series "make your own"...

... we are proud to present: the mayonnaise. Mirjam happened to mention the other day how that was one of her challenges in a sugarless world. and Isabelle decided she wanted some with her fries last night. which was fine, except we didn't have any. now you may not know this but i have recently instated a new policy that says 'thou shalt not go to the store for food if there is food in the house', i.e. if thou misseth an ingredient, thou must a) do without, b) make it from scratch from things thou haveth or c) replace it with something else. b) is most fun. hence: the mayonnaise. a few things i'd like to say based on my experience of this recipe:

- it says preparation time 5 minutes, cooking time 5 minutes. presumably, that's for people who have a blender. since i wasn't allowed to go and buy a blender at the store in order to not have to go to the store to buy mayonnaise, i had to do without. so make that 45 minutes of robust beating and complete wrist RSI.

- do not, i repeat do not use olive oil. especially not the expensive virgin kind. the flavour is overpowering, and so it's a waste of lovely oil and makes for weird-tasting mayonnaise (marc and i really liked it, but isabelle wouldn't touch it with a barge pole)

- reduce quantities. by as much as you can handle in terms of doing the maths and logistics (one quarter of an egg yolk, that's a tough one). we now have a fridge-full (new term for seriously big quantity) of lovely mayonnaise that will go bad within four days. and in passing, do any of you know any recipes involving mayonnaise?

- adding some mustard at the end makes it more like french-style mayonnaise. yum.

basically, it was really good. and i don't even like mayonnaise. which just goes to show.

spring

a little more depth in the blue of the sky, an earthy scent in the breeze, a touch of real warmth in the rays of the sun, little green things popping up between the dead leaves of my lavander bush, and a recognizable lightness of heart that can only mean one thing. it is here.

frenzy

where will it stop? nobody knows. the baking frenzy around here is reaching unknown heights. today, it was ontbijtkoek that we attempted, and i was wondering whether anybody knows a decent recipe for it, because the one we tried never rose (rose????), and never really baked through, despite being in the oven for at least 4 hours. still, it tasted pretty good, and the house smells lovely. oh, and then there is my new little helper. isn't he just yummy?
(ahem, i just realized you might come to the conclusion that i haven't changed my son's clothing for two weeks or so... oh what the heck, think what you like... i am off to watch my last movie until easter)

sober lent

inspired by the example of a wise woman, and adapting somewhat to what i can actually manage, i am going to do a lent sobriety fast. beginning tomorrow (wednesday 25 feb) and for the next forty days, i shall follow these guidelines:

1. meditate every day (at least ten minutes)

2. listen every day to a piece of Bach's Mattheus Passion

3. refrain from swearing, lying, complaining and speaking negatively

4. no television and very limited internet

5. no purchases except the strictly necessary

6. deal kindly with potential failures to comply with 1-5

anybody want to join in?

what's in a name

in Pannekoekentaart, the cat Findus celebrates her birthday on any day she feels like it, and her grumpy loving old boss Pettson always makes her favourite cake for the occasion. Isabelle was inspired by the idea and decided that she wanted to celebrate her birthday as often as she felt like it. an idea i approve of in principle but am less excited about if it means i have to organize full-blown birthday parties every two weeks. a while ago, i came up with a possible compromise: the name-day. reviving a good old catholic tradition and getting stuffed on lovely cake. today was Isabelle's name-day. (incidentally, her name means 'my god is a vow' in hebrew) (i don't know about hebrew, but what does that mean in english????). so we baked (a sugarless confection, see below). and celebrated. and found out that, amazingly, today wasn't only Isabelle's name-day but also, believe it or not, the Nutcracker's. speaking of coincidences. who would have thought? we don't know what his name means, though. google remains silent on the matter.

(Chocolate Fudge Torte with Miniola-Mascarpone Frosting, adapted from The Enchanted Broccoli Forest
I. Cake
preheat oven to 180 degrees. grease cake tin. in large bowl, mix 1/2 cup of butter and 3/4 runny honey until creamy. add two eggs. one at a time.
in small bowl mix 1/2 cup of cocoa powder with 1/2 cup of hot water until it becomes smooth paste. add to the butter mixture.
in medium-sized bowl, sift together: 2 cups flour, 1 tsp. baking soda, 1/2 tsp salt and some vanilla.
stir this mixture into cocoa/butter mixture. add 1 cup of yoghurt. mix well. pour into tin.
bake for 20 to 30 min.
II. Frosting
in small bowl, combine 1 cup of mascarpone cheese, 1 tsp vanilla and 1 tsp grated miniola rind with 3 tbsp. of honey. beat until fluffy. spread over cooled-down cake.
decorate with violet petals.)

saturday musings

"in dwelling, live close to the ground"

Tao Le-Ching

i am slowly, painfully and repeatedly reaching the conclusion that life is a bottom-up affair. devastating news for this here inveterate top-downer (should you doubt the veracity of the epiphet, i briefly refer you to my phd dissertation, which in 210 pages manages to avoid any mention of real data, for fear of it spoiling the kissability of the theory), but there you have it. top-down is pretty but non-livable, as i have had to find out repeatedly, painfully and slowly. bottom-up is messy, but at least, if you get scared, or lose your balance, you can always sit down. and although bottom-up never looks like it will get you anywhere (as in to a nobel prize in literature, public ovation, or presidency of the new republic of women), in the end, it's the only way to be somewhere at all.

for instance (the previous paragraph having shown convincingly that i am not out of the woods yet as far as theory-obsession goes): rather than wonder who to be (answers: writer, artist, postwoman, shepherd, midwife, stand-up comedian, woodpecker, circus act, guru, etc.), wonder instead what to do (walk on the beach, bake, cycle, spend time with children, knit, make music, talk to friends, sew, cook, write, think, write, draw, crochet, yoga, blog, etc.). rather than wonder how much one should spend on groceries, wonder for a while how much one does spend on groceries. rather than spend three hours online, in the dead of night, trying to find absolutely fantastic but utterly unfindable strawberry (mara des bois) seeds, get the regular strawberry seeds out of the kitchen drawer and plant them.

i hope you're all having a lovely bottom-up weekend!

sugar-free

for at least two years now, i have wanted to eliminate sugar from our diet. the operative word here being wanted. even though i know that sugar is not good for me. and i know why sugar is not good for me. and i even more or less know how to live without sugar, still it never happened. it just seemed too hard, giving up on sweet tastes altogether. not to mention...

- baking. the need to bake. cookies, bread, buns, scones, etc.. the more down, depressed, burnt out or generally miserable, the greater the need to bake.
- yogi tea. absolute addiction. cannot be drunk without sweetener (yuck!).
- regular dosis of chocolate, particularly during pre-menstruation time, this can mean the difference between life and death (...of close relatives and friends).
- amazingly beautiful tin of organic maple syrup (see above). am in love with tin (don't anybody dare say i could have the tin without the syrup).

anyway, this time around, inspired by Mirjam's example, i thought i'd make a more gentle plan. maple syrup can stay, as can honey. in limited dosis. and occasionally, some extremely dark (above 90%) chocolate. our first forray into the sugarless world consisted of making our own crüsli (granola). i used the recipe from Apples for Jam, and tweaked it a bit. it was lovely to make (very child-friendly recipe and the house still smells delicious) and it gave me that amazing kick that comes from making something you have formerly only bought. it turned out fantastic too. (Granola recipe adapted from Apples for Jam, by Tessa Kiros

pre-heat oven to 180 degrees
- 200 gr. 7-koren vlokken
- 4 tbsp. sunflower seeds
- 2 tbsp. sesame seeds
- 1 tsp. cinnamon
- handful of almonds (chopped)
- pinch of salt
mix the above in large bowl. use hands (preferably little ones).
in small saucepan, on a low fire, make sauce by melting 50 gr. of butter with 1/2 cup of runny honey and 1/3 cup maple syrup.
pour sauce over mixture in bowl. use little hands again to mix thoroughly.
use little-finger-licking time to spread mixture thinly over baking sheet/tray (covered in baking paper).
put into oven for 15 min.
turn mixture around.
put back into oven for another 15 min.
allow to cool.
put in jar.
admire jar.
eat.)

pffff....

... so much stuff on my plate. antoine is nursing fifteen times a day. still having burn-out, no idea whether will ever be able to go back to work. the mirror in my bedroom is really dirty. no idea whether what used to be my work is going to be my work. thinking of quitting altogether. figured homeschooling two children and running a household is work too. lots of it. marc won't play the hubby-makes-the-cash game with me though. therefore stressed out about losing both incomes within a few months of each other. and ending up on the street. in a cardboard box. there is a stain on my camera that shows up in every photograph and just will not go away. the volkstuin and garden house needs so much work, the garden is a lumpy swamp covered in reeds and potholes, and there is no water and no heating in the house, i have no idea where to start. waking up at five in the morning with panick attacks about what kind of strawberry to plant. have so far spent half of rare and delicious child-free day wondering whether i should go for a walk, bake a cake, read an inspiring book, plant some seeds, or dive under the covers with lots of chocolate and forget that there is a world out there....

or... i could do housework... or not...

did i mention this was a 'pfffff....' kind of day? (i can feel the chocolate nap option is winning).

in the knit of time

with spring just a breath away, i managed to complete some long-abandoned knitting projects. this sweater for isabelle (wool and pattern from la droguerie) was begun in the early winter of 2006-2007. luckily i tend to overestimate when it comes to sizing, so when the last seam was finally stitched (some time last week), it fit her perfectly. now i hope for a cold spring and no arm-length growth at all this year.
this little item was actually ready on time and made its deadline beneath the christmas tree (a record). however, christmas morning brought the devastating news that although it fit our dumpling perfectly in all body parts, the tight collar wouldn't go over his head. in an attempt to salvage the sweater, i accidentally unravelled half the neck and it took me another six weeks to pick it up again. but here it is. cute as a bun. and the colours make stains utterly invisible.

as for my cold little right foot friend, there is little hope for her this year. luckily, she doesn't grow that fast. and she is a patient little creature.

saving the planet...

... Mega Mindy (with a recently vanquished snake (about to be deported to the snake asylum) (the snake, that is, not Mindy))...
... and her weird-looking (but very precocious) side-kicks.

new love

a month ago (and as a result of dilligently doing the seemingly silly tasks of the Artist's Way), i fell hopelessly in love with a plastic turquoise box made in china. i have no idea how i managed to live almost 35 years without an accordion hanging down my front. the way it straps around my back, the weight of it on my thigh, the smoothness under my fingers. but mostly, mostly, mostly, the magic of that sound that seems to come straight from my soul through my chest into the box and out at the other end. i practice every day. and all is changed, changed utterly.

more january joy

i know they are always around, but it is only in the depth of winter, with grey skies and blue moods always at my heels, that i begin to appreciate their deep sunny colours, their thick cheerfuly bitter skins,their aromatic scent, their tanginess and juiciness.

citrus fruit.

(i read once that a study was done which showed that the one consistent difference between men and women was whether they adored (women) or hated (men) the skins of citrus fruit. our household at least confirms the study; the girls are mad about them and the boys spit them out. but i asky you: who pays to have such studies done? and are they hiring?)

so here are three favourites, sunnying up my days:

in the foreground, the bergamotte. the name alone. yes, i know, names are big around here at the moment. one of the key ingredients in earl grey tea. looks suspiciously like a lemon, but has a far stronger, more aromatic scent and taste(although the local detractors claim they can't tell the difference...). to be used sparingly, one slice at a time, in your cup of tea.

the large deep orange fruit are mineola. a new addition to our family repertoire, they are a softer, sweeter, more interesting version of the orange (again, the detractors etc....). yum. love the deep orange colour.

finally, never to be forgotten, my personal secret for coping with all potential january nastiness, to be gobbled whole, in order to fully experience the bitterness and bite on the tongue, the sweetness and softness of the just-under-the-skin inner flesh and the lemony sour burst of juiciness. wow.

kumquats and cold showers. for a truly zingy midwinter.

january joy: the matching woolies

eat more kale

is the title of a beautiful print in Nikki McClure's Collect Raindrops, a book i have been leafing through for two years now, looking for, and finding, inspiration, quiet and beauty. time and again, as i leafed, i would stop by this particular print, somewhere in the winter section. eat more kale.

slowly, it acquired a special meaning, kale. it became symbolic of an entire lifestyle, a beautiful sane engaged grounded lifestyle, involving rich wholesome organic home-grown food, time on one's hands, a place in the countryside, a wood-cutter musician for a husband, and somewhere between the nappies and one's art, between the apple and the tomato sauce, deep peace of mind.

a lifestyle which clearly Nikki Mc Clure had, and i did not. but, not to despair, i told myself, for one day, all that would change. one day, i would simply start to eat more kale... and the world would open its secrets to me. the name alone, k-a-l-e, i loved to say it out loud, kale... sheer poetry...

of course, and please not to laugh yet, until two days ago, i didn't actually know what kale was. not that that was important. a vegetable. a winter vegetable. exotic yet grounded. beautiful. tasty. filled to the brim with the best mother earth has to offer, vitamins, minerals, the works. oh, kale.

then, last week, on the-day-before-the-market-when-all-meals-for-the-week-are-planned, i happened to be leafing through this cookery book (the cover of which was done, suspiciously, by none other than... Nikki McClure) and i happened to happen on the recipe for "white bean and kale minestrone". my heart skipped a beat. this was it. THE moment had arrived. tremulously, i penciled 'kale' onto my list, with a mental reminder to google for kale's dutch name.

except i didn't (google), because life got in the way, and suddenly, there i was, at my usual vegetable stand, with a list in my hand proclaiming 'kale' and still no clue as to what it was i wanted. i asked my vegetable man (sometimes he knows the most amazing things), he said he didn't know... wasn't sure... it sounded familiar... he would ring someone to ask. so he did. ring. ask. and he came back...

... with a boerenkool.

i think maybe you have to be dutch to appreciate the true amplitude and depth of my disappointment. boerenkool is not poetic. it means 'farmer's cabbage'. which is not poetry. boerenkool is also not exotic. every dutch family has eaten it every week of every winter for the last ten centuries. granted, it is a winter vegetable with all the good stuff, but it's pretty hard to chew, and it tastes (not together surprisingly) of cabbage. pffff!

what an anti-climax. i could barely stop myself from bursting into tears in front of the vegetable man. but i managed somehow. took the 'kale' home. laid the 'kale' on the table. looked at the 'kale' for a while....

...and got to thinking... that maybe this incident really was a parable for 2009. what if kale really is everything i always thought it to be, and i have been eating it all along. what if maybe in my husband's soul, there is music and wood-cutting, and maybe maybe my life actually is wholesome, organic and peaceful. as peaceful as it would be if i were Nikki McClure. if not more. what if i actually already make applesauce and tomato sauce and art. and what if, maybe, 2009 is all about that. about the fact that the boerenkool you eat is amazing kale, and that amazing kale is good old boerenkool. that poetry is right here, in my kitchen. that it has been here all along. waiting for me to see. waiting for me to take notice.

all right, 2009! i am ready. ready to stop wanting and start having what i already have. although, if it's all right with you, i would still prefer to call it kale...

lost and found glass museum

sand

we blew into

glass

sand

slowly

smooths

back

into

sand