the secret of her smile

this is actually old news, the tooth fell out on the 26th of december, but she insists on having this momentous piece of news shared with as much public as possible.

(i cried my eyes out, of course, on that 26th of december. just as i had cried my eyes out when she got her first tooth...)

book review (of sorts)

My grand-father (scientist, jewish, crazy, passionate, life-lover, theory-maker and healer) had a thing about food. He thought and theorized about it a lot. "All food is medicine and all food is poison", he would quote at us ("Hyppocrates...???", she croaks hesitantly). And "You are what you eat!". For as long as i knew him, he was busy finding the right nutrition, for him in particular, and by extension for the world in general (although some repressed historical sources (i.e. my mother) tell me that this only started sometime in his forties, prior to which time he mostly concentrated on life-loving in all its forms). He applied his theories to himself and whoever would follow, and in true scientific style, changed his mind often. There was the dreaded 'seaweed' period, the 'powdered milk' treatment, the 'red period', the 'marinated cabbage era'... and many others. Towards the end of his life, his kitchen was filled with chipped emaille bowls containing various odd concoctions, and he only ate sardines and tomatoes from tins, only that one particular kind, as well as the ocasional orange. By that time, i not only could no longer 'join him for a bite', but even watching him eat was likely to provoke spontaneous gagging. It just didn't look good, if you know what i mean.

My grand-mother (melodramatic, azerbajdzhani, writer, passionate and melancholy, mother and housewife) also had a thing about food. She made it in large quantities. Although later in her life, after her children and grand-children had left, and the many-headed hedra that was her large circle of friends, relatives, colleagues and students of my grand-father's, neighbours and other acquaintances had dwindled to a few dried sticks of fragile bones, although by then, she had given up, and her food had become somewhat stale, somewhat greasy, her table stands in my memory the way it was when i was a child. Laden. With home-made pickles (cabbage, beets, tomatoes, garlic, gherkins, aubergines, patisson, carrots and garlic, to name a few). With black sourdough rye bread, moist and fresh, with a crunchy crust. With fresh raw vegetables, cucumbers and tomatoes and onions, their sharp juices salted out, as sweet and as soft as honey. With fresh herbs too, coriander, parsley, chives, dill and celery, laid out in bunches on long plates. And in the midst of this colourful display throned her broths, her soups, her stews, her pilafs, rich, moist, creamy, buttery, perfumed with the same oriental spices that had given her brown azerbajdzhani skin its lustre, and her black azerbajdzhani eyes their shine. Now that was food to remember.

Of course, even the mists of time cannot say with any certainty whether my grand-father's long life and resounding health were due to his theories or my grand-mother's cooking, but i personally suspect it was, at the very least, both.

Now me (melodramatic, passionate, melancholy, crazy, life-lover, theory-maker, scientist, writer and mother), i am a true child of both these ancestors, and I most certainly have a thing about food. I eat it with great relish. And in addition, since having children, i have also been making a lot of food, with nutrition occupying much of my theory-making. It seems that there is nothing more important to me than feeding my family well. But what does 'well' mean? In the past six years, i have flirted with a multitude of traditions and theories (vegetarian, vegan, macro-biotic, ayurveda, and most recently, the paleontological diet), reading, getting excited, trying things out, and coming away vaguely disappointed, having run into some sort of undefinable barrier, some precept or idea that i could neither embrace nor walk around, telling me clearly that this was not quite the way.

Until, around christmas, i made my last online book order before the great budget era, and ordered Nourishing Traditions, by Sally Fallon. A huge thick 700-page book without a single photograph, filled with text not only in the middle of the page, but also through every single one of its 700 margins. Disappointed, i put it away, hoping this mammoth of a mis-purchase wouldn't catch Marc's eye. But some time in early early january, i picked it up absent-mindedly, and started reading. And never stopped. And while reading, i moved, hypnotized, towards the kitchen. Where I have been ever since. Glass jars were acquired, in various sizes, and filled promptly, with beetroot kvass, with whey-based orangina, with ginger carrot pickles, with home-made crème fraiche and cream cheese, and soaking oatmeal. The stove is humming gently to itself as i write this, with simmering broth. The house is filled with the smell of magic in the making. And it is this very humming, this very tangible aliveness, that is the reason why, i realize now, i have been fantasizing about aga stoves for so long. I guess a kitchen is just supposed to, you know, have something cooking.

It turns out, you see, that my grand-mother wrote the pages of Sally Fallon's book, and my grand-father added the margins.

this season's knits

this year i truly gave myself a break about having these done by christmas. as a result of which they were done in january :). Marc's hat is from a pattern by Debbie Bliss, Isabelle's scarf and Toini's sweater by La Droguerie. there is one more thing in the making, but since i am truly giving myself a break, you might not see it until january (2011). a few more shots of the cat and mouse item.

2009: taking stock

found: accordeon music, unschooling, love, new friends, recovery from burn-out, new self-nourishing practices (meditation and writing) and a multitude of insights
lost: my grand-father, a lot of money, weight, my job at the university, the burden of a heavy secret, a number of illusions (regarding my family and their ability/obligation to carry me; regarding my husband and his ability/obligation to carry me; regarding my dreams and the possibility of buying them ready-made; regarding my dreams and the possibility of disregarding them; regarding truth and its so-called relativity)
how the old year left me: leaner, more gentle, more determined, less hopeful, more truthful, more commited, less ambitious, more aware, less demanding, more tired, more flexible, stronger, more exposed, more grounded
what i hope for in the new year: to continue to deepen my connection with my people, with myself, with my work. to remain gentle, yet determined, unwilling to waste the opportunity offered in each moment, yet respectful of the limitations of the situation. to deepen and further explore my commitment to truth, to work and to ordinariness.

Happy new year and best wishes to all!

6!

happy birthday to my amazing girl, so wise, funny, and sweet, with her drawings, her stories, her endless questions, her brilliant ideas ('mama, ik heb een heeeel goed idee!'), her dancing, her singing, her soft skin, the smell of the top of her head, her sleepless nights, her nightmares and dreams, her barbies and playmobil, her chopin nocturnes and her mega mindy songs, with her jokes and her poetry, her eyes and her curls, her fragility and her incredible strength. stealing my heart, every single day. again. and again. breaking my heart, and mending it again. and again. with a single gesture. with a single sigh. with a single smile. with a single word.

syrniki

also known as tvorozhniki, these are the best kind of warm sweet treat on a day like this. i had to experiment for a while with the recipe, because tvorog, which is the main ingredient, cannot be found in this country (due to the fact that it is not kwark, nor cottage cheese, nor cream cheese, nor fromage blanc). in the end, a 1/1 mix of ricotta and full-fat kwark did the trick.

Syrniki

- 250 ml ricotta
- 250 ml full-fat kwark
- 2 large eggs
- 3 to 4 tbsp sugar
- 1/2 cup to 1 cup of plain flour (depending on the consistency you like)
- optional: vanilla or lemon rind

mix all ingredients in bowl. heat pancake pan with a bit of real butter, and bake in batches one both sides (these are little pancakes, typically four to one pan, i use one big tablespoon of batter per pancake). i hear people eat them with jam, cream, etc. but really, they are just perfect as is. nice hot, lukewarm and cold (and you should try all three because the flavour changes quite a bit with the temperature).

snow

there are times when homeschooling feels like a miracle of bliss. on a silent and white thursday morning, to stroll around a wet-white-blanket forest, side by side with your very best friend, leaving the snow with its first human traces of the day, see that's us, right there, next to the bird-trail. immortalized for the day.

juffrouw minoes

up on the roof, talking to some cat

at Tibbe's typewriter...

... typing up the news

and, of course, up a tree (into which she was chased by a compliant Toini dog).

(for those who have no idea of what we're on about, see here.)

other way around

Isabelle discovered that by bending over and craning her neck, she can look at the world upside down. it is much more beautiful that way, she concluded. so i tried.

it is remarkably pretty. and slightly addictive. and i have a sore neck.

(on a similar, but horizontal-axis-oriented note, it turns out, amazingly, that google actually provides a number of answers to the question of what would happen if the world started spinning in the opposite direction. see for instance here. live and learn, that's our motto around these parts)

today's questions (a small selection)

mama, heb ik nog zakgeld? hoeveel nachtjes slapen vóór mijn open les op ballet? wil je dat de theepot en kopjes in kerstballen veranderen? wil je een kopje kerstbal? hoe schrijf je 'ij'? hoe schrijf je 'ng'?
wat zou er gebeuren als de wereld de andere kant op zou draaien? mama, duurt het nog lang?
mama, mag ik een snoepje? mama, mag ik een plakje kaas? mama, mag ik wat worst? waarom heet het eigenlijk geen 'paarse' kool? wat is 'vaag'? wat is 'poetisch'? wat is 'schepping'? wat is 'stimuleren'? mama, waar is tijgertje? mama, waar is mijn ring? wat is de duivel?

(mama, do i still have pocket money left? how many more nights before my open dancing lesson? do you want the teapot and cups to change into christmas balls? would you like a cup of christmas ball? how do you write 'ij'? how do you write 'ng'? what would happen if the world started turning in the opposite direction? mama, is this going to take a long time? mama, can i have some candy? mama, can i have some cheese? mama, can i have some sausage? why isn't it called 'purple' cabbage? what does 'vague' mean? what does 'poetic' mean? what does 'creation' mean? what does 'stimulate' mean? mama, where is my tiger? mama, where is my ring? what is the devil?)

and my answers for today, in the disorder:
yes, yes, no, i don't know, something unclear, something that feels like a poem but isn't, the act of creating, 7, yes, yes, making something attractive so that people want more of it, yes please, IJ, NG, i don't know, i don't know, i don't know, i don't know...

a need to record

- jam boek (pyjama broek)
- boeksje (boekje)
- mejaninnie (mega mindy)
- jotap (rood kapje, i.e. red riding hood hand puppet which comes everywhere with us, and i am required to make talk)
- tom tein (thomas de trein)
- NOE!!!! (nu)

(amendment: jotot (likkepot); bah tink (bah stink! when he doesnt like something); boef tinken (borst drinken); jatiet (zwarte piet); snojok (sneeuwvlok); taat (paard); sjant (olifant); toka (orka); jiet (friet))

impression

it was a lot of this. the sun rising over the mist-covered fields in the morning. infinite skies with giant clouds drifting by (look, mama, two dragons kissing, look mama, an elephant with a dog on its tail, look, mama! look). flocks of geese, ducks, seagulls drifting by on the wind. rain. sunshine. rain. sunshine. the wind, whistling endlessly through the house, through my head, through my babies' hair. the wind, suddenly dying, and the thickness of the silence. so much more than an absence of sound. the grass, holding the dunes down, the grass like the fur on a scraggly wolf's back, so soft from a distance, so strong and rough in our hands, as we clambered, and slipped. the grass with its oranges, greens, ochres, yellows, greys, blues, purples, browns, greys. the sun setting in the sea. at 4:15. or thereabouts. sitting with my son, on the top of the top of the dune, planted in the wolf's fur, staring out at the sea. day after long day. and the moon, right behind us, lit as if from within. growing rounder and rounder. night after dark restful night.

and then, back at the house, dear friends, good food, a fire in the fireplace, rosy cheeks, hot meals, and lots and lots of laughter.

getting ready

the saint...

... her horse...

... her jolly wee helper ...

... and his foot.

(after yet another very busy, enjoyable, and slightly cold-ridden week, we are off to the beach house up north for the week, looking forward to the wind, the fireplace and the company of friends)

the gate of heaven (right here, in our street...)

samhain

(october flew by, in a flurry of flu - possibly mexican, colds, more colds, more flu, and a multitude of books and movies. we are all better now - sort of- and as ready as we will ever be for the wet-windy-icy months ahead)

last swim?????

...of course, there are also people who don't let anything, and certainly not the weather, stand between them and the sea.

last

last swim in the sea for me this year. from now on, it's feet only, and before you can say umph, i'll have my boots on again too. summer is gone.

this week i handed in my letter of resignation. as of the 1st of january, i will be unemployed. this marks the end of a long struggle, as well as the end of an era.

i arrived at the little brown building on the canal in the fall of 1994, a 20-year old, joyfully diving into an english language and literature degree after a failed attempt at mathematics. then came linguistics. a phd. a little teaching job here, and a little teaching job there, a bigger editing job, translating, teaching again, other stuff this time. the years went by. i slipped unnoticed from student to lecturer to coach. and for 15 years, every single morning that i had to get up to be somewhere, that somewhere was the same little brown building on the canal.

Sammy once said: "for someone who makes such radical choices in life with such seeming ease, you have been remarkably conservative in your career choices", which i took to be code for "what the flip are you still doing there?".

two children, one burn-out and two years of unschooling later, it has finally come to this. saying good-bye to the little brown building. and all that it has meant to me. the amazing people i met, the things i learnt. which also means saying good-bye to the fantasy of a profesional academic life. as far back as i can remember, i thought i would be an academic. instead, i turned out a thinker. and found out that the two are not really the same...

and now, having taken the time that was needed to work through all that had to be worked through, i am left with a feeling of deep gratitude for 15 years well-spent, and a tremulous yearning for whatever is to come...

efteling

(there is a little story behind this (our first) visit to the efteling. a few months back, Isabelle and i found a wallet on the street, with cash, credit cards... the works. Isabelle was of the opinion that we should keep it. her logic was that we needed the money rather badly (she had just seen a lovely barbie in the toy-store), that the owner had probably given up on ever finding it, and that since nobody had seen us pick it up, the police was unlikely to trace us. my logic was that we should give it back because the owner would be sad if we didn't (except for the little squeaky voice at the back of my head that kept screaming 'keep it, she's right, she's right, keep it'). so we traced the owner, gave her a call and she came by that night. with two free tickets. for us. to the efteling... which is a lesson in something, not sure what, ...but i am almost certain that Isabelle will be returning most of what she finds on the street from now on. anyway, we went yesterday, just the two of us, for the whole day. by train. it was a real 'expodition', as she put it. the longest time we have spent alone together since Toini's birth. and it was soooooo good... must remember to do this much much more often)

threads and leaves

more september inspiration: brand-new pencils; new ink pots. picking up threads let loose a long time ago: a friend visiting all the way from the US, the magic of connecting instantly across an 11-years-of-silence gap, an afternoon walk down memory lane. the first draft of an almost forgotten novel, pulled out of its drawer, dusted, read. considered.

did i mention how much i love september?

the light of september

i love september light. so gentle, so roundly glowing, so melancholy. as if lit from within. with the warmth of the summer coming off the earth, and the trees swaying their leafy good-byes. we celebrated Mabon today, the day Persephone leaves for the underworld. with friends, pomegranates, pumpkin soup and a fire in the fireplace. and yet, to me, the thing that really gives it away, year after year, is the light.