Duo

Silk

Rabbits

The one by Marit Törnqvist Crafting_

The one by Frank Eerhart

The one by me (from a pattern in this book)

32

Thank you so much, to all of you, for the wishes, the presents, the flowers, the thoughts. Mostly, thank you for being part of my life, for making it so rich, so amazing.

Raspberries a la Amelie

Broad Beans

Rouge

Boat on the river

Travel

Den Haag HS, 22 June 2006, 7am

I bet you're wondering why anyone would go to a station at the crack of dawn in order to take pictures in a machine (especially with such fantastic equipment available at home) of their daughter and themselves (clearly two of the most photographed people in this corner of the universe...). I concede that it sounds quite mad, but of course life often does when one takes it at face value (ouch! that's the kind of philosophizing you get from people who wake up at 6 in the morning) (which brings me to the reason why we woke up so early: 'someone' fell out of bed this morning, slipping between the entangled layers of the mosquito net, straight onto her face on the floor, interrupting a perfectly good dream of boats and pirates (as a result of rude awakening to screams of child in distress I no longer remember whether I was the boat or the pirate) (presumably her dream was lost forever too), and that same 'someone' would not go back to sleep, but insisted on getting ready to go to Oma, so that despite our general grogginess and lack of coordination, we managed to make it to the station just before 7, a mere hour before the departure of our train (Opa, not having fallen out of bed, was not expecting us until 8:15). For those of you who are familiar with Den Haag HS, I need hardly emphasize that it's not the kind of place directly associated with safe entertainment for two-year olds. I was at a loss, until I remembered a habit Marc and I used to have, when we were young (well, younger), which consisted in taking corny machine shots of ourselves before getting on a plane. These pictures are still lying around somewhere (in the shoebox, remind me to show you), duly dated. I think the romantic idea at the time was that we would be able to see ourselves growing old together, but since the scheme was begun in 1999 and sort of discontinued in 2003, all you can see is Marc growing slightly chubbier (he'll box my ears for this...). Anyway, as you can imagine, this morning's revival of the tradition was a great success, so much so that we almost missed our train...).

Raindrops

Leafing through some cooking blogs, I was lost in breathless wonder at the excruciating beauty of the rain season photographs at She who eats. The fragility, the purity moved me. This (selective) view of our sodden balcony is dedicated to her.

What's cooking?

Let's face it, it was bound to happen. Written in the stars. In the (parallel time) history books. Unavoidable as fate: Me, food, blog.

Why did it take so long? Who knows... but this weekend, I was finally (re)turned to my senses by Drea and Johan, two true artists of the p(a)late. Inspired, I figured I'd fix us a proper meal.

Risotto aux crevettes et petits pois, by C'est moi qui l'ai fait (including the brilliant idea of puréeing half the peas beforehand, very subtle taste and a luvely green sheen on the rice):

With roasted tomatoes from my River Café Cookbook II. I used a mix of cherry tomatoes on the vine and Tasty Tom (my favourite).


As for the Gâteau au Yaourt (by Chocolate and Zucchini), Isabelle and I had a great time with it this morning. Ever since Drea's delicious rhubarb tart, I'd been dreaming of Coulis de Fraise, which explains why the gâteau is in serious danger of drowning, but oh man, was it good!

Cats

The one I knowCrafting_

The one I made

The one I met

Roses

In May and June, our entire neighbourhood breaks into a rash of roses. They are everywhere: they cover the walls, the garden hedges, the balcony railings. They hang over me in thick heavy bunches as I cycle past, their fragrances mixing with the saltiness of sweat and sea breeze.


All imaginable colours are represented, from fleeting shades of white and peach to brutal vital reds that just won't let me break eye contact.


I love them. They are strong, they are fearless, they are beautiful, they are soft and brave and undaunted. They move me. They are alive. They are a living moving multitude.


I look at them, and I think of a classic of my childhood. I think of the Little Prince and 'his' rose. I think of how he felt in the rose garden, looking at the living multitude. He was sad and disappointed. 'His' rose was no longer 'unique'. And I think: what a load of mysoginistic brain-washing crap!

Fluid Records

Tonight Isabelle used her po for the first time. Five first times that is.

Today Isabelle stopped drinking with a straw. Just like that. Took out the straw and drank up her entire glass of juice. With a twinkly eye looking at me over the rim.

Tote in Progress

Crafting_

Chewing Grass

... is apparently a hereditary activity. What's more, she's chewing sorrel. Of her own initiative. I rest my case.

Appendix I: The Opera Scheme

The Opera Scheme actually has to do with crochet, and the fact that I'm not so good at it yet. Not good enough, that is, to be able to watch TV while crocheting. While definitely good enough to find crochet by itself, without the TV, utterly boring.
And then there is Opera. Which I know very little about. Except La Traviata (I like) and Boris Godunov (I don't like). So I thought: two birds, one hand. Or some such thing. Opera and crochet. Went to the library, got out La Bohème (because of Moonstruck, of course). And along came Luciano (it turns out we already have a mouse called Mimi, and 'Rodolphe' really didn't suit him, so since I got a version with Pavarotti singing...).

Meet Luciano

Luciano is an Amineko cat, from a design by Nekoyama. Luciano owes his name to the Opera Scheme (for more information on the Opera Scheme, see Appendix I). As you can see, on this photograph, Luciano is being lovingly woman-handled. Moreover, the more observant among you will have noticed he has large dark circles under his eyes. Luciano is tired.

And yet, his day had started out so nice and quiet. He was woken by a ray of sun on his little nose.

Did his Yoga exercices.


Had breakfast.


And went on a picnic. With Isabelle. By the end of which, well, images speak louder than words...

Crafting_

Little girls...

... and their fathers...

Nature morte