Snow!

It snows here so little that I actually enjoy seeing white on the ground in January.  Mid-winter snow in the Midwest always felt annoying to me, unless it caused a snow day, which it almost never did.  As expected, here in the Netherlands the trains aren't running on schedule, and the traffic jams this morning snaked their way from one corner of the country to the next.

I, however, am enjoying our short foray into a winter wonderland.  We finally had a use for the snowsuit I bought Johanna way back in October (just in case) when we decided to test out the running stroller's handling in the snow this morning.  Amsterdam was gorgeous in the pre-dawn quiet, and it reminded me why I don't mind getting dry hands and chapped lips during winter runs.

Just a quick Instagram photo from my phone today.  My computer would probably die if I tried to do something as taxing as uploading an image.

Thanksgiving 2012

**I wrote this post a week ago with the intention of adding the pictures later in the day.  Unfortunately my computer had other plans.  No pictures for now, but I'd better put the post up about Thanksgiving before we get too deep into December.  Besides, I have a Sinterklaas party to blog about.  Let's all hope I can post pictures for that one.**

Oh, yes, it was that time of year again already.  As always, there was no way to celebrate the holiday on Thursday.  This always depresses me a little bit, and I think even more so now that Facebook and Instagram light up with a million posts wishing everyone a Happy Thanksgiving.  My mood was also not helped when I stopped in for coffee in my regular café and ended up talking to a Notre Dame fan.  The man was obviously American and had a Notre Dame jacket on, so I asked him if he was from Indiana--just to be nice.  He was, in fact, but had about three words to say to say to me after learning that I was not from South Bend and not a Notre Dame fan.  Ugh, that man only served to reinforce my stereotypes about Fighting Irish fans.

The rest of the day was fine and busy with prep work.  A quick call to my father-in-law that night confirmed that the bird had arrived and was big enough for our group of ten.  The only questions in my mind were weather the roasting pan was big enough and if I could just squeak it into the oven.  My father-in-law assured me that everything would fit with room to spare.  He was half right; it all fit, but I had to take out my oven thermometer to get it to fit.

I took Martha Stewart's advice this year and did as much prep work before the actual day arrived.  She was right, I was less stressed on Saturday, but it didn't dissipate my stress, it merely redistributed it.  At least I had help in the kitchen on Friday: two babies (mine and my friend's) and a good friend doing all peeling and chopping that I hate to do.

And for the first time, I felt very good about the bird.  I resisted the urge to take it out early since I, yet again, failed to insert the instant-read thermometer correctly and got a skewed reading of the internal temperature.  Fifteen-pound turkeys don't cook in two hours, they just don't, so I turned off the temperature alarm and kept my eyes on the clock.  All in all, a great success.  I miss my family and friends and get a little homesick, but this year really felt like a Thanksgiving day.  Maybe it was the mass chaos caused by the kids, or maybe it's because I feel more at home here now.  What's really helped make it feel like Thanksgiving are the massive amounts of leftovers we have in our fridge.  I think I may have one more turkey sandwich left in me, and after our turkey soup tomorrow-oh God, there is enough soup for Thursday's dinner--I'll be ready for a break until next November.

Things I love about the Netherlands...

Fava beans are just a regular veggie that you can find in the frozen food section of any supermarket.
Name in Dutch: tuinboontjes (little garden beans).  I've seen them fresh at the grocer, but I was in a hurry today.

It's gloriously warm, and I feel like salads for dinner almost every night.  This one I thought would be easy, and for the most part it was, until I realized I would need to shell each individual bean.  As I stood in my kitchen for twenty minutes spitting flat beans out of their waxy coating while simultaneously trying to entertain a teething baby, I completely understood why some people prefer to eat fast food every night.  Enough with this whole foods movement, let's go get some french fries.

But then it all just came together: the lemon slices, the crisp radish bits, the creamy avocado, and yes, those hearty fava beans.  Even the baby seemed to appreciate the effort, diving into the salad with gusto.  I felt so happy.  Thanks, Amsterdam, for making my dinner enjoyable tonight.

Biscuits with Little Mice

One of my followers sent me an e-mail yesterday to ask where I've been (Hi, Steve!).  I've been meaning to put up a post for the last two weeks, ever since we got back from our vacation in California.  Two Friday nights ago in the throes of some horrible jet lag, I even made a list of posts I was going to write for the rest of September.  I felt great (despite my sleep-deprived state) and couldn't wait to get started during the weekend.  Everything was coming together: we'd just had a wonderful vacation, Niek's family was coming over the next day to help us move furniture and get the baby room together, I was almost done with a good draft of a chapter for my advisor...and then this happened...

Our daughter, Johanna, decided to make her appearance four weeks early and only two days after coming back from our vacation, I might add.  She didn't come when we expected, and almost nothing about her birth or the subsequent days thereafter has gone according to our "plan," but we are truly over the moon about our little girl.

We ended up in the hospital for the birth instead of home like we had planned, but the hospital staff made sure that we had the obligatory post-birth food: beschuit met muisjes (translated as rusk with little mice).  Rusk is a type of rebaked bread and the muisjes are anise seeds dipped in a candy shell.  The muisjes are held on the bread with a bit of butter.  They're served because, apparently, anise is good for milk production.  I did point out that beer was also traditionally believed to be good for breastmilk, and my midwife responded by saying that I could have one if I wanted.  I passed for the time being.

So now we're home and adjusting to life as a family of three (plus the dog, don't forget the dog).  We have beschuit met muisjes on hand for all of our visitors.  Time to get some of those other blog posts up, although they might have to wait a little longer.  Apparently having a newborn baby is kind of exhausting.

The things we carried (in our suitcases)

As I stood over my suitcase last week trying to figure out how we were going to pack everything without going over the weight limit, I started questioning my dependence on American goods.  As you can see, I brought back the every important essentials of life like cake flour and chocolate chips.  It really took more willpower than I thought it would not to buy the seven other varieties of King Arthur Flour at the local grocery store.  I'm pretty sure most people who visit the U.S. do not think to themselves, "I should really bring this rye flour back with me.  I might need it if I suddenly get the urge to make myself some bread.  Maybe I should go get some of that corned beef I saw on sale, too.  Then I could feel like I was at a deli anytime I want!"

It's all about what makes you feel at home...to a certain degree anyway.  I just keep wondering what I would find in other ex-pats' suitcases.  I have to believe anyone living abroad feels compelled to bring back little pieces of home when they return from a visit.  You should have seen the various products I pouted and fussed about leaving on the shelves of Trader Joe's in Chicago.  I also left a bunch of linens and family pieces that had belonged to my grandmother at my parents' house, much to the disappointment of my mother, who is working to downsize.  I regularly thwart her attempts as I continually ask her to hang on to stuff I know I'm going to need at some unassigned time in the future.  To my parents with a house larger than my apartment: what a storage facility I've made out of my childhood bedroom.  Sorry.

We did pretty well coming right in at the weight limit for our luggage.  We could have made it without borrowing a second suitcase from my parents if it hadn't been for these:

With a much greater selection and much better prices in America, our luggage coming back from the States will always have at least a few books.  I think I should be thanking Delta for restricting the weight limits this year even more.  I can't imagine what else I would have thought to bring back if I had had double the weight limit.

James eats plantains.

James visited Nigeria nearly 2.5 months ago and sent me the following blog post two weeks later.  And one week ago I took a picture of plantains to include in the post, which I'm finally getting around to putting online today.  Oops.  Well, better late than never (which is what I’ll be writing as I continue to post about Nigeria for months after I’ve returned to LA)!

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I'm sure that everyone out there who reads this blog has been wondering when I would do a guest post.  I know people need a break from perfect sentence structure and grammar.  So, here it is. 

Dodo!  I finally had Dodo!  No, not the dodo bird but the Yoruba word for fried plantains.  It has been five long years without a proper fried plantain.  Sure, you can get them at Cuban restaurants or by busting out your frying skills (with a fire extinguisher) at home.  But, they just aren't as good.  The market women really know how to fry up a delicious plantain. 

{dodo with moin-moin and vegetable}

The banana family is not indigenous to West Africa, but they have been around a good long time.  Plantains are plentiful all year long and are a staple in Nigerian cooking.  You can pretty much do what ever you want with a plantain: boil, fry, mash, and roast.   Another bonus is that you can have it savory or sweet.  I'm a little curious what a plantain pie would taste like (wink, wink Regan).  One of my favorite snacks is a roasted plantain right off the grill.  

{boli}

I usually go for the sweet ones, because the "green" ones make me too thirsty.  Of course, that is a good excuse for an ice cold Coke.

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E kuuse, James!  Remember how you ate that entire bowl of pepper soup the first time we visited my host family in Ghana and they told me that you were the better African?  Alas, it is probably true.  (Thanks for visiting me and for writing a post with good sentence structure.  You're awesome.)

Coming Soon --

Guess what, dear readers?  Diana and I have been reunited (!) – and all of you are about to benefit because you’ll soon be reading awesome blog posts about the delicious food that she is making and I am eating.

You will also be able to read about drinking beer (or, in my case, prosecco) and about wearing long underwear (because I love being cold).  And about my attempt to make Nigerian food in the Netherlands.  Hmmmm . . . 

We are also planning to work on dissertation/book review writing, but we won’t torture you, dear readers, with such boring graduate student stuff.  Instead, we’ll drink more Liefman’s Goudenband and eat oilebollen and tell you about that!  Cheers!

An ode

Before I start writing about living in Nigeria or about the many variations of stew-with-fish that I eat, I need to pay my respects to the thing that makes it all possible: the humble Pepto-Bismol tablet. I love those little pink chewables like they were ice-cold Coke on a blazing hot day (that is to say, a lot). Tummy feeling a little funny? Chew two tablets! Going on a trip where the toilet will be a ditch (with a few curious onlookers)? Chew two tablets! Just drank a questionable cup of water? Chew two tablets! Well . . . you’ll still have to pay the price for that mistake, but the tablets will lessen the blow.

I haven’t always been so committed to the Pepto-Bismol. I used to scoff at the wimps who would get a panicked look and pop a couple of tablets at the mere mention of a dinner of pepper soup. Then one hot August afternoon in Accra, Ghana, I encountered an innocent-looking spring roll in the café at Busy Internet. It laid me flat for the next three days and I when I finally dragged myself out of bed again, I had been converted to the way of the Pepto tab. The soothing pink color, the soft powdery texture, the chalky-sweet taste: all of these things signal comfort to me, a chewable insurance policy against the great unknown. And since I’ll happily eat anything put before me, that is a lot of unknowing! With a packet of pink tablets in my pocket, here’s to the everyday adventures of living abroad . . .