Listen...

Leaves are falling.

Piano is playing.

Sun is shining.

And when seemingly it is not, we remember it is always there. Is the sun not the reflection of our heart, afterall?

Our precious heart. It is always there; often we just fail to remember.

So listen. To the music. To the heart.

Those potatoes.

There must be a bright mid-September day.

There must be a memory of an early autumn afternoon from your childhood.

There must be…potatoes, cooked in a certain way.

The combination of these three delivers to you a gentle feeling sprouting from the depth of your heart, the feeling of nostalgia.

The air is fragrant with autumn; the sun’s shining through a thin layer of lazy clouds filling up the nature around with hazy shadows. A crystal silence, it’s all what you can hear now. Such is the day.

I am back in my childhood in a country house that once belonged to my family. It’s a sunny autumn afternoon, a lunchtime. Neighbours tend to their gardens; the subtle smoke of fire from the piles of leaves flavours the air and makes me feel cosy. Shabby, wooden case of stairs lead to the bank of a slipping river. I sit on a mighty stone that the river coughed up years ago onto its bank. I watch. I listen. I wait. For nothing. For everything. I am happy. Such is the memory.

My grandmother used to cook a simple potato dish I devoured whole-heartedly. It was nothing much, really. But it had to be a) my grandmother who would make it, b) that particular early autumn day in the fresh air that would sharpen up all my senses, and – of course - stir my appetite. Seasoned well, potatoes would be slow roasted in the oven, or just fried; that was it. I would sit at the dining table with my grandmother; we would share a plateful of steaming potatoes; she would tell me the stories; I would be happy.

Sixteen years later that is now, I cooked my potatoes like this. And I hurry up to add, I did not deprive myself of the merits of the vegetable in question all the years in between, I hope you understand. It simply happened to be the combination of a day, a memory and food (how novel!) that brushed my being with the gentle feeling of nostalgia.

P.S. I'm prone to eat lots of potatoes and surrender to memories in autumn.

Light.

The light through the curtains captured my eyes…and I did my best to capture the light.

'Smile with face, smile with mind, and good energy will come to you and clean away dirty energy. Even smile in your liver.'

( 'Eat, Pray,Love' by Elizabeth Gilbert).

So, I 'smiled in my liver'. And I'll tell you what, I had sheer fun. Smile.

Dilemma

Time to reconsider the contents of this tiny corner of the world that's my blog.

Initially i thought of it as a medium to embody my impressions over the edible constituents of my life into the words and let them exist elsewhere rather than in my imagination alone. But with time and things that follow(ed), I found myself falling for capturing things that of course might not bear a considerable significance to the planet and its inhabitants, but then they never fail to amuse me, and thus gently persuade me to share them with you, Friends. (This might as well explain my more frequent occurrences here as of late in comparison to, say, a few months back.)

And this is where my dilemma announced itself (without even a first warning, as always) with questions, 'can I possibly suggest to your attention visual and written images of something else not entirely food-related on a blog that was primarily intended to be entirely food-related', and such?

I am, however, in many (rather than just two, you understand) minds about this scenario. Probably, it's better if I let these ideas sit calmly for a while somewhere in another small corner of this world that's my mind. For more steeping and brewing, I think.

In the meantime, I saw this.

I loved it.

And I posted it, you see.

P.S. At this very moment as I'm occupied with contemplations on my blog's future, the irresistible smells of roasted potatoes with garlic (don't you ask me how I know it) are wafting into my room from the outside world that's my neighbour's kitchen. Is it a sign or what?

Sensuousness

Excuse me, Friends, but I think these bananas look damn sensuous.


Have a good weekend!

On grandeur of thoughts; on a saucepan

Before I bid farewell to today and pull down the curtains...

My gentle readers, at a subtle time between a dusk and a dawn the other night I woke up with a start only to understand with a relief that life is, indeed, all about pleasure and - wait for it - fun. And to knock a misconception (this is really the last thing ever I want between you and me) on its dull head, I shall hurriedly resume that by ‘pleasure and fun’ I don’t mean a feeling of a continuous elation and satisfaction (though always wanted, of course).

I humbly interprete pleasure as a way to live my life with an open heart: to greet sad times with as much dignity as I do the moments that lace my days with smiles, to explore both ups and downs that are on my way, rather than pretending I’m on a plain path, to be grateful for the experience instead of chastising myself for mistakes.

Above is a grandeur of this post. Such thoughts do not visit me on a regular basis, really. Relevent is it to say I’m a way too happy I’ve documented this touch of wisdom here, and moreover, shared it with you!

Below is an excerpt from my ’silly moments collection’ (in which I am operating far more frequently than in thoughts of that impressive grandeur).

Locale: a second-hand vintage shop with a few kitchenware items on display.

Play’s characters: a shop-assistant, she might as well be an owner (whichever, there was no evidence to prove), and me, on the lookout for a cast-iron saucepan .

Lingua franca: english

Me: Excuse me, blah blah blah. I’m looking for a saucepan with a heavy bottom. Preferebly, a cast-iron one.

She: saucepan? Cast-iron?

Me: Yes.

She: I don’t know what you mean.

Me: ???

She: What do you do with it?

Me: ??? (Shame me, but it took me a few long seconds to get hold of my composure again, cause, honestly, I was taken a trifle too aback). Oh, I cook with it, don’t you?

She: I don’t understand why you speak English. I am Spanish, I speak Dutch.

Me: Girl, whichever language you speak, you’ll better know your saucepans. That was my smart but, alas, imaginative answer. In reality, I smiled mildly stupidly and hastened to flee the place. Because ,you know, I feel particularly intimidated when cultures clash, national/racial issues are brought up and people don’t know what you do with a cast-iron saucepan. And the latter is really, really, really spooky-ingly scary...

Mini-post

Goodness me it seems to be yet another time when I do want and need (!) to share my newly-acquired impression over the chocolate with you. I know, I know, given my last few posts (this one for instance) that were so massively engaged with chocolate or things chocolate-related, I might really have gone into trouble to employ diversity here. However, I am under the impression, you might want to listen to my rambles. (Of course that's chiefly my hope.)

Friends, here is the situation. I granted myself with a luxury of visiting another location of Puccini Bomboni (Singel 154) and with that, invested a small fortune into an assortment of three bonbons. Among which was aniseed one. And which is why I’m bold enough to bore you with yet another train of words on relatively the same topic within last weeks. I am sorry. But you might really want to hear this, I hasten to add.

Aniseed praline (bonbon). In my imagination, the unknown, enigmatic and capturing is bestowed with aroma as such of the aniseed, also, far countries and continents where miracles of chocolate transform tears into smiles, pain into pleasure, fears into joy. Aniseed flavour is not a convenient spice to everybody’s liking. Indeed, it is a way too persistent and dominating, and seemingly forces chocolate to succumb to a supporting role in this duo. But then, it is only seemingly so. As the first wave of aniseed flavour whooshes away and subsides, it is only a matter of a second (or a few) whence the refined chocolate texture unfolds itself onto your palate and ever so gently wraps you up in a silky blanket of pleasure. You can’t resist it. The only thing you want now is to keep the moment.

Aniseed praline. A purveyor of comfort and idleness. Especially on a chilly, rainy day like today, September 2, 2008. In Amsterdam.

Now, consider me a disbalanced individual with a perverse fixation on chocolate. Which, in fact, is heartbreakingly true.

That was a mini-post, you understand.