This time

This time I didn't want to leave Russia. It's all rather interesting, you see, because when I go there I habitually count the days  -- and then feel very guilty about it -- until I'm finally on the plane back to fairy-tale Amsterdam, away, away, away.  Of course this time I counted the days too, but only because I wanted none of them to end. And that, dear Reader, came to me as a surprise of the size of an elephant, no, a jumbo jet.

We started our Russian vacation in the south where I'm from. We hadn't yet boarded our flight, but I was already rolling my eyes and warning Anthony about Shakhty's limited number of sights: four main streets, an obligatory Lenin stature (every city and town in Russia has one) and a green park (that goes by the name The Park of Culture and Relaxation). What else is there to see? Maybe that newly rebuilt church, its walls whiter than white, that once was wiped out (the Bolsheviks) and the plot converted into a tram depot? What else? Overgrown playgrounds, and beat-up buses, and heavily dented roads, perhaps?

We landed in Rostov-Don at midnight. When the air suddenly turns into velvet -- sultry, fragrant, green velvet -- you know you are in the southern Russia. I always forget how luscious and scented the late spring there can be, in fact, alway is. My parents met us at the airport, and off with a taxi we went to Shakhty. You can rely on me to arrive with a bang, by which I mean I'm such a idiot. I managed to lose my phone when the taxi driver stopped to fill up on gas and we had to get out of the car and my phone slipped off my lap and none of us heard it drop on the gravel. The next morning, ratracing our steps, my mother and I again took a taxi and went to the gas station in question. The phone lay untouched (!) on the ground, only by then it had been run over by a fleet of cars. I'm such an idiot! Or was it an early misfortune for the fortune later? And what fortune that was, Reader! Our week and a half in Shakhty was a ton of fun, and cake, and family dinners, not to mention sun, and short-sleeve weather, and more food!

I'm loving it, Anthony didn't fail to say every day. Russia may be rough arounds the edges, but there is something so charming about it. Like that colorful make-shift stage next to my parents' apartment block where, back in the 80s, children could act out their performances, only by now the benches for spectators were almost all long gone, the rusty thills in their place fully consumed by grass. Or that iron play house where I kicked it as a child, it still stands there hiding now under the canopy of trees. And that old man's little patch of soil next to the rusty garage fenced off by the bushes of tea roses the color of the fire engine and filled to the brim with garden plants, each row a geometric line. And what about my grandparents' next-door neighbour who turned her patch into an open-air exhibition of garden statuary, that is, if one can call statuary the swan figurines made of frayed car tires. All those things I had, worryingly, overlooked but Anthony took notice of. And you said there is nothing to see!

Did I mention that neither of my parents speak English -- although my father did extraordinarily good this past year in regards of mastering the ABC's of English grammar and the beginner's vocabulary -- and Anthony is only starting on his textbook Learn Russian the Fast and Fun Way? What would they do when I wasn't there? I don't know if you can tell, but I was worried about that too. Indeed, what would they do? Here is what: they would watch The '80s: The Decade That Made Us on National Geographic, the Russian voice-over for my father and the English original in the background for Anthony. They say vodka connects people? I say television! (There also were Goodfellas and Rambo: First Blood Part II.)

My seventy-eight-year-old grandfather outdid everybody on the language front.  I mean, he cracked everybody up when he limped towards Anthony and, combining his microscopic knowledge of German with even smaller expertise in English, introduced himself as the gross father. We all bursted out in laughter, each probably giggling for different reasons. I chuckled from the realization that we were together at the time, and it was all that mattered, god damn the unswept side-streets, and dented roads, and other such things! My favorite moment every day was sitting down across the open balcony in the living room after everybody had gone to sleep and, one lung-ful after another of the sullen and soft air filled with the scent of acacia blossom, find comfort in the fact that Anthony snoozed in one room and my parents in another, and for the time being I didn't have to miss either.

I'm not even going to start on the food we had had. It's the subject for another post or two or three. We sat down for a full-scale dinner -- zakuski, first course, main, and desert -- every night. One thing Anthony thought could be bad, or mediocre in the least, was Russian food -- and this I don't know where he got from! --  but it only took him a day to fall head over heels with the local fare. Stay tuned!

On our last night in Shakhty we all went to a restaurant to celebrate my mother's birthday. We sat down and raised our glasses, and then a band started playing and a red-faced woman the shape of a watermelon from the table next to ours ran up to Anthony, grabbed him by his shirt, and swirled him into a dance. Don't scare him, mom said rushing after her. Let me dance with a foreigner!, cried the red-faced woman the shape of a watermelon. Rough around the edges but charming.

Next afternoon we flew to Moscow -- the city of 24/7 everything: weight loss clinics and breweries next door (!) -- to see my uncle's family. When we weren't at my uncle's devouring the crayfish he expertly cooked in a heavily salted broth with dill and bay leaf, and washing it down with beer, we walked. 

I sprained my foot and it swelled, but we walked on! We did the obligatory saunter around Red Square, and through Kitay-Gorod, and down the Boulevard Ring. We took a boat ride along the Moskva river and saw beautiful things like the new Cathedral of Christ the Savior that had been demolished by the Bolsheviks and in its place came a public swimming pool. 

One late evening we returned to Red Square to see it in the lights, and it was special. By which I mean there were hundreds of people and more flash lights coming off every second wherever you looked, and yet somehow I found myself standing there a few meters off the stone gate leading to Red Square and there was not a soul around me, a soft breeze the only disturbance. It felt quiet and comfortable, as if the whole world just folded itself up and I had nothing to do other than to feel the breeze in my face, and look at the colorful onion domes of Saint Basil's Cathedral on the horizon, and at Anthony ahead of me taking pictures with the enthusiasm of an American who finds himself at Red Square. And I felt very glad about where I was and where I'd just been. As if there were cracks in me, and now, for an instant, I was whole. I remember saying to myself: Please do not forget this moment. A second later -- hundreds of voices around me again and even more thoughts.

I've been thinking about that moment everyday since. But most of all, I've been thinking how I can't wait to go back.

For a brief moment in history

When I was eleven, I dreamt to become fancy. What ‘fancy’ meant exactly, I did not know and, in truth, could not care less to learn. All I wanted was ‘do’ fancy things, such as calling my USSR-born parents ‘madam maman’ and ‘monsieur papan’ respectively, drinking strong pitch-black coffee a la my mother, wearing my mother’s high heels, and read Shakespeare, although not all at once.

There was something else - I wanted to set my hair in curlers every now and then. In my view, to wear curlers (at home) was as classy as to have on high heels (also at home). My mother begged to differ on my points, so I wore neither of her stilettos nor her metal rollers at the time. And yet, at the age of eleven I still wanted to be ‘fancy’, point. Other things being prohibited, I decided I should start drinking coffee, which my mother, surprisingly, did not mind. This is, in short, how I became ‘fancy’.

When it comes to beverages, alcoholic and non-, I learned two things from ‘madam maman’: always drink dry wine and never be shy with coffee. My Sober Reader, I hope you don’t mind that it is on the latter that I will extend today. (How my mother taught me, literally, to drink wine makes for another story, which I might tell you, that is, if you want.)

And that leaves coffee. As I said earlier, this boldness with the beverage I took after my mother. Being a heavy sleeper, her day would brighten up only after she made herself a cup of steaming coffee, be it at 7 a.m. or at noon. (My mother is a pianist, so artistic laziness was never foreign to her.)

Seeing that it were the early post-Soviet times, we did not have much choice of different sorts and labels of coffee, and, in fact, pretty much of everything else. All we could snatch was instant coffee, which, as I always thought, was made of something decidedly different than coffee beans – maybe dust, I don’t know. Said differently, the taste was bland and depressing. So it was about then that my mother, being a woman of musical artistry, was so creative as to think up a trick that changed my entire life onwards. (I only wish she had not spoilt my green years with nudging me insistently into becoming a musician as herself.)

'Madam maman' used a thin slice of lemon in her coffee.

Why not Baileys, Kalua, or Demerara Sugar, to name a few? Oh, I beg of you. The early 90’s were rather tumultuous times in new Russian history - we even did not have proper supermarkets in the first place. It was only after a handful of years, sometime between the midlle- and late 90’s, that those names did not sound gibberish to our musical ears any more.

That’s why a thin slice of fresh and (sparkles-out-of-your-eyes) sour lemon was preferred in my family to stale cinnamon powder or white sugar. At first I winced at the thought of lemon in coffee, then I took a sip from my mother’s cup, shyly; after which I hurried up to the kitchen, took another cup from a cabinet and imperatively asked my mother to make me her ‘citrus coffee’.
I had no idea why lemon and coffee worked so well together, but it tasted good and I liked it. I had a brilliant excuse to call myself ‘fancy’ at the time, even before we learnt what, for instance, De-me-ra-ra sugar is.

Now that I am doing my MA in English I hope I have developed my vocabulary enough as to be able to say briefly that lemon lends itself nicely to making coffee flavor more complex and deeper. Being acidic, lemon offsets the bitterness of coffee; and if you add a teaspoon of brown sugar to your cup, it will further enhance the heady notes of coffee (but this is optional). That said, there is no recipe as such. You simply brew your coffee the way you usually do, be it with a coffee machine or in a pot; and add a thin slice of citrus, or even a half, to your cup. As I suggested, brown sugar is optional here but recommendable.

So instead of being fancy (which it is not, supposedly), ‘citrus coffee’ is historic – post-Soviet and all. Also, it's tasty! What's more, drinking it is not as much ridiculous as, say, wearing curlers and high heels at home. (Here it should be noted that I, when home alone, wore my mother's stilletoes anyway; and even ruined a few pairs, to 'madam maman' greatest disgust. Sigh.)

P.S. I don’t know if it’s appropriate to show you the pictures of Moscow when I am in Amsterdam. But for a brief moment in history, let’s assume it is.

My wind of changes

The wind of changes has arrived. It is blowing into my face, deconstructing my hair-do (on days when I have one), and streaming my clothes (not exactly in Monroe’s style, and yet pretty much close to it). But what really counts is that it is capturing my heart and making me restless. Positively so.

And this is when the memories of one of my favourite fairy tales (back in my childhood and, unquestionably, now too), Merry Poppins, step forward and shine through the myriad of thoughts, and thoughts, and thoughts. As a child, I think I didn’t get the precise message of the story, enjoying mostly the atmospheric feeling rather than contemplating on the essence of changes as such. One extract, however, I sincerely committed to my memory: the episode when the gulps of enigmatic northern wind communicate to Merry Poppins, the mysterious nanny who always arrived and left with the wind, the impending changes in her life. Again.

It was a Monday, the first chilly and gloomy day after the continuous heat party that so sensuously mellowed the Moscow’s hard-working brains earlier (with my active taking part in it too, of course). I walked in wind. It smelled of rain. I thought of chocolate (for a moment, could I assume you buy into my logics?). And there was a moment, when I spotted a single leave spinning around in wind’s whirlpools. I slowed down my pace and watched. The wind blew sharper and brought the leave right in my feet. I paused to entertain my thoughts. After I resumed my walk, I knew exactly what I felt and where I stood. Anxiety. Light uncertainty. Big adventure. Things are changing. Time has come to go further. That was my wind.

My Dear Friends and Readers, for those of you, who are in the know, and for those, whom my telepathic waves didn’t reach yet, I’m now happy to say I’m leaving Moscow and going somewhere else. I’m going to a petite country that speaks to me so well; the country – to coin a phrase - of excellent cheeses, fragrant tulips, warm-hearted people; the country that caught my heart a while ago. The Netherlands.

I’m leaving behind my family and a few dear friends. True, I’ll be missing my mom and dad in earnest, but as I once said, ‘I’ll better be missing them knowing that I am pursuing my dream, rather than sticking to them and growing bitter and angry about the missed opportunity’. (My wisdom seemingly doesn’t know any boundaries, and humility too.)

This decision didn’t come out of the blue. For a few years I have been working on a puzzle that’s my dream to unite the fragments into the framed picture. I changed the ways, I took the roundabouts, what remained intact was the destination.

Now, I’m proud to be bearing a title of a student again. A pre-Master’s (and further, Master’s too) student in English language and culture, to be more exact. And if you haven’t yet bought into my logics, leave it at that then. English language and culture in Holland - this is so my style.

And as we are talking a long-term trip here, I shall also do my very best imaginable to pack my bag reasonably. * While I’ll still have to give my luggage contents umpteenth clear and crispy thought, one thing will remain non-negotiable. My chocolate stash.

And as I’m favouring the major changes in my life at the present moment of time, please bear with me.

As soon as I settle and unpack my bags, I’ll be with you again.

And in the meantime, all that’s left to say is, ‘thank you for your continuous companionship’.

*Among the public, I’ve been known for schlepping a way too heavy bags and paying really big money for excess luggage

Choice-challenged, I am.

Are you good at making choice(s)? Pity me, I’m not. I would kindly ask you to thoroughly read through the used negative particle, for by this I mean to say how wildly and inhumanly messy and dishevelled I get when I am asked to choose. Before I progress in my explicit narrative, let me just mention that it’s always somehow easier to make a choice between good and bad, or bad and worse, isn’t it? But when you are to choose among the best, what do you do? I think I am congenitally deprived of understanding.

With the profound lack of choice making technique thereof, I am naturally bound to let my wallet go thinner on my invading visits to a summer farmer’s market, and fill my wicker basket of a considerable (keyword) size with fresh summer fruits and vegetables full to the brims. I think I’ll set aside my ridiculous complaints about how nature rendered me choice-challenged, and rather be more useful by suggesting you a few ways to consume all the bountiful glory in relatively short period of time to save the edible gifts of nature from meeting their murky days on a kitchen counter, obscure depth of a refrigerator, or what have you. * Shall you pretend you didn’t know it before, I will be very much grateful.

All the minutiae being said, now hands down to business.

Episode #1.

Considering the amounts of, say, red currants I’ve got this week, the only way to eat my way through the berries was to come up with a numerous amount of interesting (at least to me) and edible (to me and everybody else) ways to use them fresh(ish). [Side note: I would very much love to re-enter realms of baking too, but as my story has it, my oven waved me a farewell (got broken, in other words) and retired peacefully a good while ago.] To praise my originality (you may indeed roll your eyes at me here), I worked out that salmon is a very good friend to red currants slightly sautéed in white wine. They sound so singsongy together, especially if salmon is prepared with lemon juice and cinnamon. The latter is so good at lifting delicate salmon flavour that I am really chuffed to have learnt this.

For 1 serving you’ll need:

1 salmon fillet (about 80-100 gr)
salt and pepper to taste
a small pinch of ground cinnamon

red currant sauce
a handful of fresh red currants
pepper (salt) to taste
1 tsp cane sugar
2 Tsp dry white wine

1. Rub fillet with salt, pepper and cinnamon. Let stand for a while.
2. Heat a non-stick frying pan over medium heat, pour 1 Tsp lemon juice in it and cook salmon 5 min on each side (natural fatty oils oozing from salmon fillets in the progress of cooking spare you a need to be using any other oil).

3. In a small saucepan over medium heat, sauté red currants slightly sprinkled with fresh ground pepper in white wine for a few moments, add sugar. When the mixture bubbles, set the saucepan off the fire and pour the sauce over the salmon fillet.

And while we are at salmon talking, there is another bit of my recent epiphany (berries-unrelated though), Salmon with cumin. Naturally, cumin’s flavour is very strong and might be overwhelming, but if used moderately, neither is the case. On the contrary, in this companionship salmon only gets scores (as if it really needed any): earthy flavours of cumin compliment very well the juicy salmon flesh.





Yields 4 servings

4 salmon fillets
1 tsp cumin seeds
½ tsp freshly ground black pepper
½ tsp sea salt

1. Rub fillets with salt and spices, drizzle juice of half a lemon over salmon, let stand for a while (preferably overnight)

2. Heat a non-stick skillet coated with olive oil over medium heat, and cook fish for 3-5 min on each side, or until fish flakes easily with a fork.



Episode #2.

I got a few petite melons (so petite that they freely fit in the palms of my hands each) the other day, and in my vain attempts to stay cool when it’s almost 35 degrees centigrade outside, I undertook this Simple melon and yoghurt sorbet project (do I really sound pompous?).

Yields 4 servings

250 g fromage blanc/or greek yoghurt
200 g fresh melon, deseeded and cut in small chunks
75 g honey (I used a multi-floral variety)
juice of ½ lemon
fresh mint for decoration

1. Cut melon in small chunks.
2. In a separate bowl, combine yoghurt, honey and lemon. Mix well.
3. To the yoghurt mixture, add melon and stir well through. At this point I also added a handful of sesame seeds to enrigh my sorbet-to-be with light crunchiness.
4. Transfer the final mixture to the plastic container and put in a freezing camera of your fridge for first 2 hours. Stir thoroughly every two hourse to prevent the formation of ice crystals.

Although the recipe requires 4 hours of freezing, it took my fridge more than that (up to 6) to come up with a decent sorbet (age issues, I believe).

It was too hot to pause for a picture, however.

Be well!

*Have you noticed yet, to form long and incoherent sentences is my talent too?

Jamais vu

July 2, a day when I made my first appearance to the world, or, if I now try and employ a tiny bit of modesty, simply my birthday. An undisputable excuse to play hooky and treat your smart (oldish) self to a memorable experience, which is what I did. And loved so.

In all respects, this day was bright and colourful, especially at the moments when sun and thunder clouds secured Moscow with an unforeseeable weather. Gusts of wind, downpours and sunrays alternated each other in a city’s heartbeat. And just as I was halfway through my leisurely walk about Arbat* neighbourhood, the clouds zipped open and it started (again) to rain. In no time moscow turned into a big swimming pool with shower facilities. I did not fancy either.

Solution?

To look around, spot a small cozy terrace hidden in the luscious greenery, read a signpost and rush to the premises immediately.

Why?

First, it is raining cats and dogs and everything else in between.
Pre-first, it might be another bona fide hidden gem Moscow has to offer to a seeking eye.

And it is indeed. It is. It is. (Here you should hear my loud applause and incoherent exclaims). Let me just tell you that in my continuous quest for things and places I shall love (in Moscow and everywhere else), I got a new find. And luckily so, it happened on my B-day.

[On the side note, I shall also remember this day (I humbly believe that a moderate self-promotion wouldn’t do any harm, so i’ll repeat the date of my birthday, which is July 2) as a stretch of time when I experienced both jamais vu and deja vu. Though on this a bit later.]

So, the place I intend to give a speech about bears a charming name of Gogol Mogol (a russian for egg nog). Its founders idea was to capture (in what they did succeed) an atmospheric aura of a french bistro of the early XX century (please look here if you wish). Posh (but not repulsively so), enchanting interior of two (only) rooms, the infused in the air bitter leatherly aromas of ground coffee entwined with liquors, swooping and disarming odours of dark belgian (I swapped a few words with a very well-informed bartender, you know) chocolate; all these veied for my heart and won me over. One minus though: there is no area for guests with no-smoking preferences. What, in my humble opinion, is sort of a drawback, as smoke fumes might considerably hinder your experiencing chocolate diva (I agree, when it comes to chocolate, or more exactly, disturbing me from my chocolate, I get that ferocious and bitchy). For that matter, I headed outdoors, took a seat at one of the terrace tables (tented to protect all types of individuals, bitchy included, from rain), ordered things I was craving for, and rested. Truly rested. Idly observing people vs. rain battles, hearing and listening to the thunder roars, enjoying a good book, being purposefully lazy. And I’ll tell you what, my hooky was splendid.

Now, a few words on my vu’s (in order of their appearance).

Jamais vu. In opposition to the physchological term, I only intend to refer to one of the cafe’s signature desserts, where major roles are given to grated carrot, hazelnut and lemon juice to star in. And since I have a big thing about carrots, I couldn’t help but trying it. Now, a drop of critique, or is it criticism? Anyways, I loved the idea of a light carrot dessert, and the way it was presented also appealed to me.

Moroccan coffee with chocolate, water and dessert

But then again something lacked, which I failed to fathom on the spot (truth be told, I did not want it either, for I preferred to initially enjoy things, rather than review them right away). Later, however, I got my humble share of enlightenment to grasp the thing that escaped me earlier: carrot must be freshly grated. The more it sits, the more cartoon-y mouthfeel it’s most likely to give.

Deja vu, the psyche thing in all its glory. After tasting the featured dessert, I found myself thinking I experienced something similar before. I briefly lived through my childhood memories to recall how my mother used to trick me into more frequent vegetables consumption by throwing together a very simple dessert of juicy grated carrot mixed with crashed walnuts and honey, for good measure. Since then, I am a girl who knows her carrots*.

The day was a great gift in itself, as any other day, too.

Although the photo below has no particular relation to all said above, it's smileworthy. I hope you are with me on this.




*Arbat area means to Moscow quite the same as what Montmartre does to Paris.

**I have now set myself a mission to come up with my own interpretation of the jamais vu carrot dessert. Once happy with the results, I’ll let you know.

Gogol-Mogol cafe
Gagarinsky side-street 6
Tel: 007 495 203-55-06

Child, adult, and a smoothie

I believe it is the first summer of my life when I virtually will not have carefree and careless vacation as I used to have, say, even a year ago. Now, is it what they call adulthood or what? Busy times from the moments the sun rises to the hour when it sets and even beyond? Wait. Although I consciously chose such a busy life schedule, it, in no way at all, means I took up a subscription for a membership in a ‘desperate racers agaist time’ club. No, no, no; point!

When rushing, I often find myself driven into a stupor, emotional and intellectual infertility, you name it. When relaxed, I manage to do more than I initially plan (=load upon my shoulders). Astounding as it is, and yet so natural.

However, thinking back into my childhood I see a girl whose innate habit seemed to be a continuous complain on how slowly time dragged. To mute me for a while, one had to treat me to a massive scoop, or even two, of chocolate ice-cream. *insert a loud slurp here* If aforesaid weren’t enough to make everybody cuss (to themselves though), this girl also bore an identity card (imaginary) of a v e r y picky eater. If there was anything dairy (but certainly for the ice-cream, and then again even the latter had to be flavoured and coloured to buy me into idea it wasn’t made of milk), onion-y (God forbid if I spotted a trace of onion floating in a soup) in my vicinity, in no time I turned into an uber-disgruntled child; and this – as I was told later – wasn’t a dream come true for either my mom or omas.

But truth be told, my blacklist of things edible played havoc with my childhood gastronomic life indeed (sounds so pathetic, I know). Sigh. Mention smoothie and I would literally burst into tears (I mean real tears) only thinking of milky-something passing my lips. I even can recall how unce upon a summer time in my family’s country house I spent a W H O L E day at a veranda table attempting to make a single sip from a glass of milk, which my maternal oma so competently put in front of me with intention to bring me up (obviously). I felt miserable. Apparently, upon my birth I got bestowed with lots of antibodies to guard my gastronomic immunity to things a way too many to cover in one post and, miraculously, not to bore you (hello, still reading? Phew!). Smiles.

Days changed nights. Time passed. And here I am: a character with a newly-acquired desire for everything new and unknown (=untasted). The wind of change arrived, and with that, the wall of ignorance finally fell. Rejoice, I did!

And now, My Dear Readers, after I long foreword we have at last reached a point where a recipe should stand up for other narrative nuances. The choice of this recipe, or more likely yet another idea/suggestion for numerous smoothies, - hence all the talk above – has its roots in my recent love for simplicity, a need for a good mood and nutrition right at the start of a working day (or any day, if we are at that). So, go mention smoothie now or, even better, treat me to one, and Bob’s your uncle - you’ll have me smiling.

Ah, adulthood! Great time; time when we can consciously find answers to our cravings (even childish ones) and satisfy them with such a pleasure. After all, it’s all about attitude, isn’t it?

**********
Finally, smoothie talk; and no rocket science. Smiles.

As said earlier, these are only ideas, not a recipe per se.

(ideas source: http://www.kuking.net/ (in russian)

Idea 1.
A medium-sized banana
150 ml skimmed (or low fat) milk
150 gr plain yoghurt
1 tsp honey (any kind of a runny consistency)
a dash of cinnamon

I also experimented with fresh mint, and even fresh green basil. Both perk up banana flavour and generally refresh things up.

Yields 1 serving.

The method (can’t be more simplier):

Peel and cut banana in big chunks and put all the ingredients in a blender. Process until smooth. Serve. Smile.

Side note: if you use a ripe banana, skip honey, or else the smoothie might be overly sweet.


Idea 2.
1 ripe avocado
250-300 ml milk (any kind you like)
1-2 Tsp honey
Fresh berries for garnishing

Yields 6 servings

Method (simplicity in its original form):

Halve the avocado, scoop out the flesh. Blend all the ingredients in a food mill. Garnish with mashed fresh raspberries or strawberries. Serve. Smile.

Side note: I especially love silkiness of avocado flesh embodied in the milk or yoghurt.

Idea 3:
½ mango
1 medium-sized banana
juice of one orange
2 Tsp bran
1 Tsp sesame seeds (roasted)
2-3 tsp honey

Serves 2

Method: not to bore you to death, let me just suggest you scroll up and read the description above.

Side note: if you use ripe mango and banana, you might not want to add honey at all.

*********

That’s it, My Friends. Easy-peasy, filling, simple, summery and smile-inducing.

P.S. Couldn’t help but taking a shot of a mother and daughter enjoying a gentle Sunday walk. Each of the two has their own matters to take care of.

Say cheese, read something else :)

To my mind (and taste too, for that matter), to be able to enjoy food also means to have food you absolutely love and...errr...love NOT. Through learning this I'm learning much about myself, I think.

Lately I learnt that:

1. I'm a girl who generally loves her cheese(es)! Only thinking of this I'm gleaming and feeling content!

2. I'm a girl who does not like certain sorts of cheese I thought I (would) love. With pure, sincere, ever-lasting love. But, alas, no. *sigh* It somehow even feels as if you fall out of love after the engagement. Sad, isn't it?

Oh My Dear Readers, don't arrive to any conclusions too soon. Please. Let me first tell you that I tried. I tried hard.

Pecorino Romano. I first saw 'him' (for more emphasis, I'll call it 'him' if you don't mind) a few years back in Holland. 'He' spent a few days in my kitchen. But nevertheless, I did not fall for 'him', although I sensed I would. Honestly.

Last weekend we met again. On weeks of Italy in Gum*, Moscow. So, I brought Pecorino Romano home. Put a thin sliver of the cheese between two pieces of rye country bread, which I also brushed with olive oil from one side, spread with ginger-apricot sauce and layered with ruccola salad leaves, and set the assembly onto the heavy skillet to cook for a few moments until the bread is golden-brown and the cheese is melted. In overall, the sandwich turned out to be fantastic. But I still did not like this cheese. Again. Oh. Something about it simply does not match my taste, although I'm partial to strong, pungent, flavor-forward, smelly sorts of cheese. Anyway, I want to believe I will get over it with time. (Don't I sound as though I'm in denial, by chance?). As they say, there is time to love and time to turn away.

But then again, I gingerly felt for something else (see below)

*****Ginger-Apricot Sauce/Spread*****

(yes, again the sauce. And sorry guys, no photo this time. *wink, wink, wink* Some things are simply not photogenic, no matter how delishious they taste.)

A handful of dried apricots (sour-sweet variety)

A 5-cm knob of fresh ginger, finely chopped

1 Tsp tabasco sauce

3 Tsp tamarind water - to make which, you should solve 1 Tsp tamarind paste in 100ml hot water (the original recipe, however, suggests you use 3 Tsp soy sauce, which, to my taste, would forward salty tones to the front in the sauce, and I think I wouldn't really appreciate it. So I swapped the latter for the tamarind that blended in the mixture mildly and kept the tastes in balance)

2 Tsp olive oil

Method:

1. Soak dried apricots in hot water for 10 mins.
2. Meanwhile, chop ginger finely.
3. After soaking, rinse the apricots. In a blender, process the apricots and ginger until the consistency of a puree.
4. Add the remainder of the ingredients and pulse until thouroughly mixed.

The combination of flavours gives me a distinct warming sensation. A spicy, slightly fiery tickling taste of fresh ginger mixed with dried apricots and tamarind - which add up their fruity tones to the composition - distinguishes or even extracts natural taste and texture of poultry or, say, lean meat; it might as well push forward salty cheese taste (while we are at it).

*Situated right at the Red Square, GUM is a shopping mall (grocery store inclusive) n.1 in Moscow. Feel like splurging? Come here!

Good manners and my 'pet' sauce

It happened last Saturday when I lost grips to my good manners (it was at a family dinnertime and my parents were not very much impressed, really).

But My Dear Readers, I had a reason! I got so overwhelmed and excited that I simply couldn't help but licking my lips noisily, using my fingers stead of a fork or a spoon and 'ohh la'-ing after each bite I so joyously took. *Generally, I always abide by the etiquette rules. And yet, My Friends, there are occasions when it's simply not the case. Don't you think so?*

And I only hope I might be justified for such a wild mannerism of mine when I tell you this...

I made a Light Basil Dressing Cream.

Obviously, still not convinced, aren't you!? Oh..

Ok, then I'm gonna sound this out to you. It was the FIRST time ever I made a sauce that everybody at the table (7 people) was raving about when tasting and eating. Huh!

Moreover, it is the sauce I'll always make when fresh basil (its green variety) is in season. Yes, this is really very serious. Phew. If I can, I will even call it my pet sauce. Or saucie. Because only something as fresh and full of flavours could actually make a girl get a 'pet sauce' in her surroundings. Creamy and yet light and silky texture, strong but delicate basil flavour enriched with a citrus tang, refreshing taste of a perfect harmony between the sweet, salt and sour, and a long-lasting feeling of lightness, all this you are bound to experience - mannerly or otherwise. *smile*

*****Light Basil Cream*****

(recipe source: Gastronom magazine*, April 2008)

A big bunch of fresh green basil (only leaves)

250 g plain yoghurt

1 Tbs sugar

1 tsp sea salt

1 Tsp lemon juice

3 Tsp extra virgin olive oil

Method:

1. Put all the ingredients except for the olive oil in a food mill and blend until pureed.

2. Now set the blender over a low mode and start pouring the oil ever so gently into the pureed liquid.

3. Serve with grilled vegetables, cold potato or pasta salads or as a dip for vegetable sticks (although it is a bit runny for the latter) or whatever takes your fancy, for it is absolutely versatile. And for that matter, indubitably goooood!

4. This sauce tends to thicken when refrigerated, so make sure to bring it to room temperature before using.

*A russian counterpart of internationally renowned Bon Appetit and Gourmet.

P.S. Speaking of good manners...Even gorgeous birds of peace (pigeons) have those moments, too. *insert a smug face here*

Stop a moment...

Last week, it has been a time of re-learning to appreciate things I (and, I’m pretty much sure, everybody else, too) take for granted.

I fell prey to a bitter cold said week; as a result, I couldn’t smell anything for a few days. I lost (thanks heavens, for a short period of time) something that’s been innate, something that’s been with me day in, day out. Suddenly, my grounds got shattered, my life picture wasn’t complete anymore; I must tell, it’s damn scary to feel that way.

In russian, we have an expression that can loosely be translated as ‘eyes in soap’. Meaning: after a certain moment we fail to notice things that are truly important, since we are fully occupied with self-imposed deadlines, goals and everyday hassles. So, rather than enjoy the experience, we survive.

I don’t want it this way. Instead, I’ll better do what I can and learn to can more – and for the rest, I will let everything happen as it happens. Because to be able to see, taste, smell, hear, touch and move, it is indeed a real miracle. Wouldn’t you agree?

Below, there is one of my short writings. To my mind, it fits in this post flawlessly.

She said, she loved the early morning of each new day.

‘Follow me, then’, the new day whispered back to her, in a soft but mighty voice of a gradually rising sun.

She smiled. She closed her eyes. She put her distrust to sleep and opened up her heart. She followed the time.

And as the light slowly chased away the last ghosts of the darkness off the pure sky, she knew she was all right.

She did not want to question; she did not want to ask.

She breathed. She moved. She lived.

She said she will be fine.

***
So, having to make do with a clogged nose, I thought it'd be wise to delay my oh-so-much-desirable visit to a recently opened bakery 'Le Pain Quotidien' until my total recovery (er, I'm virtually not in the loop, for there are already a few 'Le Pain's in the city. Gosh, where have I been, then?).

Wondering why? I take it you are. Wink.

For me, any bakery (yes, again I'm drooling on the subject) begins with its aromas, in the first place; and a girl whose nose is running - my sincere apologies for anatomical details in profusion - basically can't benefit from such simple pleasure as a budding gastronomic affair. *wink* Thus, my drive to discover worked better than nay anti-biotics. Because now 'Le Pain Quotidien' is tiptoeing with dignity past its rivals and taking its deserved place in my chart of unconditional favourites in the city.

Now, my personal paean for 'La Pain*'.

Decor. Homey and authentic. Brings a visitor (or this girl, at least) to a rural area with green pastures, satiated cows (my imagination is such!) and cloudless sky (at least, to imagine this, it's is a good way to get rid of a daily grind, by the by).

Bread. For the first time in the place and among rows of bread I can rave about non-stop, I opted to swap my money for their Le Pain Levain: slightly acidic, soft crumb that yields subtle fruity aftertaste and is elegantly coated in a cracking crispy crust. Kudos to the bakery, they follow old-cherished traditions and use stone ovens and organic, stone ground flours to deliver their breads to the world! For my second time in the place, I got their five cereals bread. Praising which, I can only say it's unspeakably good. Real crust, that's ingrained with slightly roasted, golden oats; ever so noticeable sweetness by courtesy of mixed-in-the-dough prunes; delicious and flavourful nuttiness of sunflower and sesame seeds lend the bread irresistible aroma and texture. You even don't have to top it, when sliced, with honey or something of the same sweet vein, for it is already perfect. God.

Grocery. Ranges from organic chocolate spreads (!!!) to fruit and savoury jams to tea and coffee to salt and pepper in the mills to the trade mark I-want-to-have-it-all kitchen utensils. Grand!

Fare. The food magazines reviews were all in raves about the tabbouleh

they serve here. Of course, food magazine critics are an authority indeed, but I employed a hands-on approach and went for an after-work dinner some time back.. SIMPLE. PLEASURE.

Seriously, it feels so nice to have a new sincere friendship started. Smile.

*Le Pain Quotidien

6 Kamergersky side-street,

tel. +007 (495) 937 7742

***

After all, the spirit of simplicity was soaring around me, so I wanted to cook and eat something spring-ful, something soothing, something rustic. At home. Barefoot. And since I followed this recipe for Basic Vegetable Soup religiously (apart from adding up a few drops of smoky liquid to intensify the flavour), thus I don't see a point in copying it. Rather I'd invite you - with further re-direction - here.

***

Before I sign off for now, I desperately want to share with you another batch of my recent observations. Now, in photographs.

In the name of God, stop a moment, cease your work, look around you. - Leo Tolstoy

And this is what I notice when I really pay my attention.

Time...Sometimes it seems like it never brings things apart, although there might be hundreds of years in between.

Be modern, be high-tech, but never put your history (and I mean your personal history, too) and traditions in oblivion.

Inanimate engines are here to live their life, too.

I am loyal...to my dreams and fantasies.

Saturday morning. Nearly dawn.

Usually I sleep in on Saturdays; this Saturday, however, I wanted to play differently. So I got up and set out for one of a few places in Moscow that are extremely dear to me.

'Volkonsky' bakery. I love absolutely everything about it. Its welcoming atmosphere, its homey spirits, its divine bread and pastry, a cosy cafй seated in its premises, the stylish kitchenware on sale, its location in the heart of old Moscow. Absolutely everything, I'm telling you. I remember how at the first moment I stepped in the bakery, the exhilarating aroma of fresh bread wrapped me up on the spot. I only had to close my eyes for a second to breathe in the goodness and wake up my imagination. And before long I saw myself on a green meadow with lots of flowers-in-bloom. A gentle wind danced with the sunshine in the air. I'd have a baggy yellowish cotton dress on and silky scarf to cover my hair, a good book to feed my mind and a piece of fresh goat's cheese sandwiched among the bread goodness to satisfy my hunger. And then I heard a bakery girl's voice addressing me...I smiled and at that moment I knew I would be their loyal customer.

So, this Saturday I went for such an early trek to meet my 'darling' (in reference to the aforementioned vicinity. Smile.) for a reason. I fancied a warming saturday breakfast at home with a fresh, right-away-from-the-oven baguette. Crispy, with soft and airy crumb, slightly buttered, topped with cherry spread or honey and accompanied by a cup of home-brewed coffee. Oh. For me that's the dickens of a leisurely breakfast.

So, you see, I slept less. But I got more. What so special did I get, you'll ask. I got my fantasy realised. I got a morning walk through the oldest part of Moscow when she was still deserted, half asleep half awake. I got my spirits rejuvenated. I got a whole day ahead.

*‘Volkonsky’ (in co-operation with ‘Maison Kaiser’) bakeries
Maroseika str. 4/2 (this is where my ‘darling’ located)
Tel: +007(495) 721 14 42

Bol’shaya Sadovaya str. 2/46
Tel: +007(495) 699 36 20

Spring has come.

Chapter 1.

There are days when the amount if things to do or matters, which, I think, need my immediate attendance, overweigh my energy store and expand beyond there-are-only-24-hours-a-day thing. Before now I'd take my pains to care about moments that seemingly were important but, in the event, were not.

Lots and lots of time I spent diving into the choppy sea of worries and doubts, fears and unconfidence. Endless 'what ifs' and 'buts' continuously enjoyed my loyal company for years, and I whole-heartedly thought such an approach the inevitable part of my life.

I guess it would still be 'on my agenda' but for a single moment, which left me gasping and happened instantly to take its place in a row with those titled as life-altering (pardon me if I sound a trifle too clichesque here *wink*).

All right. As trivial as it may seem I was looking at my own reflection in the mirror the other day (please do not tell me you're surprised, thank you! *smiles*). Personally, what surprised me was that after twenty three (23!!!!!) years of not noticing I discovered a certain positive feature of my hands (yeah, I'm that much eccentric about my hands, but this post is, in fact, about something different! *broad smiles*). Twenty three years of looking and not seeing - that's, I tell you, is a real shocker. I suddenly realise how much of my time I gave to worries and haste in numerous attempts to put an order in my life, which more often than not turned out to be futile.

I am here not to worry. I am here to live. In tune with my heart. In tune with myself.

Chapter 2.

Time has come to expand my warm welcome to the offals, there! And I began with...

*****Chicken hearts in white wine*****

Serves 2/3

500 gr chicken hearts (trimmed from fat)

1 medium white onion, chopped

1 medium pickle, diced

1/2 cup French beans

1/2 cup white wine

1/2 tsp Chinese 5-spices mixture

salt and pepper to taste

1 Tsp fresh mint, finely chopped

1 Tsp olive oil

1. In a medium non-stick saucepan, saute onion until slightly golden.

2. To the onions, add trimmed chicken hearts, mix and season with salt (in fact, you might not want it at all in this dish as later you'll add a pickle to the hearts) and pepper to taste (I couldn't help but throwing in a small dried and crashed chilli, too) and add chinese 5 spices mixture.
Stir fry the hearts for 3-4 mins. Add white wine, cover the pan with a lid and simmer the mixture for about 10 mins.

3. 4-5 mins before the end of cooking time, uncover the pan, add french beans and saute all mixture until the excess liquids have evaporated.

4. At the end, season the dish with freshly chopped mint, stir well and let it wilt slightly (or else the flavour might be a bit too strong).

Serve warm with rice, boiled/mashed potatoes, pasta or greens of your choice.

The flavours of the dish are complementing each other fairly good. Sour juices of a pickle and softness of french beans compensate for a springy texture of the hearts, whereas spices and herbs outbalance the earthy/subtly liver-y core-taste of the dish.

Chapter 3.

This photo I shot on my way back home from work. I like to interpret it as this: an aged lady walking away into the distance is associated in my mind with winter retiring itself to a withdrawal. Spring has come. Officially.

P.S. Dear Winter, please take care and goodbye for now.

A very Good Monday!

This is by no means a complaint, but for accurately the whole last week rain and me are going hand in hand. And - as mysterious as it may seem - apart from sunny and dry weather, my wanderlus also reaches its peak when it’s virtually an 'Unwalkable' weather outdoors. So today is not an exception. I woke up to an unsettling feeling that there is a certain place in Moscow I’m still unaware of and yet it is, unquestionably, the place I need to be in. I had no choice but to grab a map, put on my rain boots and set out for a quest. And my Dear Readers, if I didn’t follow the voice of my inner wisdom (*wink*) I would end up the unluckiest girl ever. Why? Listen...

I didn’t know in which direction I had to go. I simply let my feet carry me there. I got on the metro, closed my eyes and got focused on my intuition. After a few metro stations I still didn’t get any coherent answer to my questions. I tried to ease my budding doubts with a thought that a ‘destinationless’ gentle stroll about moscovian narrow alleys and side-streets – which I adore - would also be spectacular; never mind that i’ll have to negotiate a wall of rain and allow wind to to embrace me tightly in between. And here where my napping inner wisdom kindled at me and said: there is a magazine in your bag, so leaf through it and thee will find thy answer.

And my answer I found. In the Perlov’s Tea House* which is, indubitantly, one of the most outstanding and beautiful places in the central part of Moscow.

At the moment I spotted it, I knew it was my place. In glee and at a heartbreaking speed, I propelled my way through to it and presented myself happily in its frontdoor. This is where I learnt how the heavens smell. Interested? *wink, wink, wink* MY heavens smell of CHOCOLATE, RAW and GROUND COFFEE BEANS, TEA LEAVES and LIQUORS. The view of said goodnesses residing on the shelves gently stroke my eyesight while I was standing in the middle of the venue greedily inhaling the exgilirating aromas and odours. And the house’s interior is all but dull. Initially planned as the merchant’s residential house with a teashop on the first floor in mid-18th century, in a run of following years its owner (merchant Perlov) commissioned contemporate architects to decorate the house in the Chinese style (I take it that the intended purpose was to pay reverance to and thus establish closer connections with his chinese partners at that time – smart, huh? *smiles*). Eventually it appeared to look like a Chinese pagoda. Right in the middle of Moscow. I’m telling you, this is THE perfect place to be in on a Good Monday – no, every single day!

The warm and tender aroma of vanilla; from leathery to smoky to woody to fruity aromas of chocolate; the odour of freshly brewed coffee of all imaginable sorts with a possibility to taste a cup before buying beans of your choice; muted voices of customers (mostly french today); bottles of creamy liquors oozing their seducing flammable fumes, the ancient chinese design with dragons painted on the ceiling and mirrows everywhere – I was soaring high, I was speechless, I was under the magic spell, I was in love.

After a numerous efforts I pulled myself up together and invested my money in chocolate (honestly, I sooo needed to refill my stash of chocolate – probably, this is why I felt unsettled in the morning *smile*) and a thumb-nail bottle of old Riga herbal balsam (for coffee rather than plain consumption, though it feels sooo warm when alone in your belly!) *wink, wink, wink*

I came back home absolutely contented (you would guess so, wouldn’t you? *smiles*)! One mission was accomplished. But there was something else...something unnerving, which I, again, didn’t compute right away. The evident explanation to this unease came to me only when I'd stuck my head into a fridge (ha!) wearing a thoughtful what’s-for-dinner expression. I, somehow, completely forgot that a few days back I’d purchased one (1) kilo (please, don’t ask! *wink*) of fresh spring onion at a local farmer’s. Believe me when I say that 1 kilo of spring onion is fairly much. Too much! The time when my lovely onions would start getting rotten was unmercifully approaching ( I virtually heard its footsteps and could even smell). So, I had to take immediate measures. And I did.

*****Onion burgers*****

Yields about 10

Ingredients:

For burgers
500 g white onion, finely chopped
1 medium carrot, finely chopped
5-6 sprigs spring onion, finely chopped
1 egg
4-5 Tsp plain flour
salt and pepper to taste

vegetable oil for frying

For a sauce
2 Tsp tomato paste
1 tsp harrissa
½ cinnamon stick
2-3 cloves of garlic, crashed (or finely chopped)

1 1/2 cup plain water


Method:

1. In a medium bowl, combine onions (both white and spring) and a carrot.

2. To the mixture, add an egg, seasonings and flour and mix very thoroughly.

3. With a tablespoon, scoop a mixture and form small balls. Flour and flatten them slightly.

4. Preheat a non-stick frying pan, and fry your burgers over a high heat (5 mins on each side).

5. Once done, put the burgers on a kitchen paper towel to move away excess oil.

6. Into the same frying pan but over a low heat now (after you are finished with burgers), pour tomato paste mixed with 1 1/2 cup plain water, add garlic, cinnamon stick and harrissa. Stir well. Simmer the mixture until thickened.

7. Put the burgers in a small saucepan, pour the sauce over them and simmer at a low heat for about 10 mins. This will incorporate all the flavours.

8. Serve with steaming rice, or green salad leave, or as you wish.

If I didn’t know that it was onion burgers, I would think it was a fish dish. Seriously!! I absolutely love it. Fiery harrissa adds spiciness to the dish; plus cinnamon and fried onions is a FANTASTIC combination!!!

Such has been my Good Monday!!


*Perlov’s Tea House
Myasnitskaya str.19
Moscow

'Parisian Pleasures' in Moscow and My First Meme

Part 1. ‘Parisian Pleasures’ in Moscow...

Leave home at abour 16-ish on Saturday. Never mind it’s beastly windy and rainy (in February!!!). Go on the metro, make one switch, walk and hold your umbrella REALLY tight when walking against wind. Finally, reach the Tretyakov Gallery, stand for an HOUR (when it’s so bitterly rainy) in a queu to buy a ticket! SURVIVE this hour! Buy yourself a ticket with trembling from cold hands and enjoy an exhibition ‘Parisian Pleasures’ by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec .

Get inspired by the exhibition, rush back home and get yourself a very seducing treat*.

*****PEARS WITH CHOCOLATE*****
(adapted from ‘French Women for All Seasons’ by M. Guiliano’)

Zest of one orange
2 Conference Pears
150 g cane sugar
60 g dark chocolate, coarsely grated

1. Bring 1 litre water with orange zest and sugar to boil. Peel and core the pears. Keep them whole but cutting the core out from the bottom. Place the pears into a boiling syrup and simmer them over low heat for 20 mins. Place each pear on a dessert dish and let cool a bit.
2. Sprinkle grated chocolate over the pears and season with pepper to taste. Enjoy!! Slowly, sensuously, consciously...

When savouring this dessert the first thing you taste is orange flavours that the pear’s absorbed while simmering. But then slowly with self-dignity the chocolate taste makes its entrance and unites with the fragrant pear the subtle flavour of which is highlighted by a freshly ground pepper. Mmmhhhh…

*Yours truly enjoyed it right away, so I simply didn’t have an opportunity to take a photograph. I knew you wouldn’t forgive this to me *wink, wink, wink, wink*, so on Sunday morning I made it for a second time! And of course I enjoyed it AGAIN! *smiles*

Part 2. My First Meme...

On Friday I was TAGGED with a meme for the first time (UPDATE: As I'm writing this I've been TAGGED for a second time! Astra Libris, you are a star! *smiles*). So I’m thrilled and chuffed to divulge to you now, My Dear Readers, 5 things you did not know about me...yet. *wink, wink, wink*

1. I’ve got a BA in linguistics.

2. I sometimes wake up EARLY on a Saturday morning to spend 30 minutes back and forth on the metro with the only purpose to reach the Indian Shop in Moscow and get CHICKPEAS. *nods and smiles*

3. I may laugh out loud when asleep. Isn’t it a cool alternative to snoring? *a smile from ear to ear*

4. In summer 2007 I ate 10 kilos of sour cherries within 4 days. I thought I’d explode. I didn’t, but learnt that pretty much of a VERY GOOD thing might damage your health. *nodding again*

Picking up cherry berries fresh from a tree

5. When i’m upset I watch animated hand-drawn cartoons. *puppy eyes*

And now it's time to TAG! *a smile from ear to ear* Guys, you are all so talented, smart and fabulous, I wish I could tag more than 5, but so are the rules and I’m just limited in my choices. So for now the Meme goes to...

Cookiemouse of Cookiemouse - Amsterdam, the Netherlands

Marieke of Trifles.nl - Amsterdam, the Netherlands

Astra Libris of

Food for Laughter – The Deep South, USA

Ximena of Lobstersquad – Madrid, Spain

Luise of The Wednesday Chef

– New York, USA


P.S. Thank you, Smart and Gorgeous, for visiting, reading and smiling occasionally (I hope you do! *wink*)!