Younger than he thought

The night falls. With it a softness -- the last indulgent lukewarm air -- permeates what's underneath the skin -- no skin. The light (vintage gold) exhales, makes me want to hold my breath. In darkness the water in canals seems motionless, unfeeling. Unlike the streetlights -- those dance. 

The morning started with a mist, thin, unsure. I woke up first -- it was still dark out. The street glistened, was absolutely silent. A car floated past the strong beam of a streetlight, a science-fiction scene. I closed the balcony door, picked up a DVD from the floor by the TV -- The Sopranos, season 3, disc 4 -- poured water in the kettle, switched it on, click.

I write down a list of groceries -- aubergines, basil, cherry tomatoes, wine -- then mindlessly place a cup of hot coffee on it. Instantaneously 'aubergines' grow fuzzy. I draw an exclamation mark next to 'wine'.

The day was rising, a pale, unhurried dawn, it reveals, catches clouds wandering off at the top of the sky. It should be a glorious day. Leaves are falling, gliding downwards of their own accord, like theater curtains at the end of a brilliant show. Goodbye to all that; encore, encore!

-- Happy birthday! Coffee?

Someone calls. 

-- Much too, much too close to forty. I gotta go pick a fight, Anthony says and laughs.

-- Thirty-six isn't close to forty, I say and extend a cup.

-- I'm thirty-seven -- am I not? 

-- Two thousand fifteen minus nineteen seventy-nine...

-- That's right -- thirty-six.

He goes on to say it's a great gift, to be younger than he thought. A homemade birthday lunch is a bonus.

In darkness the water in canals seems motionless, unfeeling. Like the streetlights, we'll dance too.

Pasta with Roasted Aubergines and Tomatoes
Adapted from Nigel Slater
Serves 2

This is a pasta dish unmasked by any sauce, and is what it is: a sum of its three key ingredients -- aubergine, tomatoes, garlic. The sweet juices from the roasted vegetables and a generous quantity of olive oil will take care that the lips glisten here. Crush the tomatoes with a fork as they roast to syphon their bright juices into the oil. As pasta, I used conchiglie (shells) to catch an odd bite here and there, and to lock in some of that mushroom flavour that appears when roasted aubergine meets caramelized garlic. Originally, it's penne.

1 large aubergine
250 g cherry tomatoes
3 cloves garlic
8 Tbsp olive oil
Salt and pepper
250 g dried conchiglie (shells)
A scarce handful of basil leaves

Set the oven to 200C.

Wipe the aubergine and slice it into thin rounds. Place the slices in a single layer in a large roasting tin. Peel and crush the garlic and scatter over the aubergines. Throw in the tomatoes, whole, and trickle the olive oil. Season well, then bake for 25-30 minutes.

Dump the pasta in a deep pan of salted boiling water. Cook for 9 minutes until al dente. Drain in a colander.

Add the drained pasta to the aubergines and toss gently together. Adjust the seasoning if needed. Tear the basil leaves and add to the lot. 

July

It feels like the air is melting on the skin, soft, sticky, trapped in heat. It's been like this since morning, a little after eight. I set a kettle on the stove. It's perhaps best to stay away from coffee now, but the craving is strong. The ceiling fan is on, the balcony door is open. I turn the kitchen faucet on to wash a bowl of cherries. Summer mornings with nowhere to go require the buzz of a radio set for company. My grandmother used to have an antique one in her dacha. From it I first heard the BBC, the rolling, elegant, distant English sounds. They seemed especially comforting on a choppy day, before a storm, the sky dark, about to deliver, the surface of the river Don like tree bark, the imminent downpour a conversation topic. Vovremya my pomidory podvyazali. Na samom dele! A okna naverkhu zakryty? 

You are listening to the BBC radio services in the background.

The water in the kettle starts to hiss. I quickly measure out coffee beans and pour them in my new hand grinder, Japan Porlex and Co., Osaka. I got it from Anthony for my birthday earlier this month. It was a good day, we went out for dinner. I had a roll of guinea fowl stuffed with truffles and pancetta to start with, and an Anjou pigeon with roast vegetables as a main, and half a bottle of Barbaresco 2006 ($$$),  and from our table watched the windows of Hotel De L'Europe across the road turn vermilion at sunset, but I'll remember the meal most by the pistachio gelato I had for dessert, a clean, unmistakable taste of well toasted pistachio nuts in every bite, cool, silky. I never tasted pistachio ice-cream as good as this before. I'm glad I did on the day I turned thirty.

Crack crack crack, my right arm starts to burn from rotating the grinder's handle. After the dinner we went to a bar, an underground rock/metal club actually; Anthony wanted me to try a vodka-coffee shot the bartender had designed for him before. I took a sip. Heavy metal tearing up the room, I shouted that mine was too strong, needed more coffee liqueur. Anthony downed his, placed the glass back on a Heineken coaster, then reached into his messenger bag. This is for you, and it's the filthiest gift you ever received. The wrapper was deep scarlet, matching roses and horns. It looked like something you'd get from an erotic shop. I tore into it -- and it was the manual coffee grinder I'd been eyeing the day before. You could hear my laughter over the music.

The kettle is about to boil.

In retrospect

Today I’d like to share with you a vanilla and lemon pound cake I made for my birthday that rapidly came and even more rapidly went a little bit over a week ago. To be accurate, I made the cake the day after my birthday, because my birthday was nothing as I’d planned. Now, in retrospect, I see that as a good thing to have had a calm, unfussy, non-obliging twenty-seventh birthday. But on the festive day itself I found it emotionally challenging, somewhat, to go with the flow, especially when the flow meant sprawling on a couch for the most part of the day, and watching the Travel Channel.

In a few brushstrokes: Anthony and I had an idea to start the day with a small picnic in a neighborhood park. Equipped with the two requisite birthday accessories – this cake and a bottle of champagne – we were going to pass early afternoon hours by alternating sweet nibbles with fizzy sips, shooting the breeze, and watching boats and ducks sailing up and down the nearby river. Later into the day the picnic was to be followed, according to the plan, by a celebratory meal in an Indonesian restaurant (well-executed Indonesian fare is presumably the best part of the Dutch cuisine, owing to Indonesia’s once being a colony of the Netherlands). On my birthday eve, I made a reservation, studied thoroughly the restaurant’s menu online conjuring up in my mind’s mouth the exotic tastes and flavors, told Anthony repeatedly how much he’d like the place and the food, and, overall, got hyped up about the day to come. And to be fully prepared, I even laid out all the imperishables for the vanilla and lemon pound cake on the kitchen counter before we’d head out for pre-birthday drinks.

This year my birthday fell on a Saturday, and so it seemed right to start toasting to the good and everything in the preceding Friday’s gloaming, stepping into the wee hours of my new year with a bright cocktail in my hand, you see. We went to our favorite visit-on-a-special-occasion cocktail bar and did a great job acquainting ourselves with a new summer menu – as well as reconnecting with our all-time favorite. I don’t know how to relay this with self-tact and dignity, but I’d had one too many. Was I thinking that the morning after -- the morning of my actual birthday -- my skull and its contents might be hurting so much I couldn’t possibly detach myself from a pillow for fear not to pass my soul from a headache? The cake, the picnic, the Indonesian meal – all thrown to the wind; lying deflated on a couch – what a shame, what a shame!

On the upside, though, I got to have a great pre-birthday that had started with a fresh chocolate pizza as a special sweet from Anthony, continued with long walks around sun-speckled town, and got magnified by some fine drinks. Why would I want to do almost the same the next day, doesn’t make any sense! Why not to make a restorative day in out of my birthday? I was talking myself into a better attitude, don’t you feel. And because actions speak louder than words, as we all know, I got up from the couch, cancelled the dinner reservation, and went online to order an expansive sushi take-out for two.

And the next day there was the cake: this fine vanilla and lemon pound cake. I’ve been wanting to make it since I came across the idea a moon or so ago. And although it’s not a usual birthday cake model – no layers, nor butter cream frosting – the sheer flavors of the concoction made me want to have it for my festive day. Originally the recipe is for either a lemon or an orange pound cake, but Dorie Greenspan, whose recipe this is, relays it’s also meant for “a wonderful vanilla cake”. I couldn’t pass on a chance to enjoy the heady vanilla and the refreshing, enticing lemon in one bite, so I combined the two, tweaked the recipe ever so slightly, and made what I’d planned long ago to be my birthday treat: a rich, incredibly, almost illegally, fragrant cake. Happy belated birthday to me!


Vanilla and Lemon Pound Cake

Adapted from Dorie Greenspan

Yield: serves 12

It is to a great advantage that this cake speaks well with coffee and tea, is extremely confident on its own, is happy to be utilized as a snack, and keeps a while. Just think, vanilla, lemon zest, and, shazam, rum together, seeped into the tightly-woven, moist crumb. You take a bite and it gives under your tongue with no objection. Vanilla, of course, rushes in first, followed by exciting lemon zest that has metamorphosed into some floral sensation, and then rum, which you don’t taste as much but feel. Please don’t disregard rum, nip out for a bottle if you have none! It’s worth it.


250 gr (2 cups) all-purpose flour
¾ tsp baking powder
¼ tsp table salt
300 gr (1 ½ cup) sugar
2 plump vanilla beans, seeds only
2 tsp lemon zest (one medium-large lemon)
5 large eggs, at room temperature
150 gr (2/3 cup) crème-fraiche or heavy cream, at room temperature (I used crème-fraiche)
30 gr (2 Tbsp) dark rum
110 gr (7 ½ Tbsp) unsalted butter, melted and cooled

1. Position a rack in the center of the oven and pre-heat the oven to 180 C (350 F). Butter a 22.5 x 12.5 x 7.5-cm (9 x 5 x 3-inch) loaf pan – I used a 22-cm (8 ½ -inch) springform – and put on a regular baking sheet (seeing that the baking time will be rather long, this is done to prevent the bottom of the cake from browning too soon). Set aside.

2. Sift together the flour and baking powder. Add the salt and mix well.

3. In a separate large bowl, combine the sugar with the vanilla seeds and lemon zest, and rub them together with your fingertips to infuse the sugar with the flavors. Beat in the eggs until the mixture looks pale and foamy. Add the crème fraiche (or heavy cream) and rum; mix well.

4. Using a rubber spatula, fold the flour mixture into the egg mixture in three additions. Pour in the butter, and stir just until incorporated. The batter can be rather runny, but that’s ok.

5. Immediately pour the batter into the prepared baking pan and send the baking sheet into the oven. Dorie Greenspan instructs to bake it for 1 hour and 25 or 30 minutes, but in my oven the cake was done after 1 hour. I’d say start keeping a close eye on it after the 30-minute mark, after which you might want to cover it loosely with a foil tent in case the top is browning too fast. The cake is done when a thin knife inserted in the center comes out clean. Let cool on a cooling rack for 10-15 mins before unmolding.

Not ashamed

Friends, last Thursday, July 2nd, I turned twenty-five (25!). This was my first grand anniversary. The next one, I was told, is usually celebrated at the age of fifty, and then seventy-five. Then, if determined, diligent and persistent enough, one hits the road to centenary. But let’s not go that far. Not yet. As of today, my mileage is only a quarter-century. To praise the occasion, there was lots of chocolate chip gelato in the afternoon; as much wine and pizza shared with my friends Cortney and Martijn, and Katharina at radiant sunset; and giggle after giggle after giggle in between. Besides, as all grand anniversaries go, mine was full of reminiscing of times bygone and tastes forgotten. Then, between hearty laughs and numerous ‘cheers!’, there was sadness. And even tears, the ones that mischievously wet your eyes when your parents call you to congratulate their daughter with her first ‘big’ birthday, and you try to sound frolicking and cheerful telling them about your plans for the evening (like I said, wine and pizza) while the treacherous tears drop-drop-drop along your cheeks as if beads of water dripping from a thawing icicle. And despite the black, ink-ish stains of mascara all over my face (the performance like that I usually reserve for the end of the day, not for the nascent morning), I kind of liked those tears. I welcomed them. In my world, they were the heralds of the end of the cold war I silently announced to myself years ago.

I’ll tell you the fable. In my thirteenth summer, I decided that to be Russian was not actually so nice. There was nothing to be proud of, I’m sure you’d hear me say so at the time. My current understanding is that it had something to do with the dark communist past, the way a newly-born post-soviet Russia was portrayed in the western media as a country where wild, pigeon-footed bears tumbled along city streets, not to mention villages and small towns; where people drank vodka as if it were pure water and even fed it to babies; where mafia governs the authorities; and some such stuff. Nobody in my family, nobody I knew, was anything of those things. Yet it did not prevent me from feeling uber-guilty for crimes others had made (there is always the black sheep in the family, you know). I was a hyper-sensitive adolescent, so no wonder that after hearing such stories from the western travelers I developed a deep national shame soon enough. I made sure everybody in my surroundings knew my then newly-acquired wisdom according to which being Russian equaled being inferior. I informed my school mates, my parents, all my extended family members, even my neighbours about the situation. I was relentless. I can’t stress enough how much I would cringe when asked where I hail from. I can’t be certain, but I sometimes think some mass murderers would not feel as guilty about their bloody misdeeds as I felt about my country of origin. Since I turned twelve, the national blame was gnawing on me for the successive thirteen years.

A slow change was set in motion last fall. I arrived in Amsterdam to do my master studies in English Linguistics. In Amsterdam, I bought a book of short stories by Chekhov, one of the most prominent Russian authors of the 19th century onwards. The book was in English. (Did I tell you that irony and I, we live next-door to each other?) From it, I didn’t find the answers to the questions who’s guilty and what to do. Rather, the beauty and meaningfulness of Chekov’s word and his insights into Russian life, and the fact that Chekhov and I, we both, although centuries apart, were born in Rostov oblast, he in Taganrog, I in Shakhty, got me thinking, ‘Wow, I come from a country of this man… Blimey, I come from Russia.’

And then there is food.

In Russian South, sour cherries, sun-drenched and plump, are in season now. Them I miss painfully, since as I was growing up, I developed a habit of eating the goodness straight from a tree -- my family used to own a small country house with a tiny garden/orchard -- and spitting the cherry pits in air. From summer to summer, the ritual was sacred. In Amsterdam, I can afford these cherries only by the pound, or even less. I buy them now not so much for eating (5 euro per pound is just crazy) as for my yearning to remember the sunny days in the country house on the bank of the river Don, my grandmother’s pleasantly tart turnovers with sour cherries, eaten piping hot, at a wooden table with a plastic poppy-patterned tablecloth on the veranda…Talk about Proustian memory flashbacks.

More than the cherries, I miss my parents. In times long gone, they would bend over my bed early in the morning on my birthday, holding a plateful of dewy straw- and rasp berries, red currants and, you guessed it right, sour cherries, along with a bunch of meadow chamomiles from a market, and congratulate me, still sleepy. I, of course, would at first make a scene, pretending to be angry for being awaken at such an ungodly hour, but then, as soon as I’d recall it was my birthday, I’d show a sunny disposition and accept the birthday gifts. Oh memories!

All this is to say that I finally got it: for me, Russia isn’t anymore a piece of land, or a political regime. It’s solely my memories – of my childhood; of my father and mother, and my extended family; of people whose gardens I polluted with cherry pits…


So today, as somebody – and abroad, there is always such somebody -- addresses to me their dislikes of present Russian politicians or of past communist regime, I say, Sorry, can’t help it. I am not responsible for those. If you want to speak about Chekhov, or about Russian food, or about ordinary Russians, I am at your service. For the rest, direct your quarries elsewhere. Yes, I would say as much. Like I said, I am relentless.

With that, I think I’m going to have a bowl of sour cherries now.


[My Dear Reader, please take my apologies for not offering you any recipe today; I am still recovering after my birthday pizza marathon. Four of us – Cortney, Martijn, Katharina, and I -- we had five pizzas in a space of one sunny evening, on a bench by the best Italian pizzeria in Amsterdam. For those of you who may be interested, the place is called da Portare Via, which is on Leliegracht 34. Before I forget, did I tell you I burnt my tongue when dealing with pizza number five, Quattro Formaggi, the one with four smelly cheeses atop? Cheese, it seems, is going to be the story of my life.]