That moment

Dear Reader, I so hope you had a loving Christmas and a lot of good food to go with it. Did you? I made a ham roast with maple syrup bacon crust, there was a lot of it, and it was nice. I didn't know a girl can eat a multi-pound ham joint practically by herself. Anthony caught a stomach bug and spent Christmas Eve squarely sick, poor thing, so I had to do all the eating. No complaints. But quick, quick, 2012 is nearly out of the door, it goes so fast, I can barely believe it, not enough time for a lengthy talk now, no way, the boom-booms of early fireworks can already be heard all over the city. And what did I do with these twelve short months? Well, yes, I finally went to see my family after a hundred, no, two and a half years of apart-ness; I put strawberries in my spaghetti; I got married. There was a crayon of every color in the box, the darkest one included. But digress shall I now not, need to keep it brief, yes sir.

I was on my bicycle pedaling hurriedly to work the other day -- I think Thursday after Christmas that was -- at an ungodly hour of 6 a.m. I dodged however little traffic there was on the roads at the time, whooshing past red-eyed traffic lights like rules are not for me. Running a light at one intersection, I noticed something that caught me in my tracks. The yellow round face of the moon hung so low it seemed to be resting in the crooked arms of the barren trees. The Rijksmuseum's spikes glistened in the inky sky in the distance, the whole building all of a sudden looking like a castle. The soft, golden lights strewn around a towering pine tree ahead of me swayed gently in the wind. I go the same route almost every day, yet I never saw anything like it before. The darkness, the moon, the lights, the trees, all seemed so out of this world for a second, as if an illustration from a fairy tale book came to life -- or I felt like I was in the book. Every year a child in me expects to see a glimpse of magic at Christmas and New Year's, and that moment, in the middle of a city, was that. It enchanted me. It's been days since then, and I'm still thinking about that view and about that feeling. Where am I driving at? Here: I wish us all for the nascent year a swath of breathtaking moments in life's everyday-ness. That and time and insight to notice them all.

Happy New Year, Dear Reader. Happy 2013.

As for today's recipe, well, it's a soup, but a very good soup, worth to be talked about on New Year's Eve. 

 

Roast Pumpkin Soup with Cinnamon

Adapted from Moro East, by Sam and Sam Clark

Yield: (small) 4 servings

It's a little firework of a soup, in that it's exciting and familiar at the same time. There is pumpkin that you roast first to lay upon it more flavor. Then, there are spices: cinnamon and dried chili. And then, there is a whole lot of fresh cilantro (coriander). In between, there are deeply caramelized onions and a swatch of garlic. The ingredients and flavors are all usual kitchen dwellers, but together and in the form of a soup they speak an exotic dialect.

I use much less cinnamon than prescribed in the original, because, in my humble opinion, you don't need as much as half a teaspoon of cinnamon in your soup.
 

I like it served plain, maybe with a sprinkling of toasted pine nuts and a scattering of more fresh cilantro, but you can up the game and drown a dollop of good-quality Greek yogurt (thinned with a bit of milk) in your bowl. Go ahead, suit yourself.

600 g (1 1/3 pounds) peeled and seeded pumpkin or squash (equivalent to about 1 kg/2 pounds unprepared pumpkin), cut into 3-cm (1-inch) cubes
6 Tbsp olive oil
1 medium onion, halved and thinly sliced
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
1/8 tsp fresh ground cinnamon
a pinch of crushed dried chili
1 medium potato (about 150 g or 1/3 pound), peeled and cut into 2-cm (1-inch) cubes
1 1/4 L (5 cups) vegetable or chicken stock, preferably hot
1 medium bunch (about 30 g/1 ounce) of fresh cilantro, coarsely chopped (stems and all)
Fresh lemon juice, to taste
Salt and pepper, to taste

Warm the oven to 200 C (390 F).

Toss the pumpkin with 2 tablespoons of the olive oil, a healthy pinch of salt and some black pepper, and spread it out in a roasting tin. Roast for about 20-30 minutes, until very soft and starting to color. Remove out of the oven and set aside.

Heat the remaining 4 tablespoons of the olive oil in a large saucepan over medium-low heat. Add the onion and a pinch of salt; cook for about 15 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the onion begins to turn nice and golden. If the onion browns too fast, scale the heat down a notch. Add the garlic, cinnamon and chili, and fry for another minute to release their flavor. Add the roasted pumpkin, the potato and the stock, and bring to a gentle simmer. Cook for about 20 minutes or until the potato is soft. Remove from the heat and throw in the cilantro.

With a handheld mixer or in a food processor, blitz the soup until smooth. Check for seasoning and adjust to taste. You may want to add a tiny spritz of fresh lemon juice to the lot to brighten things up a bit.

Say no more

Dear Reader, I've got a question for you, and although I'm confident I know the answer, I insist on asking anyway: How often do you cook with radishes? Particularly, how often do you cook radishes? And more particularly still, how frequently do your radishes hop in your stockpot ready to be boiled, pureed and turned into a soup?

Before any more word is further spoken, let me just say that regardless of what life experiences you hold I am sure a cooked radish hasn't been one of them (So assumptious of me; what do I know about what life puts you through?). Thus, without any theatrics, allow me to change your life for the better now, or, better yet, to change the way you eat radishes. Please don't get me wrong. I myself used to gulp those juicy crunchies exquisitely in their raw, mere-hours-from-the-soil, if I'm lucky, form until not so long ago. I'd mostly devour them straight from my hand, after a careful dip in salt, but occasionally a few, slivered, would see the surface of my buttered pumpernickel, and every now and then I'd slit some in quarters for a salad. I didn't care for a cooked radish. I was like you. I was ignorant. But I learnt to know better, and I feel compelled to immediately pass that knowledge to you. Stay with me; you ought to listen.

So: radish soup. Reader, excuse me if my demeanor today is too brassy for your taste, but it's really in your best interest now to do as I tell you. Go buy a couple bunches of red radishes, along with a few potatoes and chives. This is all the plunder you need. Boil some vegetable stock in a small soup pot, bubbles perking and pecking, potatoes already submerged. Throw in those darn radishes, and give the heat a quarter of an hour to knock the crunch out of them. As these bulbs cook, their earthy spiciness, wafting above the stove top, might dazzle you with how its damp aroma . I imagine a forest grotto would smell like this, or the Earth. There is something primeval, something mysterious about that smell. When the heat's job is done, blitz that lot smooth, add a squeeze of lime juice for a tint of pink and season to taste. If there is such a thing as radish essence, this soup is that, except that it is no longer too tongue-tickling as the raw radish is. Take a spoonful. Go on. You'll feel this gentle peppery pink radish-ness, made velvety by the pureed spuds, at the forefront of every sip. Oh it's lovely. Oh it is.

Say no more you are falling in love with this soup. I know that already, no words necessary.

Radish Soup
Adapted from Soup, a Way of Life by Barbara Kafka
Yields: 4 servings

Turns out I like this radish soup better when it's silky smooth, so contrary to Kafka's instruction to reserve a few radishes, cut in thin matchsticks, to be added later as the soup cooks, I puree all of the bulbs instead. Also: I slightly scaled down the amount of potatoes used, otherwise this soup ends up being too thick.

The original version of this recipe uses vinegar to treat radishes (acid turns them pronouncedly pink), but I found that vinegar makes the soup quite sour, which I didn't like. I use a bit of lime juice instead. It not only turns radish pink, but also wakens up the whole soup. As does a tiny bit of cayenne, which I also use here.

Scallions (called forth in the original) can take the place of chives, although I prefer the latter. Its mild onion taste doesn't meddle so much with the radish flavor. Scallions or chives, add them just before serving; both get too pungent as they sit in the soup.

This darling soup is equally delicious, I discovered, both hot and cold, simply as it is. For a dramatic effect, add a few tiny drops of lime juice before adding chives/scallions and stir; the bright pink swirls that appear are such lookers.

360 g (3/4 cup) red radishes, trimmed and quartered
250 g (8 ounces) potatoes, peeled and cut into 2.5-cm (1-inch) cubes
625 ml (2 1/2 cups) chicken or vegetable stock, or water
1 tsp lime juice
1/8 tsp cayenne, or to taste
Salt and black pepper, to taste
Chives, for garnish

1. In a medium saucepan, bring the stock and potatoes to a boil Lower the heat and simmer for 3 minutes. Add the radishes, cover and return to a boil. Lower the heat and simmer until the vegetables are tender, about 15 minutes.

2. In a blender, working in batches no more than 500 ml (2 cups), blitz until smooth. Return into the saucepan. Stir in 125 ml (1/2 cup) warm water and the lime juice; add the cayenne. Season with salt and pepper. Before serving, garnish with a sprinkle of finely chopped chives.

On my own time again

  I’m squatting down in front of my oven, watching carrots roasting. They lie there, calmly, the tendrils of bubbling olive oil all around, surrendering to the heat, their orange gradually getting toned, their frame less unyielding. That heady and sweet smell of roasting carrot – a whiff so timid when the vegetable is raw, almost non-existent -- percolates the room, gently wafting through the air, through a haze in my head.
 
Today’s morning was a struggle with my alarm. I’ve never been the one to jump out of bed at the first command of my clock (ungodly hour, be damned!), but this time I felt especially resentful, muting the reminder again and again for almost an hour, denying time the right to rob me off my sleep. Finally I relent. I can’t not to – I’ll be late for work otherwise. I hastily get ready, foregoing breakfast (a crime!). I walk out the doorway, my heels knocking through the gelatinous early morning silence of the hallway, the loudest sound in the building so far. I assess my looks in the elevator mirror; maybe one more spray of perfume and a smear of a lipstick wouldn’t hurt. Angry gusts of wind make me gasp as I step outside; all my vitals cringe at the thought of cycling all the way to work -- twenty five minutes, give or take -- so I hop on my bike and pedal to the nearest tram station instead, the neurotic electric buzz of street lamps having a monopoly in the air at this hour.
 
I start my day at work with a thick, almost syrupy, espresso, a usual ritual. Caffeine reaches my bloodstream a handful of minutes later, and I start feeling a rush, the high from the espresso. The beeping of the ovens and the clanking of the pots and whisks don’t vex me anymore. I’m alert and wakeful, and get on with starting baguette dough, making brownies and fruit pies, first things on my agenda. My back aches, a nerve got pinched in the recesses of my spine during my sleep. I probably should reserve my energy and go about my day at a slower clip, but I must not. Everything has to be done fast; the dough, the butter, the oven, they are intolerant to how one feels. I proceed. I fold butter squares into large yeasty dough pieces to make croissants, four batches in total. By the time I’m done with that it’s nearly mid-morning. My stomach rumbles full on. I’m ravenous, but it’s still a couple hours before a lunch break, the full fifteen minutes carved out for a hurried Serrano ham sandwich. Before that happens, I take another espresso, and another one, in the hope it’ll curb my hunger. And it does just that. But I don’t drink enough water, and soon after light-headedness creeps in. It’s time to do the last roll out of the croissant dough; every piece seems to weigh a ton. When the caffeine grip loosens up, fog sets in my head. It takes more focus to stay focused. I have to measure equal triangles in the dough to be rolled up in croissants, but my hand is rickety, and the triangles come out erratic, one is way too big, another rather small. I keep thinking of what’s for dinner tonight.
 
I restore to my feet from my squatting stance and slice an onion into thin rings. I throw them in with the carrots, rinse red lentils and arrange spices I need – smoked Spanish paprika and cayenne – next to the stove. The aroma of roasting onion gentles me back into comfort. I’m glad to be home, on my own time again. Anthony is napping on the couch; instead of chatting with him I turn to a book, getting pleasantly lost in lyrical words, sentences, in somebody else’s world. A buzzer comes off, the vegetables must be ready. And they are: the carrots have softened, the onion browned.
In under half an hour roasted carrot and red lentil soup will be ready. All I have to do now is to cut the carrots in bite-sized chunks, consign them to a pot, along with the onion rings, a pinch of cayenne and smoked paprika, the lentils and some stock. As the soup softly bubbles away, I turn back to reading, patiently waiting for the heat to transform the lot into a welcoming and delicious – smoky, spicy, nubbly, sweet – mess. 

Roasted Carrot and Red Lentil Soup

Source: The Wednesday Chef

Yield: 4-6 servings, depending how hungry you are
 
3/4 kilo (1 1/2 pounds) carrots, peeled
5 Tbsp olive oil
1 tsp salt
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
1 medium onion, thinly sliced
3/4 tsp Aleppo pepper (I skipped this – had none)
1/4 tsp cayenne pepper, or to taste
1/8 tsp smoked Spanish paprika*
200 g (1 cup) red lentils, picked over and rinsed
1 1/4 L (5 cups) chicken or vegetable stock, or water
Fresh parsley for garnish (optional)

1. Warm up the oven to 200 degrees C (400 degrees F). Put the carrots in a roasting pan or on a baking sheet covered with parchment paper and toss with 3 Tbsp olive oil. Sprinkle over the salt and some freshly ground black pepper; roast for 20 minutes. Turn the carrots (use a pair of kitchen tongs for the task – convenient and not finger-scorching), throw in the onion and roast for another 15 minutes, until the carrots and soft and visibly toned. When carrots are cool enough to handle, cut them in bite-sized chunks, or use a fork or a knife as leverage if you can’t wait.

2. In a medium pot, heat 2 Tbsp olive oil. Add the carrots and the onion, together with the cayenne and paprika (and the Aleppo pepper, if using). Cook, stirring, for 1 minute. Add the lentils, the stock or water, and bring to a simmer. Cover and cook, stirring every now and then to avoid scorching, for about 20-25 minutes, until the lentils are mushy. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Serve hot, garnished with finely chopped fresh parsley (if using).

*In Amsterdam, smoked Spanish paprika is available, for instance, from Hollandaluz, a Spanish delicatessen at Haarlemmerstraat 71.

I behave accordingly

Dear Reader, I have a bit of news to share!

Those of you who’ve been hanging around here for quite a while (oh lovelies!) must know that since last August

I’ve been working at Gebroeders Niemeijer as a dishwasher, assisting occasionally in tasks like the tartlets-forming or the tartlet dough-making.

I don’t think I told you but for the last few months of 2009, I even used to start my working Sundays in the bakery at 6:30 in the morning. I was meant to help a young French baker Arnaud with early-morning routines until the service in the adjacent breakfast/lunch room would start, after which I’d proceed with the dishes until 6 in the evening. It was a magnificent experience to be in the warmth of the bakery under the veil of pre-dawn winter darkness creating something yeasty and buttery while the rest of the world was still sound asleep. It is indeed a fulfilling feeling to see the results of your labour, almost always backbreaking, on people’s plates.

So the news is that since early February I am known not only as a dishwasher who helps the bakers, but also as a baker’s apprentice. Issa, our master baker, is teaching me the art of pastry making.

At this point I’m in the process of mastering crème au citron (lemon curd), among a few other things. In particular, I’m learning the ways how to feverishly whisk it ten minutes straight and NOT to scream from the numb pain in my right arm.

Let me just repeat: I am a baker’s apprentice. Respect.

That said, were I now writing about another dessert, I’m sure you’d consider a smack in my face. Who am I kidding, another story – what, sixth in a row? -- about something sweet and I, too, would happily slap myself. To avoid any self-abuse, I was thus going to tell you about kale gratin today. I thought it would make for a juicy story. Namely, about how an American guy named Anthony (thirty of age) knew zilch about a vegetable called kale until I invited myself to his kitchen the other day bringing along a pound of stemmed and chopped curly kale to make an eponymous gratin dish. Three out of the four eaters at the table loved it, except myself. Which made me infuriated to the eleventh power. To make me like the stuff, the idea emerged to sub kale for spinach and cut down somewhat on cream and butter. Anthony did as he was told, except that he charred the lot. What exited the oven were the kale ashes. And so the story of kale gratin was buried. Aw shucks! My gumption plummeted, I went back home starving.

In my makeshift pantry (originally, a cupboard) that can barely accommodate three cans of Kusmi Tea, two bags of flour, six small glass jars with various grains and a few more other items, there is always a room for a jumbo jar of creamy peanut butter. (Dutch are ardent peanut butter eaters. I joined the ranks.) Starving, I was tempted to have mouthfuls of the stuff for dinner. But I’m almost twenty-six, so I expect from myself to behave accordingly. I chopped up and browned some onions and garlic, along with fresh ginger; added diced carrots and vegetable stock; brought it all to a boil and then simmered all that until the carrots were soft; and finally stirred in some peanut butter before pureeing the pot's contents.

Yes, I made carrot and peanut butter soup.

Did you know how lovable these two are together?? L.O.V.E.A.B.L.E.

Broad shoulders of peanut butter and a wasp-like waistline of carrots…This velvety bright soup has its own yin and yang of flavours – assertive and delicate, savoury and sweet, earthy and warm. It’s soothing. It’s relaxing. It’s a perfect fare to even out, say, sugar level imbalances that might still be ailing you after I so blatantly subjected you to one dessert after another for months in a row. But there is more to come, you know. So never shall it be said I am stuffing you with sweets without offering you something nourishing in between!

Carrot and Peanut Butter Soup
Serves 4

1 Tbsp olive oil
1 medium yellow onion, roughly chopped
1 tsp minced garlic
1 tsp minced ginger
Cayenne pepper
Salt
6 cups vegetable stock or water
4 cups diced carrots
2 laurel leaves
5 sprigs fresh cilantro or flat-leaf parsley (for cooking you will only need finely chopped stems; save the leaves for garnishing)
1/4 cup peanut butter

1. In a large pot, heat 1 Tbsp olive oil over medium fire. Add the onions and cook until browned, about 4 minutes. Add the garlic and ginger. Throw in a pinch of salt and cayenne each. Cook for another minute.

2. Dump in the carrots and pour in the stock or water. Add the laurel leaves and the cilantro stems. Bring to boil. Reduce to simmer and cook until the carrots are soft, about 20 mins. Remove from the heat. Discard the laurel leaves.

3. Stir in the peanut butter. Mix well.

4. Using a blender, puree the soup. Hot liquids expand in volume, so work in batches, 2 or 3 cups at a time. If the soup is too thick, thin it out with more veg stock or water (start with 1/4 cup).

5. Taste and add more cayenne or salt, if needed.

6. Garnish with fresh cilantro or parsley leaves. Serve hot.

Pressured state of mind

Past days saw me under pressure – I was busy orchestrating a Russian-themed dinner for my friends Cortney and Martijn. She is Australian, he is Dutch, together they are a vibrant married couple who love to spend their weekends lazing in hammocks, tossing around a frisbee and blowcarting -- that is, when the local weather is the bee’s knees, which is not a frequent occasion, but anyway…What I was trying to say is that last time as we met, I was asked to give a floor about traditional Russian dishes; the ambiance was fitting and inspiring, what with the silky scoops of chocolate and hazelnut praline gelatos and strong crowblack espressos we were relishing. Did I ever mention that home-made gelato loosens my tongue so I blurt things out without giving them much thought in the first place? Because this is exactly what happened: three bites into the cool goodness, and I was claiming to be capable of making borscht, an Eastern European soup starring beetroots, tomatoes and cabbage as main ingredients. At first sight, you’d say this is no big deal to cook that. But this is only at first sight, Dear Reader. Borscht as an (almost) Russian national dish is so lionized and high-standardized that the likelihood of my cooking it not exactly the right way was monstrously high.

On a historical note: Borscht, to the astonishment of many, is not Russian born-and-bred (is it appropriate to say so about food?); originally it’s Ukrainian, yet somewhere along the line borsht crossed a few borders, took many nationalities and became an iconic dish almost in every Slavic country. So by my borscht I mean a Russian variety which, besides beetroots, cabbage and tomatoes, also includes potatoes. Although I remember I once ate Ukrainian borsht with potatoes in it too, from which we can only deduce things are seriously complicated. Potatoes or no, tomatoes are indispensable here (fresh, canned or as a paste), otherwise you can’t call it borscht, but only a beetroot soup. In addition to all that, I learnt that borsht as a topic for conversation is explosive enough to undermine long-lasting marriages and to cause heated family disputes. When I called my mother to ask for the borscht ABC’s, my father chipped in with a stingy remark:

‘Anya, don’t listen to your mother – she can’t cook it properly’.

‘You are an ungrateful pig’, my mother, a woman of verbal dexterity, fired back.

Did I need to hear that? No.

To revert to the present day, I found myself in a situation that can only be described as tricky. And to be honest, that would be a mild description.

It is not a self-flattering confession, Dear Reader, but I am willing to go that far as to say that when I am expected to deliver something palatable and delicious, I usually fail. Fail hard, miserably and irreversibly, that is. Hence this pressure lately. Luckily for me, not necessarily for them, though, but neither Cortney nor Martijn had tasted any Russian dish before. Although the expectations were high, none of them would know if the final product was bastardized, or botched. I made the call that I would do my skillfullest in the kitchen, and come what may.

I’m not sure if I told you but not always do I show grace under pressure. In other words, I don’t seem focused enough to watch my mouth when my mind is preoccupied with things as important as a list of ingredients for borscht. Take this as an instance: I needed chicken bones to make my own chicken stock for the soup – traditionally it is the beef stock that’s used in this dish, but I am not yet well-versed to scout for a marrow bone in the Dutch butcher’s; they don’t happen to have any when I am there and canned stock as a possible substitution is a slash at tradition -- so I headed off to the meat man and told him I need kitchen bones. The butcher did not seem to get it. I kept expressing my wish for kitchen bones.

At first the elderly man smiled, then his brows furrowed, finally he gave me a startled look, his mouth half-open and eyes wide as saucepans. It took me a while to figure out what caused the man such a stir. I apologized for the slips of my tongue, paraphrased ‘kitchen’ into ‘chicken’, and still did not get any – apparently chicken bones were a rare commodity over the weekend. I gasped with horror and felt my heart was in my mouth. This had to stop – I mean my pressured state of mind. I bought for myself a bottle of red.

Dear Reader, this is stunning how simple things turn out to be after a mere glass of libation. I felt there was nothing I could not do in my kitchenette. Everything seemed to be a breeze, even the fact that I had to sink low as to ask my guests to bring along their plates and cutlery for dinner did not rob me of my dignity. How would you do that without a boozy fillip, I wonder?

Past Monday was the Big Tasting Day. Cortney and Martijn arrived loaded with the requisite tableware, and a few bottles of wine for good measure -- monday nights are meant for tipsy-ness.

But I digress, I digress...

I gently warmed up the borscht, toasted the bread, clinked some more pots and pans in the kitchenette, and finally introduced my guests to the anticipated dish served in mismatched soup bowls.

‘It smells gorgeous’, was the first culinary compliment of the evening.

The borscht was delicious and opulent, a smidge sweet and earthy from the beetroot and somewhat nutty from the relaxed, cooked cabbage; savoury and a touch acidic from the tomato paste and vinegar; fragrant from the spices and herbs; with a zip from the spunky aromatic garlic; packed with potato chunks and cabbage ribbons; rusty red in colour. I feel ashamed to have impugned my own ability to not bastardize it, because I absolutely did not. And this is even after I ended up using vegetable stock as the base for the soup. I can only imagine how unbelievably good it will taste with something reminiscent of meat in it.

That said, I am going to call my parents now to see if things are all right.

Borscht (Russian Cabbage and Beet Soup, one of the many varieties)

Yield: 4-6 servings

Borscht is always better as it sits a while, say overnight, so if you can, make it in advance.
 

1 large beetroot, peeled and coarsely grated
1 medium carrot, peeled and coarsely grated
1 medium yellow onion, roughly chopped
1 Tbsp red wine vinegar
2 Tbsp tomato paste, divided use

4 Tbsp olive oil, divided use

2/4 cups water, divided use

1/2 head small green cabbage, finely shredded
2 large waxy potatoes, peeled and cut into 3-cm (1-inch) cubes
2 L (8 cups) beef (chicken or vegetable) stock
2 medium cloves of garlic, pressed
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

1 cup finely chopped fresh dill (or flat-leaf parsley)

Sour cream, to serve (optional)

The order in which the vegetables parade in a simmering stock is crucial, for each vegetable has their own cooking time. But first, sauté the beetroot – in a large skillet and over medium heat -- in 2 Tbsp olive oil along with the red wine vinegar and 1 Tbsp tomato paste, until soft (3-5 mins). Add ¼ cup water, scale the heat down to medium-low and keep cooking until the water is evaporated, another 3-4 mins. Set aside.

In the same skillet and over medium heat, sweat the onion, carrot and the other tablespoon of the tomato paste in the rest of the olive oil (2 Tbsp). When the vegetables are soft, add another ¼ cup water, lower the heat a little, and, again, cook until the water is evaporated. Set aside.

In a large saucepan, bring the stock to a gentle simmer. Add the bouquet garni (if using), bay leaves and whole onion to invigorate the stock with more aromatics. Fold in the potatoes and cabbage and simmer, covered, for 20-25 mins. Add the beetroot and the carrot mixtures and continue to simmer, also covered, for another 20-25 mins. A few minutes before the end of cooking time, add the garlic. Turn the heat off and throw in the dill. Discard the whole onion, bouquet garni (if using), and bay leaves. Season to taste.

Serve warm with a dollop of sour cream (optional) and more dill for garnish.

Make the best from what you have

Sometimes when I think of my habits I have a gut feeling that a clinician may tell me much what I don’t yet know about myself.

Here is the case: I get a feeling of enormous gratification that borders on a sense of gigantic accomplishment when I finish my food leftovers. Every time I save a wilting, suicidal vegetable, I feel as if I save the planet. It can be former -Soviet neatnik in me, or dormant environmentalist, or just weirdo. I am not entirely sure about the cause, but the effect is strikingly friendly to the environment. In other words, I do not throw away food. And just so you know, the extent of my culinary thriftiness is such that I even eat apples whole, with seeds, core and all (except stem). (A handful years back I read somewhere that apple seeds contain iodine, of which almost everyone has a deficiency, said the source; that’s why my apple craze, perhaps?)

I was brought up with a belief that to throw away food that still can be turned into a delicious meal is, at the very mildest, irresponsible, and at the worst, a sin of sorts (this part seriously scared the bejesus out of me as a child, although it did not stop me from being overly picky at the time).

The source of culinary dogma in question was my maternal grandmother. As a teen, or even earlier, she had tasted the firsthand experience of devastating horrors of Second World War, in Russia and former Soviet republics known as Great Patriotic War (Eastern Front). My grandmother spent her late green years shuttling between train stations. Her task was to swap pieces of family clothes or furniture for a bag of potatoes or beets (bread equated with gold and jewelry), the sustenance for the family of seven for weeks to come.

You-don’t-throw-away-food has been my grandmother’s mantra all her life throughout. Sometimes she reaches the extremes, though, trying to save rancid butter or meat of dubious freshness. Having suffered a few nasty cases of food poisoning under my grandmother's supervision over the years, I decided for myself that I should not throw away food which is still good -- that is, edible. True to my word I have remained.

In other news, they say Depression Cooking is hip nowadays. I asked Luke what he thought about this, and he asked me what Depression Cooking is. I appointed myself to the task of coaching the man briefly.

‘Have a forlorn potato, carrot, celery and leek? Throw them in a pot, not out of the window, and make a soup, for instance,’ I explained.

‘Ah, it’s like lemonade,’ he hypothesized.

Silence.

‘When somebody gives you a lemon, you make lemonade,’ he further detailed.

‘Yeah.’

Still, he insisted that I don’t understand. ‘Depression Cooking is simply making the best from what you have.’

‘Of course.’

Cold Beetroot and Cucumber Soup

This is a great way to put slightly shriveled beets to good use. Apart from that, I love this soup for a number of other reasons. First, it’s very easy to make. Second, there is something inherently right about the flavour combination of beets and garam masala. Then, there is crunch from cucumber and punch from shallot. And finally, all of this is united by the subtle creaminess of yoghurt that makes this soup nutritious as well as fulfilling. And I even don’t mention its eye-catching ruby colour!

Yields: 4 light first-course servings

2 medium beetroots
1/2 English cucumber
1 medium shallot, finely chopped
2 cups (500ml) plain yoghurt (preferably not low-fat)
1/8 tsp garam masala powder
Salt, pepper to taste
1 tsp lemon juice
Flat-leaf parsley (or cilantro) for garnish, finely chopped

1. Wash and half the beets. Put them in a large saucepan and boil till tender, about 1 hour.
2. While beets are cooking, slice the 1/2 cucumber lengthwise in half and sprinkle generously with salt. Set aside. Salt will extract excessive water which will subsequently make the cucumber crunchier.
3. Drain the beets and let cool; they should be tender but not mushy. When the beets are cool enough to handle, peel off their skin and dice.
4. Drain the cucumber halves thoroughly, pat dry with a paper kitchen towel and dice.
5. In a medium bowl, mix the beets with the cucumbers, chopped shallot, yoghurt, garam masala powder and lemon juice. Add salt and freshly ground pepper to taste. Stir well. Check for seasoning and correct if necessary.
6. Refrigerate for at least 2-3 hours before serving. This yoghurt soup keeps well in a fridge for one or even two days.

C'est magnifique!

A gentleman named Luke, thirty-four and a half years old, went to Paris (not for the first time), which is good. What is not good, however, is that he did not say a single word on that score to me. (Not that I would pester him to bring me a box full of macarons from Pierre Herme pastry shop, not at all.) I learnt about this gentleman's trip by chance, through his heinously nonchalant text-message that said, ‘I am in Paris’ (in the context of my question about when I could possibly expect him to sent me a new battery for my -- formerly his -- photo camera).

‘What are you doing there?’ I asked.

‘I am living, Anya. LIVING!’ (Author’s note: obviously, living stands for enjoying myself!)

Suddenly, I was made to think of my own life. One thought led to another and I was nigh on at the edge of self-orchestrated metaphysical crisis: ‘I am not in Paris – does it mean I am not living?’ The thought made me restless, hysterical even. I paced about my room, wringing my hands, giving curtains an occasional poke or straightening cushions on my bed. I thought, thought, and thought. I even lost my appetite for an hour. And this -- this – I could not stand any longer.

After a while I finally recalled that I am in Amsterdam, the city I’ve always loved; the city that made me cry (more on this in my future posts); the city that made my heart race – and still does. With that in mind, I said to myself:

‘Dear Anya, why don’t you spend a whole day in town, eating pastries (macarons and croissants), slurping on coffee and hot chocolate, basking in the sun, and sharing a laugh or two with Ernest Hemingway – your hero! Go have your ‘movable feast’!’

I loved my own idea. So much so that I felt obliged to treat myself to a pain au chocolat from a bakery that is 25 mins’ bike ride from my student apartment. The pain au chocolat looked like bullion of gold dappled with melted chocolate and tasted like a fine pain au chocolat should – magnifique! I could not help but eat two.

For my sweet and literary feast, if you can call it that, I picked up a day of Friday (April 3rd), and did what I did. Read on, My Dear Reader. Read on.

The day dawned limpid and warm. On waking up, I saluted the Sun, excused myself from any guilt, and off I cycled.

For a steaming cup of coffee I chose to go to Lanskroon (a fifity-years old dutch bakery and ice-room run by the Dunkelmans, a family that spins 100-years of baking history). I had my morning treat outside, on a lone one-footed round table whose name was Jack. I am not kidding - the name was neatly engraved on the side of the table. I could not help but ask Claudia (a Lanskroon's owner in the fourth generation) what it meant. Jack, I was told, is one of Lanskroon’s loyal customers which are many, as you might guess. I was tempted to give Claudia my name too but then it occurred to me I had yet to earn my reputation.

So standing and drinking coffee at Jack the table, I also caught up with Elizabeth Bishop. I flipped open a book I had with her poems and imagined her recite to me her Paris, 7a.m. The poem was beautiful; the coffee was ineffably fragrant; a golden, flaky, slightly salty and perfectly buttery croissant warmed up for me without even my request - thee will I remember! For a while, Elizabeth Bishop kept pampering me with her poetry . Now it was her A miracle for breakfast: “We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee.”

I wish I could stay longer but the sun had steadied its wobbly feet on the streets of Amsterdam by then and I wanted to feel a reassuring touch of the sky luminary on my shoulders. So I closed the book, paid (decently) for my coffee and croissant, leaned on Jack the table once again, and set out for a further walk through the canals that seemed to have finally caught the sun on their surface. The city was radiating with glow.

Before I continue I’d love to mention briefly --just in a few brushstrokes, really – that I am a girl of many interests. I’ve brought it up because I fear you may be wondering if I have any other hobbies and interests which are not revolving around food. To this I’ll say I sure do. I love, love books and therefore call myself a ‘bookslut’, pronounced with dignity and affection (‘bookworm’ does not sound sexy, I find); I am endlessly interested in arts too, among much else. (I once spent a whole day in the Van Gogh museum where a guy named Theo told me that I should appreciate Van Gogh’s arts if I spent so much time scrutinizing his - Van Gogh's - works.) But at the end of the day, I unfailingly get hungry – this makes me predictable, I agree; and turn from an arts/books aficionado into a culinary motor mouth. And this you will have noticed.

That said, let’s go on. I did not have any special route in mind, so I picked up from where I stopped (het Spui) and went down along the Singel (one of a many glorious canal). The weather was exceptionally warm – mellowing and confusing. Take clothing, for instance. Some traditionalists such as myself were seen wearing shoes; others – merry girls and very gay boys alike – were sporting summer flip-flops (!). It was toasty, even sticky at times. There was this guy and his chow chow - both felt appropriate to sunbathe on a balcony of their apartment. The guy was writ large topless; the dog did not have such fortune.

I walked and walked. The old, tall, lean Dutch houses looked like Viennese gentry to me. The gables on the houses reminded me of white, curvy toupees, the ones Mozart, I like to imagine, might have worn. The slanted brick houses gallantly bowed in my direction as I walked by. I felt as if I was moving through a shiny ballroom and each of them beseeched my attention, ‘Look at me, dance with me!’ (I did look at them and nearly got kicked off by a cyclist. O Amsterdam, the city of bicycles!).

Amsterdam is of course not Paris. Yet some Amsterdammers know how to do French things (I am talking about food, all right?). In their France-inspired bakery and lunchroom that's on Nieuwendijk 35, the two brothers Niemeijer (Marco is a chef and Issa is a baker) make exceedingly elegant and memorable macarons (mocca, pistachio, lemon, hazelnut, chocolate), croissants and brioches – what fancy you! O the bread they make (baguettes, paves, boules), there are no words enough to praise each!! To fortify myself, I bought un petit brioche, asked to put it in a brown bag and went further. The city waited for me outside.

The air smelled of apricot trees in their nascent blossom, of vanilla that wafted from the street candy-vendors, of oranges, and also of sour food from Indonesian takeaways.

On a cobblestone bridge, a skinny artist hastily tried to catch onto his canvas the moment of spring, along with the street bedlam. He painted a tall church in a distance. A few steps further, there was a bench and on it sat an old man in a broad-brimmed hat and woolen coat (not your ordinary flip-flops!).

Then there was Hemingway. At last I sat down on a nameless wooden bench and read, read, read his Moveable Feast. Also, I nibbled on my buttery brioche whose crumb was soft, its brown cap so delicately crispy (thanks to its glaze). I savoured it in measured bites together with a ripe pear I had in my bag.

After every few chapters, I stopped and made notes in my notebook. Notes about Hemingway and his wit; about Paris and my wishes to visit the city one day (haven’t been there yet – guilty as charged!); about Amsterdam and how happy I am to be living here, however temporary; about the brioche; and what I would love to cook. At the end of the day, as I said, I always get hungry!

***

A year ago yesterday I decided to take my father to the cinema instead of giving him yet another stationary piece as a birthday gift (he is a lawyer, so he has this strange penchant for pens, many pens). So after choosing between a vintage fountain pen and a ticket to a movie theater (the events unfolded in Moscow at the time), I decided on the latter. So to the movie did we – my birthday father and I – go.

The film was called A plate (the reason why I opted for this one in the first place), so I anticipated a food-centered cinematic masterpiece as well as a great time with my dad. It was neither. For one, the movie was entirely in English of which my father does not speak a word. He got grumpy and fidgety. I, steadily getting annoyed, refused to translate a single word (snowball effect, don’t you know). In addition, the movie was about the first Australian satellite (hence the name) or some such thing – no food as you see -- which sent both of us to the verge of grumpiness; and, if put simply, things were downright discouraging.

My father, as I wrote earlier, never openly expressed his love for me. His being shy, insecure, too manly – I don’t know what prevented him from hugging me every now and then.

Now as I reminisce of my father, being thousands of miles away from him, I see one image in particular that stings me just as much as it reassures me. Last August my parents brought me to an airport in Moscow from where I would take a flight not only to another country but also from my family (geographically, that is). It was then when I saw my father cry at the sight of me disappearing behind a customs checkpoint. He stood there, a tall man with his glasses on a tip of his nose, hands on his hips, and cried quietly. It was then when I finally understood what he felt all along, this man of a few sweet words, my dear father.

I read somewhere that ‘the only things in life you regret are the risks you did not take’. So every time now that I speak with my father on the phone I make sure I always tell him what I feel, risking being unheard or too vulnerable. We have much better relationship now, my father and I. We say to each other what we really feel rather than what we think alone. And we feel much. Yes, we feel a great deal.

What’s more, I now share his inexplicable enthusiasm about okroshka, a russian cold soup, the one I formerly despised, loathed and all that, the one that I now can’t get enough of, just like my father. A familly legend has it that in his childhood, my father requested okroshka as a special treat instead of a birthday cake! This is definitely not my style. But anyway…

Okroshka (Russian Cold Soup)

Serves 8 or 4 (The recipe can be used as a starter or as a main course)

This soup, being easy to make, nutritious, so fresh and summery, makes for a capital-P pleaser. Honetly, I am ashamed to admit how much I used to hate it as a child, and if truth be known, well into my early twenties.

Note that a few steps such as cooking and preparing the eggs and potatoes should be done in advance.

As the name in russian suggests, the main cutting technique to be used in this recipe is chopping solid ingredients in small cubes/pieces. The name okroshka stems from a Russian verb ‘kroshit’ which means, as you might guess, to finely chop.

And lastly: as with many traditional dishes, every Russian family, it seems, has their own way to make this soup. Below I suggest the way okroshka is made in my family. With one difference, though: I do not use bread beverage (for the sheer lack of the thing abroad) and substitute it with diluted yogurt.

½ long cucumber, chopped in small cubes (make sure to use cucumber with tight, not wrinkly, skin; also, do not deseed or peel the cucumber – you want crunchiness in the soup)
3 hard-boiled eggs, finely chopped
1 medium-sized sausage (the higher quality, the better), finely chopped
3 medium-sized potatos, peeled, cooked and chopped in small cubes(choose a variety that does not get too starchy and crumbly when cooked)
2 cups plain yogurt
2 ½ water
juice of ½ lemon
½ tsp white wine vinegar
salt and pepper

1/2 - 1 cup fresh herbs for garnish, finely chopped (traditionally, dill, spring onions or flat-leaf parsley are used; I, however, added fresh basil because, for one, this is what I had; plus the freshness of cucumber combines with that of basil are irresistible, to my taste)

strong mustard for garnish (highly recommendable!)

Cook the eggs. Opinions differ between how many minutes exactly you should cook the eggs in order to have them hard-boiled but without causing a grey-ish ring around the yolks and, by extension, a rubbery texture. Some say it’s 9 mins, others maintain it’s 12. I usually go for 10 mins (a compromise of sorts). Bring the eggs to room temperature (this will prevent them from cracking in boiling water), put them in a small saucepan, cover with cold water and bring to a boil. As the water starts to boil, remove the pan from the heat, cover it and let sit for 10 minutes.

Cook the potatoes. Peel and wash them. Put them in a medium saucepan, cover with water and bring to a boil. Cover and cook until the potatoes are done - they should neither be al dente nor mushy! When the potatoes are ready, drain off the water and set them aside to cool completely.

While the eggs and potatoes cook, chop the cucumber and the sausage.

In a large bowl, combine yogurt, water and lemon juice. Add vinegar and a very generous pinch of salt. Mix well, taste and adjust the taste to your preferences: you may want to add more salt or lemon juice/ vinegar. The final taste should be acidic but not sour.

When the eggs are cooked, place them in a bowl of ice-cold water to stop them from further cooking. Once the eggs are cool, crack and peel them. Finely chop them.

When the potatoes are completely cool, finely chop them too.

Put all solid ingredients in a large saucepan (do not mix) and pour over them the yogurt mixture. Stir gently – do not overdo, you want the crunchy texture in the soup. Check for salt, add more if needed. Season with ¼ tsp freshly ground black-pepper.

Lastly, fold in the finely chopped herbs. Stir carefully and refregirate for at least 3-4 hours, preferrably overnight.

Serve chilled with a small dollop of strong mustard!

The soup keeps well for a few days in a fridge. You may want to add fresh herbs, lemon juice, or salt to spike it up a bit if serving on the next day(s).

*Gebr.Niemeijer's bakery and lunchroom

Nieuwendijk 35, Amsterdam

Opening times:

Tuesday to Friday 8:15 - 18:30

Saturday 8:30 - 17:00

Sunday 9:30-17:00

*Lanskroon, dutch bakery, tea- and ice-room

Singel 385 (close to Spui), Amsterdam

Opening times:

Monday to Friday 08.00-17.30

Saturday 09.00-17.30

Sunday 10.00-17.30

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.

REAL Tale from My Kitchen

My life seemed to be all about soups yesterday until the chance took over. Oh well, I’ll better put a particular order in my narration. *smiles*

So, there was a ‘Pumpkin Soup’ in my earphones (shocked? *wink, wink, wink* Why? It’s just a song! *giggles*), two different types of soup (both equally delicious, but upon this later*) simmering on my stovetop (blimey, it’s working all right now), and an ever-expanding girl’s dilemma which soup to choose for my lunch. Oh, it’s such an ordeal to have to be making a choice between things you want both. I guess you might be saying it’s not a big deal to have two soups for lunch (I indeed could turn it into a soup tasting party, couldn’t I *smiles*), but I also had sweet and honest intentions for a desert afterwards. *a glow in my eyes and a very broad smile* You fee where I’m going, don’t you? *wink, wink, wink* Yes, I had to make a decision. And not the easiest one, I would say.

Probably I’d be staying in my kitchen for AGES** psyching myself up to make a judicious choice if I didn’t get injured (!!!) eventually. A can of chickpeas fell off out of a kitchen cupboard right on my feet (I assume I opened that cupboard for some reason, though I don’t seem to remember that namely reason now *a very sheepish expression of my face*). So the can of chickpeas and my aching feet was enough for me to decide on the spot what I was going to cook. Chickpeas with potatoes, I’m proud to say! (I’ve been wondering how I could have passed an exam in logic in my university so successfully. Hm.).

*****Chick Peas and Potatoes Masala*****

Serves 3-4

Ingredients:

2 tsp vegetable oil
½ teaspoon fennel seeds
1 whole glove
2-3 small dried red chillies, crashed
1 small onion, chopped
1 glove garlic, crushed
1 Tsp tamarind paste
400 ml canned tomatoes, trimmed and pureed
1 tsp garam masala
½ tsp each ground cumin and ground coriander
½ tsp each ground cinnamon and ground cloves
2 small potatoes, diced
400 g can chick peas, thoroughly rinsed and drained
½ tsp organic smoke extract
Fresh herbs, to garnish

Method:

1. Heat oil in large non-stick pan. Add fennel seeds, whole clove and dried red chilli and sauté until lightly browned.

2. Add onion and garlic and sauté until softened.

3. Add tamarind paste to pureed tomatoes and stir/mix very well to avoid any lumps of tamarind paste (it dawned upon me to use an egg whisk for this purpose). You should undertake this before starting to cook, for dissolving a tamarind paste is a time-consuming procedure.

4. Add tomatoes with tamarind paste and all ground spices to onion and garlic and cook until oily specks are on the surface of the mixture. At this point add potatoes and chi peas and mix well.

5. Bring to boil, cover with a lid, reduce heat to low and simmer for about 25-35 mins, or until potatoes are cooked and tender (not mushy).

6. Stir in ½ tsp organic smoke extract, chopped parsley/coriander and serve with your favourite bread.

The salt isn’t featured in this dish at all, ‘cause the tamarind paste plays the entire trick of enriching the dish with a sourish/slightly salty taste. All the spices compliment each other so well that tomato base of the dish is given a rich and incredibly flavourful texture. As to the smoke extract it adds up a subtle smoky undertone that by a twist of your imagination brings you to a mysterious Asian land…



In the light of aforementioned circumstances I couldn’t help but maintaining an Asian theme of my Sunday lunch*** and opted for an Indian tomato soup the recipe of which you can find on Nicky's fantastic blog.

Ah, and now I’d like to brag just a little bit, can I? *smiles* I’ve got a new pet and its name is Dark Belgian Chocolate with Cinnamon. HEAVENS! (Tiina, are you reading this? *wink, wink, wink*) So, my desert was as humble as my intentions…A square of the treasure that crowned up my royal feast. Truth be told I even didn’t care I’d got a small mishap in my kitchen earlier. I might as well call it happiness, mightn’t I? *smiles*

*Not to be talking in riddles for now I’ll just mention it’s an Indian- and French-style soups, either of which featuring red lentils. Yum!
** A note: an indecisive girl can easily starve herself to death. Huh.
*** For such an occasion I even dressed up in an Indian style (i believe it was more of if-you-say-A-say-B kind of a thing rather than me getting totally nuts *smiles*). Thank you, L., for giving me that lovely dress I simply adore!