May 26th

A raindrop has appeared on the window. In a brief while it will be replaced, drowned, by the galaxies of others. For the time being it remains motionless and lone. The weather forecast foretells showers with thunderstorms. I should close the windows, a common act. I recall I feared summer thunderstorms (and stray dogs) the most. Were I to find myself home alone when a thunderstorm was looming, I would unplug every electrical device in my parents' apartment: the fridge, washing machine, TV, radio, phone, no exceptions. I would also shut the balcony door and each of the six windows, and then I would check if I'd shut the balcony door and each of the six windows well enough. I had heard horror stories about lightning bolts, and worse, ball lightnings passing through doors and windows, even through closed doors and windows, and so, regardless of the preventive measures taken, each thunderstroke punctured my nerves like a nail punctures a tire. I got hot, too. 

The rain drop inches downward, reluctantly, and then it stops. I hear a plane taking off. I can't see it -- the sky looks spent, seems like somebody has poured over it a massive quantity of bleach and then grey -- but the roaring of the engines is close. Humidity weighs the air down; the clouds are to burst open any time now. I was planning to go and pick elderflowers for the eponymous cordial, but their desired fragrance is in their pollen and rain is going to wash it off. I'll have to wait two or three days, perhaps longer, it needs to be dry out. Good that I have a little bit, a quarter of a bottle, of last summer's batch left.

Wild towering elderberry trees, the fixtures of the northwest, start to bloom around here in the second half of May, and the lacy parasols that are the elderflowers, creamy-white and delicate, are what I'm after again. Right from the tree the elderflowers smell of fresh yeast, tea roses, lemons stripped of their zest, and tomcats, but steeped in lemon juice and syrup, they turn sunny, ethereal. They have become for me, a foreigner, a southerner, the equivalent of the first cherries of the season. The shoes are to get damp from morning dew as I'll tread on the spiky grass towards the elderberry bushes, and perhaps a few stray bugs will, until disclosed, call my jacket home, but I don't mind. That's to me the equivalent of the teeth and clothes streaked maroon by the fruit of the cherry tree. There is a large park close to my home, not even five minutes away by bike. When the rains subside, I'll aim to scout it for fresh elderflowers early on, in solitude, before the first joggers and dog owners are wakeful.

The raindrop is gone. In its place is a curtain of rainwater.

Eldeflower Cordial (Syrup)
Adapted from My Berlin Kitchen, by Luisa Weiss

I'm a big fan of Luisa Weiss's writing and recipes. I started reading her blog, The Wednesday Chef, soon after I got to know what a blog was. Her first book, My Berlin Kitchen, is about Luisa's journey away from and back to Berlin, her hometown, via New York, her other hometown, through heartbreak to bliss and three cultures and cuisines. It came out a few weeks before Anthony and I got married, and I remember thinking of it as a perfect pre-wedding treat. It's truly a beautiful thing, heartfelt and honest. Read it if you haven't yet. And if there is a flowering elderberry bush near you, make this cordial. 

Snip elderflower sprays with care. Do so over a basket or a large plastic bag lined at the bottom with paper towels; you don't want to lose any of that fragrant pollen. Which is why the elderflower sprays should not be washed (or rained upon), and that is why they should be exhaust-free.

Mix with tap or sparkling water (about a tablespoon per glass, or to taste), or with Champagne or Prosecco, what have you. Add a slice of lemon or cucumber, and that's what summer in the northwestern Europe may taste like.

Here in Amsterdam I found citric acid at The Vitamin Store. Labeled as "sour salt" or "lemon salt", it can also be found in Indian grocery stores.

Yield: about two 1-liter bottles

20-25 large elderflower sprays
3 organic lemons, washed and thinly sliced (seeds removed)
3 1/2 Tablespoons citric acid
1.5 kg sugar
1.5 liters of water

Wash and dry a big earthenware crock.

Hold each elderflower spray over the crock, snip the tiny blossoms and let them fall into the crock, making sure not to lose too much of the pale yellow pollen. Shake whatever pollen gathered on the paper towels into the crock as well. Add the sliced lemons to the crock and sprinkle in the citric acid.

Combine the sugar and water in a medium pot. Stir the mixture to dissolve the sugar and bring to a boil. Then remove it from the heat and let cool slightly. 

Carefully pour the hot syrup over the elderflowers and lemons, and mix well. Cover the crock with plastic wrap and let it stand in a cool place of your kitchen for 3 days, stirring it once a day.

On the final day, uncover the crock and pour the liquid through a strainer lined with a double layer of cheese cloth into clean glass bottles. Discard the elderflowers and lemon slices. Store in the fridge or in a cool, dark cellar for up to a year.

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.