So many more

It starts with an unusual sound – I would have easily mistaken it for a candy foil wrapper.

– How strange, Anthony says looking out of the window across the narrow courtyard.

– What's that? 

– I can see the curtains moving about in the apartment across, and last night I saw the shadows and heard the clanking of the cutlery, but I can't see who lives there, the actual figures, not the outlines, you know. Such a difference from Amsterdam.

– It's an Eastern European thing, I contemplate from the kitchen table where I laid out a couple postcards we picked up at a souvenir shop in the old town last night. Your coffee is getting cold, I say then pour fresh boiling water into another cup and drown in it two full teaspoons of instant coffee for myself. The taste isn't that great but it does the job, hurries up the brain alright. I take a sip and think of what to write on the postcard we are going to post to ourselves.

Next to my coffee I have fresh prune plums, we bought a kilo at the market nearby yesterday. I pick one from a bowl on the kitchen counter, it's small and roughly oval, I look at it before biting into. I expect its thin purple skin to snap under my teeth which will then go on to sink into the juicy glass-green flesh. I'm right about that. I take another, this one looks like a misshapen rain drop. I'll probably end up eating at least a dozen now.

Every fruit street vendor in this beautiful city sells fresh Italian prune plums this time of year, I write down on the back of the postcard. On the front there are three connected images of winding cobbled alleys of the Old Town, and București below them. 

– How is it looking with the rain? Still sounds like a foil candy wrapper? I ask. The phone says it's thunderstorms and showers for the next hour or so, and that the temperatures are going to drop. Maybe we should get a cheap umbrella, and a pair of sweaters, one for each?

I push the chair back, stand up and move towards the window to bring Anthony his coffee. Sugar? He nods towards the cup. Affirmative, I say leaning over the window sill. A mix between a rustle and a swish, the rain drops remain soft and rare. Maybe the forecast is wrong, I suggest. I take a deep breath and notice how the air in the courtyard simultaneously smells of laundry detergent and wallpaper paste, or maybe that's nail polish remover. 

– How is the postcard coming along? Anthony asks between his coffee sips. I congratulated Bucharest with its abundant offerings of purple Italian plums, I say and we both chuckle. And in the next sentence, I'm thinking, we could congratulate ourselves with our wedding anniversary today.

Four years down already? We wish you so many more! With love from Bucharest --

Purple Plum Torte
Adapted from The New York Times
Yield: 8 servings

I'm happy to report that I did track down Italian prune plums back in Amsterdam (last weekend at the farmers' market at Noordermarkt, to be helpful). In Dutch they are known as kwetsen, and it's their season now, and this is the cake for them (and for you if you love plums). I must say the recipe looks too simple to believe it's special. But it is! It's about the plums, only them, how jammy and pleasantly sharp they get after they bake and how it's such a nice contrast to the sweeter crumb, and how, sitting atop the said nutty whole wheat crumb, they gather under themselves pools of their own bright juices to slowly release them the next day down the aforementioned buttery crumb. Purple Italian prune plums (they are sweet and tart at once) are meant for this torte, but if none are around, other purple plums will do too.

Anthony says this torte is "10 out of 10". Sweet but not too much, a little sour (because of the plums), nutty (because of the whole wheat flour), and light so you keep wanting to eat it – “it's got it all figured out”.

120 g cane sugar
115 g unsalted butter, softened
130 g whole wheat flour
1 teaspoon baking powder (4 g) baking powder
¼ teaspoon table salt
2 large eggs
15-20 Italian prune plums, pitted and halved
½-1 teaspoon ground cinnamon (depends on how much you like cinnamon)
1-2 teaspoons freshly squeezed lemon juice

Heat the oven to 175 C (350 F). Line the bottom of a 22-cm (9-inch) or 24-cm (10-inch) springform pan with parchment paper and lightly grease the sides.

Combine the prune halves with the cinnamon in a bowl and set aside. To cut down on washing up, you  perhaps may want to sprinkle the cardamom over the fruit at a later stage in the process once the plum halves are arranged over the batter, but tossing the fruit in spice first allows for a nice and even coating.

In another bowl cream the sugar and butter with an electric mixer until fluffy and cappuccino in color. Add the eggs, one at a time, then the flour, baking powder and salt, and beat well. Scrape down the sides of the bowl; the batter will be rather thick.

Spoon the batter into the prepared baking form and smooth the top. Place the plum halves skin side up all over the batter, it should be all covered. Sprinkle with the lemon juice and a tablespoon or two more of cane sugar, depending on the sweetness of the fruit.

Bake until the top is golden and a toothpick inserted into the a centre part of the torte comes out clean of batter, about 45-50 minutes. Let it sit for ten minutes then remove from the pan. Cool on a rack and keep covered in clingfilm. It get even better on the next day after the plum juices has further permeated into the crumb. Keeps well for up to three days.

That is a must

“Wait, wait, I still can't believe it – and the phone hasn't rung before that in years?” I shout, incredulous, over the jet engines, stressing and drawing out 'e' in 'years'.

We are close to a runway, planes are taking off. I squint then raise my eyebrows and repeat what I just said, but my pitch is no rival to the taxying jumbo jet, so I wait before Anthony can hear me again. On the far side of the runway a plane lifts itself off ground, the jumbo jet is next.

“My father said it hasn't, no. Not a single phone call, not a single text message for the last eight years, since his retirement from the police force in fact – it used to be his work phone.” We are cycling side by side, towards a course of tall trees down the narrow road. The plan is to drop the bikes somewhere there, Anthony stretches out his arm to point, and watch the planes sprawled out on the grass in the cooling shadow. In the event of peckish-ness we've got a bag each of tortilla and ridged potato chips.

We had lunch at home before the ride: thick unapologetic sourdough toasts with bean confit, impossibly good and addictive. I placed the beans on top of the toast and smashed them gently with a fork. The best part is never the soft plump fragrant beans but the richly flavoured (garlic and herbs) olive oil that has to be mopped up off the plate, and then from the bottom of the pot, that is a must, it's non-negotiable. When we reach for the pot with the remaining beans, more bread is required, more hunks of moist and yielding sourdough crumb. We killed that sourdough loaf (a boule), the kitchen table surface is covered with the oily fingerprints and the floor with the crust shards, these prick the skin under my feet as I walk towards the sink to wash my hands and mouth.

There is a cold six-pack of Heineken with us in the rucksack, in the event of thirst.

I press my hands to my ears and the jumbo jet's roaring softens and sounds like seashells. A magic trick – physics. Airborne, it starts to look like a white ink dot.

“But when did you hear about this?”

A tractor chugs by, turns down a farmer's field across the road.

“We talked last night when you were asleep.”

We have recently gotten back from a two-week trip to Southern Russia. Where my mother filled our plates with the tenderest of cutlets and the tastiest of stuffed bell peppers, my father poured us birch sap vodka, my uncle took us well past midnight to a roadside cafe where they caught and grilled for us a whole carp, my grandmother made for us her signature Don Cossacks fish stew and fluffiest piroshki with stewed cabbage or chicken mince. There, from my old room, Anthony skyped with his parents in the States. And then his father's unused phone rang.

“He couldn't tell if the woman on the phone was Russian, but she did sound Eastern European, he said.”

“And what did she say?” I ask and follow the jumbo jet with my right eye, then with the left.

“She wanted to know if he worked for an American company or the government. Hu aar u, she said. I'm Ron, said my dad.”

Bean Confit

Source: “The Temporary Vegetarian” series, from The New York Times

Yield: 2–4 servings

As far as which fresh herbs to use, it's completely to taste and adaptable. Originally, these are rosemary and oregano, but I like to sub rosemary for thyme, for instance, and when I had neither thyme nor oregano but only basil in my fridge, I used basil then and it was great.

But what beans to use, it's strict. Not as in what sort of white bean matters (that's also adaptable and a subject of taste), but how old they are. Old dried beans will take forever to cook, salt or no salt. If possible, use Rancho Gordo dried beans, those are the best (but sadly, not available in Europe, which is why I sometimes ask Ron for a shipment.)

100 g (½ cup) dried cranberry beans, Italian white beans, or other white beans

1 sprig thyme

1 sprig oregano

2 cloves garlic

375 ml (1 ½ cups) extra virgin olive oil

Soak the beans overnight in plenty of cold water.

In a heavy ovenproof pot, combine the beans and 1 liter (4 cups) fresh cold water. Put over high heat and bring to a boil, then scale the heat down to low. Simmer gently, uncovered, until moderately tender, 30-45 minutes, or longer if needed (beans can take from one to three hours to cook). Do not boil or stir to prevent the beans from breaking into pieces or the bean skins to separate from the beans. As the beans cook, check periodically for water, adding hot water as necessary to keep the beans covered with liquid by at least a fingertip.

Preheat the oven to 150 degrees Celsius (300 degrees Fahrenheit). Drain the beans, then return them to the pot and add the fresh herbs and garlic. Cover with the oil. Place in the oven, and cook uncovered until the beans are completely tender, 30 to 45 minutes. Remove from the oven, let cool and season to taste with salt. For best flavour, allow to cool to room temperature, then cover and refrigerate overnight or up to seven days.

To serve, gently reheat the beans and serve with a slotted spoon, leaving the oil in the pot (reuse the flavoured oil for various dressings or a vinaigrette, OR mop it up with good bread!). Serve warm, and crushed, on top of toast, or mixed in with rice or farro.

I look away

"I'm sitting down to write. I'll call you back later, I don't exist for now, only in my head." 

The bedroom window is chilled, a thin line between the post-sleep warmth and a day as grey as smoke. I've been at my desk since morning, in front of the blank page. Sentences circle in front of my mind's eye, but they are like an empty baggage belt. I'm thinking back to my trip to Russia in October. It was 4 a.m. when I landed, one of the few flights to touch down at such hour. I flew through Istanbul, it was a soft day, sunny. No one aboard expected to step into the rain. I found myself wondering if coming down from a high feels like this, dark and cutting. Someone joked it was for us to get a cold faster.

A man in front of me in line to passport control sneezes, then coughs -- I roll my coat collar up, as if this would protect me. Somebody hasn't filled out the migration form correctly, the line stops moving. I pull a pack of mints out from my pocket. The cool on my tongue distracts me from joining in the angry groans and hissing whispers. I'd been up for twenty hours, my stomach growls. Except for the two in-flight meals, I didn't eat much that day. I take another mint, and one more. I look forward to my grandmother's crepes, thin and delicate, as if made of lace. 

Another hold-up, now with the luggage. The waiting's turned my thoughts inconsequential. I'm thinking about why I often now prefer a splash of bourbon or gin to a glass of wine. Maybe because I'm getting older. The gin they offered on the flight tasted of ethanol and burnt my tongue, I couldn't finish it. It must have been over half an hour, but the baggage carousel still moves around unladen. 

I look away from my computer screen to find the daylight darker. My stomach growls again.  I go and toast a slice of sourdough bread. The warm crust, crisp and yielding, a layer of almond butter and honey on top, a winter mouthfeel. I toast a second slice. South Park is on TV. I end up watching a few episodes. "I'm cereal, I'm super duper cereal!"

It wasn't a long trip, only a week and a half, but a third day into my stay I was habitually counting down the time until my flight back. It's a terrible thing, it once more felt like a betrayal. 

The daylight's gone, the windows face the night again. A distant row of road lights line the horizon. I pick up the phone to call my parents.

"How have you been? Kak u vas dela? Skuchayu."