Settling in.



KLM's little ceramic houses of Amsterdam, filled with genever (gin). 

This won't be the first time I bite my tongue to keep from ranting about the weather, but the inclement, roiling skies made it that much easier to focus on making our apartment a home. 

Being back in the city means a move away from the countrified ways we'd developed (and enjoyed) over the past three years.  Now we're shifting back into a more familiar city mode.  Sometimes this meant unpacking things that had been in storage for too long.

Other times it meant shopping.  I do not like looking for clothes, but browsing my way through home goods is another enchilada entirely.  This elliptical table below is from Ikea.

I love a bit of blending of styles, too.  Here's an inherited Artifort midcentury classic paired with a French antique find.  I found that carpet a few years ago, the colors are luscious and those soft, firm nubs feel heavenly underfoot.

These fish traveled 1300 kilometers in a Mini.  They were no doubt at least as relieved to be out of the car as we were.  They went from our kitchen in the French Cevennes to our kitchen here in Amsterdam.  The chickens weren't allowed to come...

I indulged myself in the kitchen: when we first moved from Amsterdam to France, I schlepped most of my kitchen supplies down there.  This go-round, they've mostly stayed behind in France.  I am loving the lines and heavy-duty bottom of this pot I got at HEMA, the Dutch version of Target.  (Check out this clever page from their online store.  Give it a second to kick in...)

Here is a tall, asymmetrical wooden pepper grinder I got from, you guessed it, Ikea.  Ten euros--and it grinds like a charm! 

My splurge was this spoon rest.  I needed a spoon rest.  I just didn't need an Alessi spoon rest.  But aren't those curves fine on this new Alessi spoon rest?

Essential in Amsterdam: a coatrack.  Faint echoes of the Dutch Piet Mondrian don't hurt.

We have all started to find our bearings.

And we know what to do when the sun finally decides to make one of its brief appearances.

 First we double-check.  (That's my neighbor's terrace, below.  In sun.)

 Then we make a dash for it.

We do crazy, lovely things like taking off our raincoats.  Even better, we have a picnic in the backyard.  My friend Azumi was the hostess this time.

The spread was absolutely Japanese, and absolutely delicious.  She claimed it was really very basic and simple to make.  That was when I asked for the chicken recipe.  Azumi was right.  But so am I:  this version of the Japanese standard will hit the spot, whether for a casual picnic or a satisfying weeknight dinner.   

Azumi's Picnic Chicken Teriyaki

Serves four.

700g chicken thighs, cut into bite-sized pieces

3 tablespoons shoyu (Japanese soy sauce)
3 tablespoons mirin (a sweet Japanese cooking wine)
1 teaspoon extra-virgin olive oil with lemon flavour, or sesame oil
1 shallot, minced

Combine all the ingredients in a sturdy plastic bag, rubbing the marinade thoroughly into the chicken.  Let chicken rest it in the fridge at least an hour.

Heat the pan with a bit of olive oil.  Pour all the ingredients into the pan. Cook the chicken over high heat, until nearly all the liquid has evaporated. Lower the heat and continue to cook until it until the sauced chicken is nicely browned.

In clover. And Jimmy Choos, too.

After the rain, comes the end-of-summer technicolor. Summer crocus, everywhere. Clouds of pink heather, growing right left and center, including straight out of a rock face, though you can't see that in this image.
And then there's my macerating figs. Some of these, drunk on organic sugar and vanilla, were destined to nestle next to the first foie gras we've had at home since, oh, January-ish. I'm not counting that divine foie gras I had in Barcelona this summer...We're in clover these days: the heavy rains have dissipated, the newly discovered hole in the roof is fixed, and the world's gone emerald green, saturated with the scent of huge, giant swathes--larger than most people's gardens--of blossoming oregano. The little oregano flowers are those splodges of white in the background below. If only blogs had a scratch and sniff option; the scent of oregano at the day's end is improbably magnificent. The excuse to eat foie gras is simple: the inkling of autumn, old friends and good stories. The friends in question are from London. Married 38 years, they are a low-key, unfussy, jovial pair, retired, with a permanent case of the travel bug. They each turned 65 this year. He got her...a beautifully wrapped shoe box. Empty, but for a gilded card. The splurge to end all splurges: bespoke shoes from Jimmy Choo. For this, four separate fittings at Mr. Choo's cosy little atelier in the East End. A rainbow of leathers to choose from, a near infinity of styles to consider. Each foot measured separately with extreme precision. This is, after all, the man who shod Princess Diana. And the shoes? Fit like a glove. Like walking on air. How to feel like a princess...
And what did she get him? A fly-fishing trip (using some flies which he tied himself). In Scotland, on a lovely estate. Without her.
And what does one make for Londoners who've been nearly everywhere? I couldn't help myself. I made curry. The nerve I have, knowing full well some of the best curry in the world is found in London. Did I take a photo? Of course not: in full view of the assembled dinner crowd, my chutzpah dimmed. Will you accept a photo (taken by my daughter) of one of the kitchen goldfish instead? I do hope you'll consider trying this easy, incredibly flavorful recipe, only slightly tweaked from the original, which was taken from Aussie Charmaine Solomon's Complete Asian Cookbook. I decided to share it with you when I noticed the size of the second helpings every single person took at my table. Please keep in mind that this is a versatile recipe, but try it like this at least the first time, and remember: the cilantro is a non-negotiable. You won't regret making a special market run just for those sassy green leaves. I know I didn't...

P.S. Another sign fall is on the way? Our English friends played a friendly variation of conkers with the kids.

Curry au poulet et noix de cajou (Chicken Curry with Cashews)

Serves 4 to 6.

1/4 cup butter
2 onions, finely chopped
2 large garlic cloves, finely chopped
2 tablespoons peeled fresh ginger, finely chopped
3 tablespoons curry powder
2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon tex-mex hot chili blend or other spicy blend
6 chicken legs (thigh and drumstick)
1 can diced tomatoes
1/3 cup chopped fresh cilantro
1 cup cashews, roasted or raw
3/4 cup plain yogurt

Brown butter in a large, wide heavy pot (cast iron is great) over medium high heat until foam subsides, which should take about a minute. Add chopped onions, garlic, and ginger, stirring, until softened, or about 5 minutes. Now add the spices: curry powder, salt, cumin, and cayenne. Cook another 2 minutes, stirring all the while. Add chicken and cook, stirring and turning to coat, for some 3 minutes. Lastly, add the chopped cilantro and the entire can of tomatoes, including the juice. Bring to a active simmer, then cover and simmer gently, stirring occasionally, until chicken is cooked through, about 45 minutes to an hour or so. It can continue to simmer at very low heat for longer, the meat will be only the more tender for it. Meanwhile, put cashews in a food processor or electric coffee/spice grinder and process until very fine. Just before you're ready to eat the curry, add the ground cashews and yogurt; simmer gently, uncovered, stirring, until sauce is thickened, about 5 minutes. Serve with basmati or jasmine rice and a sprinkled garnish of freshly chopped cilantro.

Added plus:
This curry, without the yogurt and cashews, can be made up to 5 days ahead. Reheat over low heat, then stir in yogurt and ground cashews. Right now or later, you'll be in clover too.

Keeping it simple à la campagne.

For anyone keeping track, it's summer 2010 and so far we share home and garden with:

- a 35 kg dog (avid hobbyist lizard hunter);

- two rabbits (who don't get along);

- two guinea pigs (who do);

- two kitchen goldfish (blub blub); and

- six horses (our environmentally friendlier, self-propelled mowers, on loan from our neighbor, so technically not ours).

Sound complicated? We may also be acquiring a few sheep, said to be more efficient, all-purpose mowers (I managed to turn down the offer of a pair of donkeys). And then there are the chickens, who are the only ones who actually produce anything beyond, well, manure.
Right now, there are three hens (Domino, Blackie and Fluffy), a rooster (with a name so silly I can't bring myself to type it), and three (yet unnamed) no-longer-chicks. I don't yet know whether they are boys or girls. Girls will be able to stay, boys not so much. No chickens we've named will be going in our pot though; I'm not a farmer--I'm not even a country girl by upbringing (plus I'm not hungry enough). In the meantime, boy, do the girls ever make some fine eggs, with orangish-gold yolks.

Blackie, a Marans chicken, lays torpedo-shaped eggs so narrow that the yolk takes up all the middle space.Fluffy is our absurdly soft, gentle Faverolle, who can be seen stretching her neck for a better view below. There are always shifting politics in the henhouse, and at the bottom of the totem pole, she has taken to laying her eggs in the grass, so egg-gathering has become a proper egg hunt, to the immense satisfaction of the kids. But along with all this convoluted animal busy-ness, I am periodically faced with an overabundance of eggs. (A dire problem, non?) One very simple, very French solution--just right for a warm weather lunch--is salad. I'm not referring to a lavish salade composée covered with toppings in every color of the rainbow, nor do I have the minimalist side salad in mind. I'm talking a robust yet uncomplicated salad liberally scattered with organic lardons (small chunks of bacon), sliced or poached eggs, with a nicely mustardy dressing.

It may seem superfluous to offer directions for something as basic as dressing, but that's just it: everyone should have a from-scratch favorite. The kind of taste-enhancing sauce you can nearly make with your eyes closed. I almost always go by the 3 to 1 oil to acid ratio, and this is my everyday, go-to dressing. You can use my version to refine or develop your own standard version. Let's see, a modest glass of the house white, a baguette and a small cheese plate on stand-by...and mmm, you're in like Flynn.La Sauce Maison (The House Dressing)

Makes more than enough dressing for 4 meal-size salads.

generous pinch of salt
a bit of fresh-ground pepper
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
1 scant teaspoon (liquid) honey
2 tablespoons good balsamic or sherry vinegar, or fresh-squeezed lemon juice
2 tablespoons olive oil, or walnut oil (or--more hedonistic--bacon fat from the just-cooked lardons, but then add a touch more mustard)
4 tablespoons mild vegetable oil

optional:
a squeeze of mayonnaise
a few tablespoons of freshly chopped herbs, such as tarragon and chives/chive blossoms; mint, basil, cilantro....

Stir together the salt, pepper, mustard and honey in a jar (one with a tight-fitting lid). An old jam jar is good. Add the vinegar to the mustard and honey paste, and stir to dissolve the salt (the salt won't dissolve if you add it after the oil--not the end of the world but it does add incrementally to the final effect). Pour in the oils, any fresh chopped herbs, and seal and shake as if your entire well-being depended upon a decent emulsion. Taste and adjust with a bit more mustard and pepper as necessary. Wait until the last possible moment to add the sauce to the lettuce. Do make sure the washed greens are bone-dry before dressing (after the salad spinner, I roll the lettuce up in a clean kitchen towel to absorb the last microdroplets).

Eat your flowers.

If I could, I'd plant en entire mountain full of the kinds of flowers and grasses butterflies love. An entire country. As it is, I have a good number of bushes and flowers they enjoy, and they are drawn to them time and again, first as caterpillars (which is why I leave them and the ladybug larvae patches of stinging nettles, all-they-can-eat dandelions and the like) and finally, starting in this season, as butterflies. Many of the butterflies also greatly covet the cherries, but they leave the irises to me and the bees. As for bees, I hope to collect some honey this year, not from the wild bees, but from a couple of colonies my apiarist neighbor has kindly placed in the orchard and the garden. Signs look promising so far, and at least some of that honey will be derived from these irises, a number of which come from Cayeux.Based in the Loiret, highly reputable Cayeux (the -x is silent) has been in business for four generations--over 100 years. In my garden, their irises--any iris--are extremely easy flowers to grow and ever so generous, requiring only a just-in-time sprinkle of organic (iron-based) anti-slug pellets to keep the strappy leaves from becoming uglified lace.

These flowers make visiting so inviting, how can a pollinator insect possibly resist?They look like Frank Gehry's notion of a faerie dance hall.

Even before they open, there are intimations of something spectacular; the only down side to these flowers is that you can't eat them. You can, however, eat primroses, lavender, red poppies, roses, daylilies, marigold, nasturtium, violets, pansies, lilac, elderflowers, borage, and a whole host of flowers from common herbs, like sage, mint, and perhaps most commonly, chive. Only requirement: ensuring the blossoms you choose haven't been exposed to pesticides or other things you wouldn't want in your body. (The now week-old chicks can confirm the edibility of flowers...)

For roses and other larger flowers, remember to remove the bitter white bit at the base of the petal. Don't expect too much taste from flowers, they're mostly there for color and charm. The herbal flowers usually taste a like more delicate version of the herb's leaves, with the exception of chive flowers, which are so powerful whole that they can taste like a raw onion. I learned this the hard way. Each chive blossom needs to be separated into lots of little flowerlets before being sprinkled into an omelet for delicious effect (none of the chives made it past the winter freeze, so I have no photos to share). I add a sprig of lavender to my lemonade, and it makes its way into a host of desserts, like ice cream. Violets and lilac are lovely atop cakes when sugared (and they keep for a good while, too.) Lilacs are another one of the flowers that does have a lot of flavor.

In the photo above, a salad is simply dressed with balsamic vinegar and olive oil in the bowl given to me by my favorite butcher, a Moroccan, when I left Amsterdam. Scattered across the greens is an overly generous amount of blue borage, pale purple sage, red poppy, one purple sweet pea and a bit of yellow zinnia. I would have added primroses from the field, but it was getting late...and it was time to eat.

Singing in the rain.

My shoulders and pant legs were dark with rain. A rivulet of water ran alongside my nose and puddled in the hollow of my clavicle. We were all soaked, even though we attempted to simultaneously huddle under drippy umbrellas and balance damp sheet music. The pouring rain seemed a small discomfort given what we were gathered to commemorate: the victory of the Allied forces and the capitulation of Nazi Germany on the 8th of May, 1945. The local village choir, made up of some thirty people, including me, takes part every year, singing songs of liberation and remembrance while wreaths are laid by the young at the monument to the war dead. The combatants anciens are present and in full regalia, as are the solemnly speechifying mayor and the smartly dressed members of the local Gendarmerie Nationale (which are roughly speaking a cross between full-time National Guard and military police). They are joined by locals who come to remember relatives lost to the fight and to pay homage to the families of the village who, at significant personal risk, hid Jews from the Germans.

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised by the amount of pain, and sometimes anger, in the music I was singing, but having never experienced war in my own homeland, the strong feelings did unarm me. The steady, bone-chilling rain, the deeply wrinkled and ravined faces of the old fighters, the absolute stillness and attention of the crowd--all made for a somber morning.

This feeling was alleviated by some time spent in the green, green chicken & rabbit run, where I made the discovery of the first chick of spring, a yellow, cheeping puffball tucked under mama's wing (Domino, the proud mother, is in the photo below; baby photos to follow, natch). Two other eggs were cracked, in one you could see the head of the wet chicklet and you could hear cheeping from inside three eggs. In the middle of all the chick excitement, the new boy rabbit bounced around in the high grass determinedly followed by Shadow, the original rabbit, who remains hopeful that the new rabbit is of the female persuasion. Unless Shadow is homosexual...

Ah, me. Life goes on.

First flights.

The robin-egg blue sky reminds me. Late last spring, I found a bird in the courtyard, wobbling and flailing across the stones. Already in the preceding days, I'd found three different baby birds who'd tumbled to their deaths from their nests; at least this one was still alive. (Bird mamas have a tough decision to make: high enough to keep the chicks from the predators--or low enough to avoid fatal crashes. It's fly from the get-go or die.) For some types of birds, there's at least an entertaining practice period, when they spend a few days alternating between unsteady swoops through the courtyard, and resting in a sort of discreet way, behind a flower pot or on a low rafter.

After a breathless call to my friend the local bird expert, I knew to calm this apparently uninjured bird by placing him under an overturned pot for some dark and quiet. After he'd rested, I caught the non-flying fellow. Following my bird-loving friend's succinct advice, I took the birdlet to the terrace, and, heart in mouth, I threw him into the sky. He flew. Every cell in my body was cheering him on, and I squinted after him until he was a speck in the blue, until finally there was nothing but the memory of the scissoring wings in my hands.

This was before I acquired chickens. These days I candle eggs. In the pitch black of night, you take a bright flashlight out to the chicken house, where the broody hen's in a sort of chicken daze, all but cross-eyed with weariness sitting night and day on her eggs because she is absolutely compelled to. You slip an egg out from under her warm breast, you cup your hand around the egg, and you hold it against the light.

Remember the red semi-translucent glow your fingers would make when you held them up in front of a candle or a flashlight? (Was I the only one who tried to see through her fingers?) Candling eggs is like that. All those pin-prick holes in the egg--the ones the chick-to-be uses to breathe--they shine like stars in a pink firmament. You're staring into a glowing universe, condensed to the size of your palm, only you aren't seeking constellations, but rather the faint webwork of blood veins, which confirm that life is under construction, that this particular egg has indeed been fertilized.

Life is busting out all over, beyond the chicken house too. The neighbor's lambs are freshly born and capering, there's a tan calf resting in the clover of a nearby field, the woodpecker must be feeding a family (judging by the all-day percussion), the cuckoo is back and cuckooing, the swallows are chortling, the bumblebees are careening drunkenly from one source of nectar to the next. The frog mating chorus is in full nightly swing, augmented by the periodic sleepy whoot of the owls, while the fuzzy bats (no bigger than a tablespoon each) that live behind my window shutters have forsaken hibernation to resume their circular dining cruises through the deep, cool air.