My shot at Bella Vita

Dear Reader, I feel awkward to say this but my cheese craze continues. In fact, it’s speeding up exponentially, just like a breaks-broken car racing down the hill. If you read my post about my inclination to compare highly aromatic cheeses to different parts of human flesh – and praise both, if at that – you should then know this: I now eat cheese with flowers.

Last Saturday, I brought home a small bunch of mismatched garden roses – a mix of pale pinks and deep-velvety reds -- from the herb man in the green market, put the flowers in a former soup jar (my way of recycling!), positioned this creative installation on my hay-coloured desk and spent the first four days after the purchase looking at the roses fondly, taking an occasional sniff, poking them regularly and, generally, admiring them. But then, by the end of a particularly unproductive day, when all I did was sit at the desk, studying the walls and a number of solid Ikea objects that my room is meticulously furnished with, I found myself staring at the flowers with the eyes of an affectionate omnivore rather than a dreamy admirer. It was about dinnertime, so the idea of incorporating rose petals in a restorative meal slammed my mind awake all right.

An army of Russian grandmothers make jam from rose petals; rose is essential to Moroccan cuisine; all of which is to say that decidedly nothing was wrong about my wish to nibble on the morsels, as I thought. What I did not expect to be doing was relish the fragrant petals with odorous…Gorgonzola Dolce (a younger version of otherwise sharp and assertive Gorgonzola). To the viewer in me, the cheese offered a humble spectacle of sight: ivory colour with pale, almost diaphanous blue veins. It breathed with creaminess and smelt mildly of the moisture of a grotto. Subtly sweet, faintly pink, delicately perfumed rose petals were only too natural for the Gorgonzola Dolce, I told myself. I was right.

The moments when I forget to breathe are rare, and it was one such time. The sensation was simultaneously tongue-tickling and soothing. The alien to each other tastes and fragrances – the one from gentle and perfumed rose, the other from aromatic Gorgonzola Dolce – befriended one another on a piece of baguette with ilusive notes of vanilla and mingled seamlessly to create the flavor so ambrosial that my head started to spin.

The sun was sliding towards the horizon throwing a gauzy veil of golden light over Amsterdam. No longer was the day unproductive. Instead, it became the day of rose petals and Gorgonzola Dolce. It was my shot at bella vita.

My Dear Reader, what follows is not a recipe but only a few insistent suggestions. There won’t be better time for giving in to the floral bonanza like now when the (wild) pesticide-free roses are in abundance in the farmer’s markets, or maybe even in your own garden. I’d recommend roses of light colours -- they are sweeter and more subtle in flavor. As to the cheese, any creamy, soft-ripened variety such as Brie, Camembert, Gorgonzola Dolce (see above), and even young goat cheese will taste sublime in this pairing. And lastly, although it is tempting to toast baguette, cut in thin rounds, before spreading it with the cheese, it is better to restrain doing so, because when toasted, the flavor of the bread’s crust will be too intense to let you appreciate the etherial flavours of the cheese and rose petals together. Anyway, you just try. You should.

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, 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 were bastardized. 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 (one of the many varieties)
1.5 L beef stock (you can substitute it for chicken or vegetable stock)
1 large beetroot, peeled and grated
1 medium carrot, peeled and grated
1 medium yellow onion, roughly chopped
2-3 cloves garlic, pressed
2 medium potatoes, cubed
¼ green cabbage, finely shredded
1 bouquet garni
2 bay leaves
1 whole onion, studded with 2 cloves
Olive oil for cooking
1 Tbsp red wine vinegar
2 tsp sugar
2 Tbsp tomato paste
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
Water for cooking

1 cup finely chopped fresh dill and flat-leaf parsley (you may also use chives or green parts of spring onions)

The order in which the vegetables parade in a simmering stock is crucial, for each vegetable has their own cooking time.

What you do first is sauté – use a large skillet -- the beetroot in 1 Tbsp olive oil along with the red wine vinegar, sugar and tomato paste (1 Tbsp), until soft (3-5 mins). Add ¼ cup water and keep cooking until all water is evaporated, another 3-4 mins. Set aside.

In the same skillet, sweat the onion, carrot and tomato (1 Tbsp) in another 1 Tsp olive oil. When the vegetables are soft, add ¼ cup water and like with the beetroot cook until the water is evaporated. Set aside.

In a large saucepan, bring the stock to a gentle simmer. Add the bouquet garni, bay leaves and whole onion to invigorate the stock with more aromatics. Fold in potatoes and cabbage, cook for 15 mins, or until soft, but not mushy. Add the beetroot and the carrot mixture and simmer for another 10 mins. Discard the whole onion, bouquet garni and bay leaves. Salt and pepper to taste.

2 minutes before the end of cooking time, add the garlic. The chopped herbs go in at the last minute.

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

Borscht is always richer in taste the next day, so you may want to cook it in advance to enjoy the medley of textures and aromas.

I don't have a problem

Dear Reader, before we go any further -- so far, in fact, that you may be tempted to advise I consult a psychiatrist -- let me just say that what follows is not an indication of any sort of mental disorder on my part. What you’ll be reading about in a moment is simply a small collection of my food-related life observations that were hoarded by my stealthy mind at one time or another. It has come time I thread those with words and make them readable. Somewhat.

Besides, blowing a raspberry at the author is prohibited.

Now, down to business.

Many years ago I had a small talk which, were I more angelic, I would forget. (But that did not happen, as you may guess.) I was twenty at the time, doing a BA in linguistics in my hometown university in Russia. The summer exams were dealt with, so I spent lots of time listening to my female friends’ love stories and, if asked, dispensing free and objective love advice (I myself did not have much experience in the field, but that did not hinder my enthusiasm to consult on the matter). One sweltering mid-June afternoon found me slurpily consuming a waffle scone of melting chocolate ice-cream on a long walk with one of my then classmates, a girl of my age but of a much greater love-life experience. It may have been the heat that addled her sense of self-censorship, I can’t say now, but, as we strolled along a narrow, curvy street fringed with chestnut trees on either side, the sun shining through their leaves relentlessly, she thoroughly showered me with the nuances of her eventful sexual life. I’ll tell you what, she did not spare me the gory details.

‘He [the girl’s then boyfriend] told me dreamily that my navel smells like cheese’, she revealed one such snippet. A minute ago a thought of licking my ice-cream bode well but now I could not even think of finishing my treat, dammit.

I opined that such comparison insulted my love for cheese at the time. I recall I even threw in the words like ‘humankind’, ‘humanity’, ‘dignity’, ‘restrain’ and ‘freedom from imposition’, and seasoned our conversation with a slew of exclamatory I-beg-your-pardon’s. I sounded thunderously impressive.
If I say I was going to banish the memory of the occasion from my mind, it would be an inexcusable, consummate lie. Better if I’ll tell you the truth: the memory of it became engravable.

Years passed. With them passed away my pretence of being puritanical. When, the other day, I flipped open my notebook where I document my cheese-tasting (among other foods, of course) experiences and impressions, I noticed with a start that almost every aromatic cheese I described featured ‘smells of the aroused human flesh’ characteristic, along with conventional ‘pungent’, ‘nutty’, ‘creamy’ and the like. Err.

I thought I had a problem, the evidence for which was well-documented and thus irrefutable. I shared my concerns with friends; they thought me fun. Then, I resolved to books, to one book by Isabel Allende, in particular. Aphrodite. In it, the author reflects on her fifty-years’ worth of relationship with food and eroticism (would you listen if I, the girl of a crazed mind, say I whole-heartedly recommend it?). But apart from the hilariously informative and instructive (there are recipes in the book) contents, it was the fore-word that set my mind at peace:

"Her breath is like honey spiced with cloves,

Her mouth delicious as a ripened mango.

To press kisses on her skin is to taste the lotus,

The deep cave of her navel hides a store of spices.

What pleasure lies beyond, the tongue knows,

But cannot speak of it."
(Srngarakarika Kumaradadatta, twelfth century)

See that bit about the navel? Almost like the infamous ‘your navel smells like cheese’, no? Anyway, I reasoned out that if one Srngarakarika Kumaradadatta likened bodily smells to food items as early as in the twelfth century, I, with my cheese-notes, should feel at ease, especially since it is the year 2009 outside. In other words, I concluded I don’t have any problem. And I am inclined to keep thinking so, regardless of the fact that there are three types of cheese -- I’m not giving away the names; don’t want to make you rebel against them -- resting on my desk and oozing their aromas of ‘ the aroused human flesh’. One smells of sweaty arm pits (Dear Reader, please don’t wince, I am talking about sweaty that borders on sweet and grassy, nothing repulsive, really), another of navel, the third of thighs.

Here is something else I wish to relay. Through my own experience I learnt that smelly cheese is a perfect attitude-tester. I observed that a relationship is doomed if, among other things, I avoid the pleasure of eating aromatic aged diary when on a romantic date. Needless to say, things may look promising, I find, when a pungent cheese-crackly bread-wine trio is the first thing I wish when asked out for dinner.

It feels better now to have revealed the truth that impregnated me for months. Nay, for years.

P.S. In case you're wondering, the photo above is supposed to attend to my passionate discussion of cheese today, in the gloaming of now-rainy, now-foggy June 7th of 2009, in Amsterdam.

No excuses for bliss

Today is my mother’s birthday, so I figured I would make chocolate truffles for her. Sadly, she will not actually have them, me with my sweet truffles being in Amsterdam, she in Russia. That means that I will be eating the truffles -- all fifty three of them; so many the recipe yielded -- by myself (God help me!), with the help of a few contributors, perhaps. But treat my mother I did anyway. I put the truffles in a bowl, photographed them, then wired the pictures to my dear mama over the internet, and followed-up with a congratulatory phone call, all twenty minutes of which I spent describing in a miniscule detail how the truffles tasted and what I did to make them. My mother said she appreciated the gesture. She is so gracious.

Why chocolate truffles, you may think. Well, why not? The kitchenette in my shared apartment is so ideally imperfect for any confectionary making that an attempt to be coaxing chocolate truffles out from it sounded like an excellent idea to me. I like challenges, along with a view of sinkful of bowls and other kitchen utensils sinfully, shamelessly covered with, dark, silky, melted chocolate. (As the added bonus, I also learnt that to leave greasy from butter finger prints on metallic surfaces such as a fridge door is fun and therapeutic.) Plus, it is my mother’s birthday, you understand. And while at it, I am a big pro in using other people’s birthdays for the sake of culinary, or more appropriate, eating experiences.

For instance, last year today, I marched my birthday mother, my father and my uncle with his wife into the finest bakery in Moscow Volkonsky (co-owned by Erik Kaiser, one of a few best bread makers in the world based in Paris) to have a festive dinner of pastries alone. As you can imagine, I had to speak harsh to each participant of the event to persuade them to not even think of ruining my plans, according to which everybody would have golden croissants, buttery sables, and delicate meringues for dinner that night. Eventually, my mother even forgot for a while how old she became at the time; sweets are better than diamonds in alleviating women’s troubles. She wound up feeling absolutely exhilarated, what with her successive orders of sleek coffee éclairs and more fluffy vanilla meringues; the latter I accidentally ruined with my elbows when frantically making pictures of decorative Provencal tableware that rested on the wooden shelves next to our table.

We had to order more meringues. It felt like falling down a rabbit-hole into a dream world, the one where deserts are served for each course of the meal. Actually, right at this very minute I am on my way to my new dream world, the realm of fifty-three chocolate truffles I feel honoured to eat for my mother. She said she fully supports me in my journey. That's all I needed to hear.

The first impression my mind unleashed after tasting the confection was this: COOL CHOCOLATE BREEZE. (I told my mother that too). It may not be the best chocolate truffle to make a worldly appearance, I know, given that mine were made by a dilettante (me) to a traditional, old-school recipe that has you use only dark chocolate, cream and butter (on which I went a bit too heavy -- lack of kitchen-scales over here), and cocoa powder for coating. But a pure love they are nonetheless. Love that mantles your every taste bud with cool, silky wave of the pleasantly bitter dark chocolate soothed by the grassy, meadow-y butter and thick cream; love that makes you numb and utterly anti-social – to savour the lingering, slightly acid aftertaste of the chocolate truffle is more important, I find, than to deliver mumbling utterances in between the bites. And the way the cocoa powder mischievously dusts your lips so you are forced to lick it off with the tip of your tongue, smacking your lips with gratitude and appreciation as you go -- isn’t it fun? Finally, even one whiff of this pure chocolate decadence is worth your every bead of sweat over melting, whisking, and rolling. In fact, this is all to say, Dear Reader, that you have absolutely no excuses to not make these chocolate truffles, unless you’ve already got a batch or two!! If not, I beseech you do.

French-style chocolate truffles

Adapted from videojug.com

Frankly, the idea to make these did not manifest itself out of the blue, nor did I dream it up (unlike this dish, for instance). I first had to introduce myself to a few dozens of various chocolate truffles, the ones resident in the local pastry shops, before I, irrespective of my own will, gingerly dared to consult Google on how to make chocolate truffles. What I found, or rather, what I was passed down was this video clip at videojug.com, which I estimated as a rather straightforward presentation for emerging chocolate truffle makers such as myself. So the recipe that follows is basically a transcribed version of the filmed performance, although I altered it as I saw fit. One such example, I did not add water to the chocolate (I don’t understand why they would) when melting it; I folded the butter soon after I did the cream, as opposed to the original recipe that instructs you first let the ganache cool and only then incorporate the butter (again, not exactly clear why).

Also, as far as there are only four ingredients, it is only too important that they are of the best quality, or the final product may not be as exciting. And if you ask me, forgettable chocolate truffles can split your otherwise good life asunder, and this is a no-no by all means.

Lastly, I advise that you serve these truffles chilled – the sensation of chilled chocolate softly melting on your tongue is unbeatable. Cartainly, they are still good at room temperature, although not as exciting. In the video clip, they suggest you serve them with coffee or champagne. I am, however, not sure about this. Champagne is not the best complement to the chocolate in general (the red wine is!); and as to the coffee, I haven’t tried it yet, but as opposites go, a steaming cup would be fairly attractive with the cold truffles indeed. In all honesty, however, I think a piece of seasonal fruit will be the best chocolate supporter in this case.

(The recipe yields 50-60 bite-sized truffles)

250 gr dark bittersweet chocolate (not less than 70% cacao content) 165 ml cream, at room temperature
35 gr unsalted butter, at room temperature
80 gr (1/3-1/2 cup) dark cocoa powder (unsweetened!) such as Valrhona 100%

1 L water

First, prepare the bain marie, a heating technique for melting chocolate. In a medium pan, bring the water to a bare simmer; do not let the water boil at any point. While the water is heating, roughly chop the chocolate and put it in a smaller pan which you will then put in the pan with the water, so make sure it fits but does not touch the water!

Once the water is simmering, put the smaller pan into the medium one and melt chocolate, stirring constantly, about 8 mins. When melted, carefully add the cream. Using a whisk, combine well. Fold in the butter and whisk gently to fully incorporate the butter. The final mixture is ganache. It should look glossy. Turn off the heat, and remove the pan with the ganache. Set aside to cool.

Pour the ganache in a medium bowl. Cover with cling film (but only after the ganache is completely cooled) and refrigerate, for 6-8 hours or until the ganache is very firm. I tamed mine in the fridge overnight.

Put the cacao powder in a small wide bowl.

Scoop the chilled ganache with a tsp and using your hands, shape each scoop into petite chocolate balls. For a tidier process, you may use a melon baller, I believe. Yet I must tell that having the chilled chocolate ganache in your palms is thoroughly therapeutic, if only slightly messy! Roll each truffle – be generous -- in cacao powder and place them in a medium serving bowl. Keep in a fridge and serve chilled.

P.S. Witty Julie of Oeufs Mayo thought

Godful Food worth the Lovely blog award.

Thank you, or rather, merci, Julie!

I saw a dream

I am turning into a monstrous customer, Dear Reader. I don’t leave a selling spot, be it a food store or a farmer’s stall at the market, until I get what I desire for my recipes. Even when I am told that a required item is not in stock on a given day, I don’t leave. Instead, I put my hands on my hips, business-like, call forth my gritty determination, which is usually manifested through a teeth-clenched grin, reach over the counter, somewhat menacingly, and say slowly to the seller, ‘Are you sure you don’t have it?’. I also feel tempted to add, post factum: ‘Think twice before you answer’, but has not yet mastered the right throaty tone for it.

To prove, a sunny and peaceful Saturday morning found me performing the act of uncanny hostility. Namely, I did my downright irritating, a fact that’s probably better be kept secret or even forgotten, rather than spoken about so freely and not remotely uncocky: I thoroughly annoyed the vegetable man’s teenage assistant. It so happened that the boy refused to sell me a bunch of bok choy, or more accurately, he told me they did not have it. But I’ll tell you what, I knew for a fact that bok choy was there. Ok, I felt (intuition) it could be there, because last week I bought it on the same spot from the same farmer. Plus, I despondently needed the vegetable in question; I dreamt it, literally!

Given the diversity of vegetable stalls at the market, I could have easily retreated to another one with the plump, leafy beauty right on display, but I decided it would be nicer to push the boy for looking more carefully at his own goods. He did not emanate the air of a chap properly acquainted with the farmer’s produce, anyway. So I considered it a public service of sorts to encourage him to look further.

Just imagine how many hungry customers that would come after me asking for bok choy could be left feeling unsatisfied, their dinner plans ruined and faces long, if I were not so demanding, making the boy look for bok choy. I, virtually, served the community.

‘I don’t have it’, he said for the third time.

‘Could you please ask somebody else’ – there were a few other helpers to the farmer – ‘just to confirm that you really don’t have it?’ I had on sun glasses which gave me more mysterious authority of someone to listen to. I clearly felt the boy was approaching the condition of a certifiable anger and fear too.

(What does she want from me?)

(Bok choy!)

And so it went on until the farmer himself – and I thank the nature’s forces for it -- overheard the ongoing exchange of pretentiously polite phrases between one miffed customer and as much peeved seller, and thunderously said that bok choy ‘is there’, pointing with his index finger, covered with dirt from the carrots he was picking over for another customer, towards the back of the tent where one could see a mountain of wooden crates and rough sacks.

Having snatched the much sought-after vegetable, I can now tell you, Dear Reader, about a dish I saw in my dream, like I said, literally. I hope you understand now why I so needed this damn bok choy. And in case you are wondering, it was not a nightmare in which leafy Asian vegetables dominate the earth, demanding everybody lives on bok choy, drinks rice beverages and speaks fluent Chinese; nor was I drunk. Quite simply, I just saw a dream. And this I may attribute to my recent walk through the Amsterdam China Town where the street air is soaked with the mélange of sour-sweet-tangy odours one can dream about in the end of the day, which I did.

Notably, despite the dreamt-up nature of the dish – Sautéed Bok Choy with Garlic, Ginger and Raisins, there is nothing far-fetched about the interplay of the ingredients. Each praises the other in a delicate and polite manner: browned fragrant garlic and ginger willingly give their deep flavours to peanut-y bok choy, reinforcing a handsome Asian character of the vegetable; and black raisins, together with soy sauce, create an intricate, tantalizing sweet-savoury combination. All these render the combined result as a gracefully simple and harmonious meal. What I also value about it is that the dish, I believe, will take well to substitutions. Don’t like the idea of raisins in an otherwise savoury dish? Go for toasted peanuts; these will taste superb with bok choy, I am sure. Or use peanut or sesame oil for cooking instead of olive oil. Feel free to dream things up.

Sautéed Bok Choy with garlic, ginger and raisins
(Serves 2 as a main course or 4 as a light meal)

2 pounds bok choy, thoroughly washed and sliced from tip to base in ¼-1/2 inch ribbons
2 cloves of garlic, minced
a knob (about 1 inch) of fresh ginger, pressed
2 Tsb olive oil
2 ½ tsp soy sauce, or less
1 Tbs black raisins
Freshly ground black pepper/lemon juice to taste
Roasted sesame oil for a final touch (optional)

1. In a large skillet, combine the olive oil, garlic and ginger and warm over medium (-low) heat. When the garlic and ginger start to sizzle (don’t wait until they brown!), add the white tough stem parts of the bok choy and stir well to coat with the oil. Cook until they are almost tender, about 3-4 minutes. They will look sweaty.

2. Fold in the green parts. When they start to wilt, add the soy sauce by a teaspoon -- taste as you go to make sure the dish is not over-salted, along with the black raisins, and stir well. Cook until the greens are completely wilted, but don’t overdo. Season with black pepper and lemon juice to taste. Serve warm or at room temperature with a few drizzles of roasted sesame oil (if you happen to have one; if not, don’t worry, the dish doesn’t lose its Asian allure without it).

I did some sleuthing

When I food shop at the Saturday farmer’s market (Noordermarkt) in Amsterdam, the least I seek is to be accused of being stuck-up. It transpires that getting your food from the farmer’s market is synonymous to social snobbery in Amsterdam. Or so I was told in a poetry workshop. I’ll explain promptly.

For every weekly workshop in my university, we the students are given a theme for our new poem. Some time earlier it was suggested that we go out and write impromptu verses about a moving object, a person, or a sound that would strike us, or at least make us want to put our visual or auditory impressions on paper, however unmoving. My assiduous work resulted in this light-minded poem:

The market music

Slap-slap, click-click –
flip-flops, high heels:
sounds of hundreds of feet.
How much is this cheese?
And what about that bread?
Fingers point to crispy greens,
mouths agape.
Whoosh, whoosh --
the rushing of a sudden wind.
Do, re, mi
fa, so, la, ti --
a hungry musician plucks the strings
of contrabass.
(He could not know,
but he will not earn much today.)
Boom, boom of thunder.
Slap-slap-slap-slap-slap,
Click-click-click-click-click -
the market square is half-empty.
The musician will stay hungry.

After I cheerfully recited the piece at the recent workshop, I was asked, rather curtly, ‘What kind of market is that?’

‘Uhm, the farmer’s market on the Noordermarkt’, said I, smelling bellicosity of the question and starting to look rather apologetically, even sheepishly; blushing too, for good measure.
‘Ahh, that one where people show off, a hot-spot where folks want to be seen!?’

(I was right about bellicosity.)

In her judgments of food-shoppers my ‘opponent’, a Dutch girl with a poetic soul and red lipstick, laid the paint on white and black, or rather black alone. For her, the eating mankind that got stocked up on organic food was a bunch of scoundrels.

‘Wait a minute’, I piped in, ‘wouldn’t you agree that the farmer’s produce, apart from being an accessory of snobbery as you would think, at least tastes better than your average supermarket stuff?’ I was on the roll – the good food was being discussed.

A gloomy silence ensued. A few other people nodded their heads approvingly. My stomach was churning – it was lunchtime. I thought of salty, nutty, marble-looking chunk of Parmesan and a ripe, juicy pear.

‘True, it may taste good, but is expensive all the same, wouldn’t you say?’

Luckily, we were interrupted, because I considered mild cursing as a reply.

I wish I would forget this discussion, but a cloud of acidic doubt hang above my head -- what if the girl was right, even if only partially. Indeed, couldn’t most of it be a mere performance of who-can-afford-what? I resolved to investigate the matter by sleuthing who is who next time I would visit the place.

Sleuthing of any sort needs a spirited state of mind, so promptly after arriving at the market I ignited mine with a crepe with a Grand Marnier filling – that was the first so-close-to-authenticity crepe I ate in my life – made to my order at a crepe stall. A crepe-maker, a delicately aged Dutch lady with hair white as a dandelion ball, and voice soft, almost whispering, asked me where I was from. I told her, and heard her exclaim ‘Oh, you have blini!’

I gave her a smile – she and I are of the same ilk.

She told me she was making crepes for as long as she could remember (a long time). A big chunk of her life she spent in Normandy, France, where she was absorbing the art and knowledge of crepes’ making. Now she was passing her wisdom on the Dutch and the others by selling her thin, almost transparent, lacy crepes at the farmer’s market. A bunch of hungry customers – there is always a crowd at the stall -- resemble a swarm of whizzing bees, so noisy. I think it’s because the crepes are served with various sweet as well as savoury fillings: chestnut puree, melted chocolate, brown sugar with lemon zest, jams, Grand Marnier; fried bacon bits, and cheese. Absolutely impossible to keep quiet, let alone to resist.

I promised the lady I would come back soon to gradually eat my way through her crepes’ assortment, and went further into the ‘field’, where purple and crimson peonies were piled up on wooden counters between the crates of emerald cucumbers and glossy aubergines; fragrant apples and voluminous pears cried out for man’s attention; young cabbage heads looked dewy, or so I imagined because most likely some farmer just sprinkled them with water; crispy salads, and herbs, smoked sausages, and fresh, yeasty breads suggested visions of too many a beautiful and simple meal; adorably smelly cheeses oozed their nutty, grassy, earthy, flavours, filling the air with admiring oh’s and ah’s; people – some grumpy, some other chatty - waited in lines at virtually every counter.

In people’s hands, I saw neither Vuitton bags nor keys from Lombardinis, so that meant that at the first glance nobody seemed to be showing off.

The average prices for local – this is key -- produce are not higher at the market than elsewhere. On the contrary, a fat bunch of fresh basil or any other locally grown herb is priced around 1.75 euro, while at a supermarket, only a few thin, wrapped in plastic sprigs of, say, parsley, cost as much. Apples, especially second-choice ones, whose only fault is bruised skin or awkward shape, are sold not for more than 1.10 euro a kilo, and one will be pressed hard to find organic fruits for the same price elsewhere.

But while ogling and admiring the scenes, I nonetheless kept my saltcellar handy. I learnt there is a grub category that goes by the name of‘raw foods'. This may cost as much as a Vuitton handbag, I fear. What’s more, lads and gals who gather around raw food stalls have a spooky appearance of somebody bestowed the knowledge of 'the truth’. Usually, they also look like they haven’t washed their clothes for weeks; have more than three skinny children who also may need some hair- or face-editing (read: washing); and exuberate – at least for me – a determination to burst into celestial chanting and singing after every intake of a raw cocoa bean, for instance. Once I was asked by one such folks if I knew the difference between raw and roasted cocoa bean. I said yes, I did, but did not plan in the near future to give preference to one over another. He looked as if he was going to smack me into my face. This was somewhat intimidating, so now I make sure I propel my way past these chaps unnoticed, sinfully carrying a sausage that drips with juicy fat in my bag and thinking about roasted dark chocolate. (I appreciate a diversity of opinions nonetheless.)

A cliché, but still they say the beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. For me, the farmer’s market is a triumph of a human’s wish, a right, and even an obligation, to enjoy the season, be it a ‘grumpy’ winter or a ‘chatty’ spring. After all, generations of our (great) grandparents lived in harmony with the nature circles, contentedly ate what was in season, without attributing this to luxury or snobbery. Why shall a man be accused of it now?

P.S. On a side note: please go here to read a short (and I hope humorous) article on the Dutch by yours truly.

Food artistry

Dear Reader, I’m so thrilled, I’m so thrilled! Here is why: this cold beetroot soup with cucumber -- remember? -- has taken up an artistic career and can now also be seen in paint. Please check this out, the Lunchbox Project by wonderful Lisa Orgler!