Forms

Some people cook. Other people meditate.
She would like to do the second one, but she was drawn to the first. She was jealous of the white rooms of the meditators, where the minds were magically ordered by silent minutes. She, on the other hand, had to wrestle with pressure pots and vegetable left-overs, fish stock and lobster killing. One time she had to take a carper and smash it on the wooden board to make it die quickly. She ended up with too much food and a dirty kitchen to clean. In the end she turned out not to be hungry anymore, she only felt sorry for the fish.

Her strategy needed to change, she wanted to escape the noise and the metal banging, the smells and the people queuing up for food. From now one there would only be slow stews and pickles fermenting at least 3 days; onions that needed to be very finely cut. The vegetables would be boiled 10 breathings long, and only 2 racks of the fridge would be filled. She would take out big plates and order the meals so that there was more empty space than food.

That evening she sat down and had her meal. It is useful to try out different forms.

Answers

Strange things can happen over dinner.
You can eat. You can try a new vegetable aspic. You can make your world turn around. It's a matter of choice. Lots of possibilities are hidden in the process of dining.

Strange things happened over dinner that evening.
We were waiting with a 4-course meal and a bottle of Tuzko white. At exactly 8pm two smiley faces appeared on our doorstep. We were thrilled to welcome seemingly happy people. Both sides were slightly nervous- quickly starting with the hijiki-beetroot was therefore strategic. Eating helps. Eating can solve. My mind was calm and I felt it floating towards the corners of our library/dining room. The others seemed busy talking. They were interesting personalities with meaningful jobs.
Then, very unexpectedly, between soup and main course I wondered what I wanted in life. The question that was buried on the tip of my tongue for oh so long, suddenly popped up and gave birth to itself. It was a question you wanted to get an answer to. And if no answer available, you didn't want to ask.
I made it until the end of my saffron rice, but then the guests were at my mercy. They would have to consider it as well.
'Of course you cannot give an answer to that. It is a totally wrong question. You don't have full information. How can you answer what still has to be revealed? Now eat your dessert'.

Suddenly it was easy. I even took a second turn.
Picking the right guests is crucial.

Life

Je knippert met je ogen en het is voorbij. Je had het moeten doen, gisteren, of daarnet. Of misschien nog net nu. Nee, nu is al te laat, het gaat vooruit en het is onverbiddelijk, de stappen zijn misschien schoorvoetend of blijven soms even staan, maar ze gaan maar één kant uit, verder het pad af, totdat het is uitgewandeld. Elke seconde dat dit door je hoofd flitst, ben je kwijt, je hebt dan even niet geleefd, maar de vergankelijkheid benadrukt. Soms helpt het om op één been te staan en het andere achteruit te strekken, met je beide armen recht vooruit en te balanceren op slechts een deel van wat je bent. Elke dag doe je het met minder om zo op het einde meer over te houden. Misschien wil je langer leven, misschien heb je nog iets te doen. Je denkt: ‘Op een dag zal het komen, op een dag schuif je al de rest opzij. Dan is er een recht pad en één zuiver uur’. Je kijkt rond, denkt, weegt af. Proberen doe je niet. Je verwacht dat het komt. Het zal op je deur kloppen of aan je jas trekken in file. Misschien struikel je er over in de gang. Het zal stil samen met andere brieven arriveren. In je ooghoek als je wakker wordt. In een spleet tussen je tanden. Uitzonderlijk tussen de lippen van je geliefde. Een enkele keer gebeurt het dat je ziet, maar niet toeslaat. Je hebt een seconde geaarzeld, en daarna is het onverbiddelijk te laat.

Thank you

We like to pay people with love. Real Love. That's why in the basket there was a sourdough bread, eggplant spread, oat cookies, a sweet pie, a salty pie and a bottle of wine just to be on the safe side. With the heavy big basket in our arms, we rang the door bell, looking like two overprepared sweet old aunties ready to visit the young niece. The young man opening the door looked at us as if we were strangers, not quite sure what we were bringing him, even doubting to let us enter his house.

'Didn't you know we were coming? We only drop by to give you this'. We pointed our chins to the eye-catching object in front of us.
'Yes yes of course, come in please. We were expecting you'.

Together we sat down on the kitchen table. They poured us a cup of coffee and we ate a piece of the sweet pie. There was silence, we were listening, they had room to talk. The house was quiet and empty. There was still something left that could be filled.

After a brief hour we went home, leaving some of our time, ingredients and attention behind.

They had understood our gratitutde.

Unexpected

We had been cycling a full day through the woods and fields of Central Scotland now. The weather was rough and cold and we were dragging a tent and sleeping bags with us.

I was the Supervisor of the Food, a Designor of Dishes. My compagnon was the Builder of Tents. During the trip I made sure we regularly visited local corner shops, providing our pockets with power snacks and icey lemonades. My fellow cycler was an artist in shelter construction, showing his skills during dusk, while I was blowing the fire.

This task assignment was nothing we had decided upon, it had just happened by the tendency of our personalities, by the move our hands. That day though I felt some slight resentment against my newly aqcuired responsibilities, so I neglected checking our goods in stock. I hoped that ignoring would magically solve.

After 63 km of cycling we ended up near the Atlantic ocean, finding nothing but a rocky campsite with an even rockier ground. Sitting on a rock, we shared the wideness of the view. The tent was standing, and in the night darkness, with a dark breeze playing with our braids, we shared one small hard-boiled egg.

How the absence of something can prove to be so much more.

Innocence

They had opened the refrigerator 72 times that evening. 14 times they had put something into the refrigerator, 21 times they had actually smuggled something out of it and 37 times they had studied the contents of the icey shelves. They opened the big white doors when they took a break or when they passed by on their way to the bathroom. It seemed there was a hole in their stomach and they tried to fill it, partly by looking at exhibited foods and often by breaking little pieces of leftover bread slices and coconut cakes. Pudding desserts were slightly more difficult, fingers were insufficient - you had to take a spoon and manoeuvre between the piled up veggies and soup bowls. At one occasion one of them accidentally dropped the pink icing of a birthday cupcake in the celery soup of the day before.

It was around 9.30pm they became aware of their behaviour. The kitchen was silent, and one of them was standing in front of the cold racks, again. Her hand was resting on the steady white door. From the food treasures her eyes moved to her sister, then back into the big white box. With a firm gesture she slammed the door- closed. They were each other witnesses, and both knew what the other one was thinking. No more late night shows after dinner.

Deciding

'You will have to choose' he said. He looked at me with a big smile, as if he liked the fact that I had difficulties deciding. Two cakes were looking at me from the counter: a warm chocolate orange cake and Italian ricotta cheese pastry. I was standing there, jumping from one leg to the other, both sugarbombs definitely had assets. Chocolate always works, and the orange would make me feel special. Ricotta cheese on the other hand would prove soft and delicate. Only one I could take. I moved myself closer.

Maybe I could take both and silently eat them crouched down in the dark alley, straight from the box. I would taste the cream with my fingers and use my tongue to clean my lips.

No, today i felt like taking a table and eating with a fork, looking the other customers into the eyes and tell them: ‘Yes, I eat cake. Yes, I eat this whole damn thing, here, on this table, and I use cutlery in the process’. They would admire me for my determination.

The old man was still smiling at me, waiting patiently, not disturbed by the queue that was formed behind me.
‘Will tasting a little piece be of any help?’
‘No, no, thank you’. And pushed by the sighing waiting customers I pointed at the creamy ricotta, trying to look satisfied and convinced.

With a bright looking plate I walked over to a table on the left of the small patissier. Just when I wanted to take the first bite, the waiter passed by.
I couldn't help it.
‘Also bring me a piece of the chocolate orange, please’.

Never deny what you desire.

thirst quenching

It was an ordinary morning, but the moment she opened her eyes drops started rolling down her cheeks.
Maybe it was sadness, maybe not. At first she didn't notice anything, walking down the room and pulling the curtains while silently leaving wet traces on the loom-woven carpet. Then the mirror showed her shiny eyes and wet skin. Nice, but she had to get going now. So she brushed her teeth in tears, took a shower and let the salty and sweet water mix. She drank her morning coffee but never finished the cup, the salty tears kept refilling it. She ate while crying, drove to work with hazy eyes and hid herself behind her computer cleaning her desk constantly. She attended a meeting and excused herself with a sudden allergy. She searched her surroundings for hidden onions and spicy ingredients, but nothing could be found. Strangers in the street started talking to her, trying to figure out what was wrong, padding her on her shoulder and handing over fresh handkerchiefs.

When she arrived home that evening the tears were still streaming down her face. So she sat down, pressed her eyes, locked them so long until the tears had to turn back inside. From that day she never had to quench her thirst anymore.

Beware

It was their first dinner. For weeks she had invented little tricks to avoid eating together, finding it too intimate, worse than sharing a tootbrush or peeling nuts from one plate. She would say that she had already eaten, or that she felt filled from his love. The whole idea scared her away, she would see the cutting, slicing, ordering, chewing, thinking and playing. She would see how he composed his plate, the colours he chose. There was the tempo, the opening of his mouth, the eye contact and most of all, the touching of the food with his hands.

They had chosen a small cosy French place, with black windows and wooden tables. The food was offered on a daily basis, no use to try to figure out a dish beforehand. They sat down on a small table in the middle of the place and warmed up with a hot saké. Unnecessary.
He took grilled fillet steak with creamy white and red beans and leeks.
Meat.
She courgette salad with mint, garlic, red chilli, lemon and extra virgin olive oil.
Veggies.
A man and a woman.

He started. With his knife he cut a small piece of the meat, then used his fork to put it in his mouth. He slowed down eating and tasted. For seconds. Then he listened to her, asked questions. Was slightly fascinated. When she was telling him about the chill in the air, he stopped chewing. His hands took a little red azuki, he played without noticing. She easily finished his plate before him.

A success no doubt.

M

Miklos was talking about the menu with a contemplating low voice- in Hungarian. Next to me someone was translating: I really wanted to get the full picture. Suddenly the translator kept silent, but Miklos continued. My translator looked at me with an apologizing face. 'Ne fordítsd neki' Miklos had said. 'This part is not for Isa' he had thought. He was now talking about duck liver patés, cow stomach stews, fat fried in fat, goat moussaka, rooster soup and some other organs they love to eat in Hungary. I guess he didn't want to spoil my ears. That was a wise decision.

Family dinners

The kitchen was silent. For a few weeks no cupboard had been opened, the crumbles of breakfast were on the table and the shelves were collecting a subtle layer of dust. The fridge had life inside, food was getting active, the yoghurt making deals with the smell of the Danish cheese and the milk turning into a white mud-bath. Fruits had provocative colours and veggies were soft and too flexible.

But no human signs were found. Could it be they had lost interest in the act of eating, the art of the daily meal? There were no footsteps on the floor, no stewing vegetable pot, no impatient opening of fridges and cupboard on the search for a tasty little snack. It must be the fault of the new Taco Palace on the corner, the discovery of the Pokey Bacon crisps or the fast new coffee place that took away their appetite.

The situation didn't change, but if you listened carefully some quiet voices and noises were heard in the other rooms. It were two, maybe three, people talking. It was loud talking, sounded like arguing. That is what happens when you don't share your meals.

Real Life

'I don't understand what young people like about this place. It is crowded, you can't breathe and there is no nice food to go with your beer. I've just drunk a palinka that was so bad that I decided not to drink here anything anymore'.
I felt overwhelmed by this older man's wisdom, being ashamed about my own apparent contentment. I looked around, and indeed, he was right. Big white clouds were inhabiting the pub and I could hardly recognize my friends' faces. Eventually we had to go outside to smoke, because the place couldn't take it anymore. In the cold dark air I started thinking about our standards; how come we preferred a packed old warehouse over a stylish airy lounge? It gave us the feeling we found the heart of the city, that now, we were part of the gang? The dodgier the place, the more we felt alive. When I had recently moved to Budapest, people took me to garages, gardens and old communist cellars- proud to show me the real stuff, where things were happening. Where it was cold, the glasses wet and each time a so called musician was so generous to give a live session, much to the satisfaction of the customers. They were getting it all. The true life, the vibe of the town, the pulse of the city. Tourists arrived with guide books: relieved they finally found what they had been looking for. After an evening in the dirt, they could finally go home.

And there I was. Longing for my warm neat soft couch and immaculate surroundings. Must be something wrong with me...

Unavoidable

'Will you buy me an apple?'
'I will buy you an apple'.
'Really?'
'Yes'.
'I prefer these smooth green ones'.
'Plenty of green apples'.
'Not just a green apple'.
'Ok'.
'Shouldn't contain a trace of red'.
'Got it'.
'And the skin far from shining'.
'You mean not gleaming?'
'That's right'.
'Do you know which apple I mean?'
'I guess'.
'You guess or you know?'
'I know'.
'It has a sweet & neutral taste'.
'Now I see what you have in mind'.
'Are you sure?'
'Positive'.
'Absolutely sure?'
'You can trust me'.
'So don't bring me the sour ones'.
'Not the sour ones'.
'Not Jonagold, but this other kind'.
'Do you know the name?'
'I forgot it I'm afraid'.
'No worries. 'I'll be back in a sec'.
'Thanks'

'My God'
'What?'
'You brought the wrong apples'.
'Are you sure?'
'It's the wrong apples''.
'They are green'.
'You brought granny smith'.
'Suddenly you remember the names'.
'This skin is gleaming'.
'Let me see'.
'And these apples taste very sour'.
'You're never satisfied'.
'You don't even know which apple to bring'.
'At least I brought you an apple'.
'Maybe we don't understand each other'.
'You are too fuzzy'.
'Maybe you don't listen enough to what I say'.
'Really?'
'I'm starting to get a bit worried about us'.
'Gosh'
'Let's end this here'.
'Aren't you overreacting?'
'Darling I know what's best for us'.

Moeders en dochters

Er stonden 250 moeders aan de zijlijn en ze riepen: 'nee'.
Het weergalmen van hun stem reikte 7 bergen ver. Ze bewogen als razenden: ze sprongen en dansten, schudden en trilden, krijsten en stampten op de grond. Hun armen gebaarden wild en als je goed keek, dan kon je er een weigering in herkennen.
Ze stonden langs een grote rechte weg vol stoffig zand. Je kon niet zien waar hij naartoe ging, evenmin waar vandaan. In de verte bedekte een stofwolk de horizon, als een achtergelaten slurf vol modder en zand. Stilaan kwam de zandhoos dichterbij, maar het getier werd er niet stiller van, de stemmen sloegen over- golven van gejank. Onder de stofwolk marcheerden jonge vrouwen, het waren er honderden ze gingen hand in hand. Hun ogen hadden iets in het vizier, hun komst was gepland. Ter hoogte van het gebrul werden ze gestopt. Het geluid was onmenselijk, de moeders graaiden blindelings in het rond, grepen alles wat ze konden krijgen, armen, benen, een plukje haar, een hoek van een jas. Ze trokken en sleurden en gooiden ook zichzelf in de strijd. De jonge vrouwen hielden zich recht, hardnekkig bleven ze bij elkaar. Stilaan bewoog de stoet zich weer verder. Eén van hen draaide zich om, keek haar moeder in het gezicht en zei: 'wij gaan'.
Niemand kon hen stoppen.

Stories. Part 1

For M. preparing a meal was telling a story. He would never think of vitamins or calories, of health or quality. For him it were the colours and the composition, the aromas and the memories. He'd never touch recipes nor cookbooks, but walk through markets and find vegetables by smelling and weighing. At home he would invent meals based on the mood he was in. He'd crush apples when angry and roll sushis when wanting to keep things together. He'd peel onions when trying to get to the bottom of things, knead bread when missing his misses. When everything was a mess he would start counting grains. His cooking he never planned, he'd just know when to take his Japanese knife. On a specific cold Saturday morning in February M. felt it was time to get ahead of things, to prepare for things coming. So he started to chop and cut, slice and peel, mix and blend. He invented a Chinese salad and threw seaweeds in the soup. He mixed grains and chopped leafy greens. Sauteeing carrots became painting and simmering veggies was only to clean the air. He started to gather and pile and when the sun slowly started to set, his kitchen contained more exotic dishes than a king could wish for. There was one thing: M. had forgotten to invite guests.

And that moment I walked by.

Onverwacht bezoek

Iedereen heeft iemand nodig die af en toe onverwacht langskomt om ervoor te zorgen dat je ’s morgens de tafel leegruimt. Sinds kort had zij de vrouw van de stad. Melk had ze nu altijd in voorraad, vaak zelfs verse appeltaart. Spijtig genoeg kon je die niet eeuwig bewaren. Ze begon er zelf van te eten, maar werd de zure smaak beu. Dus schakelde ze over naar kruimeltaart met bramen, vervolgens naar vanillecake, jamgebakjes en hazelnootkoek, tot ze begon te experimenteren met gepocheerde peren, rijstpudding en kokostaart. Die laatste moesten echter nog sneller op. Na een tijdje kon ze het niet meer bijhouden, ze sloeg ontbijt en middagmaal over om zoetigheden in huis te kunnen houden. Af en toe zette ze ’s morgens zelfs haar wekker op. Toen hij een paar weken niet kwam, zag ze kringen op de muren verschijnen. Ze vergat ramen te sluiten, regendruppels ketsten af op de wand. Haar bed bleef onopgedekt.

Coffee measurements

My relationship is based on coffee. It loosens our tongues, it opens us up. We sit, have a coffee and straighten everything out. If he says: 'Shall we go and have a coffee?', I know it's time to gather our thoughts and make a next step in the day, sometimes in life. We have a coffee when we meet and we have one before grievous goodbyes. After goodbyes I have a lonely coffee at the airport.

We can enjoy our occassional coffee at home, but if things are really serious, then we go out and have one somewhere else. In worst occasions, we skip lunch and only have the black bitter. A cigarette indicates we're on the edge.

Today we haven't had coffee yet. I wonder what he's thinking, whether there is no need to talk.

Wonderful drawing from http://pascalcampion.blogspot.com/

todo esta en la mente

Wonderful drawing from http://pascalcampion.blogspot.com/

Now it was sure: I had to get rid of it. It was ruling my life, it was governing my thoughts, it was freaking me out. I wanted it out, gone, deleted, destroyed or simply smoothly removed from my apartment. I tried everything. I started the new year with good intentions, I tried again at the first full moon, did yoga, gave in to sweets, but absolutely nothing did the trick. It seems I had a persisting addiction and all my inspiration had died to make it sweep away.
'Acknowledge it, accept it and let it go', friends advised.
'Get busy', someone else said.
'Get a life', someone else thought.
'I'll deal with it', I answered.
So if it would be unmistakably get in my way, it'd better do it in style. On a breezy Friday I walked over to a decent shop near my house and purchased the most expensive and qualitative coffee I could find. At least I was drinking the good stuff now.
But the guilt remained. And the bigger the guilt, the plentier the cups.
By the time the weekend had passed demons overruled and I punished myself by drinking multiple shots in a row. It was at the fourth cup that it started to dawn on me: I felt not chased by a lion, I didn't act aggressively in the car.
I took the 'Landkaffee' and read the ingredients carefully. 'Fruits, grains and beans', it said. 'Koffeinmentes kávé'.
For four days I had now been completely caffeinfree, only by thinking I was the worst addict ever.

coffee

A month ago I joined the green-tea-drinkers-club. It was my very last attempt. My mother was the other member and we were discussing our club all the time. With each other and with everyone else.
The first week I talked presumptuously, as if it was easy for me. I just drank green tea and didn't miss anything in life, in fact, now I felt even healthier than before. Perfectly balanced, clear thoughts, no shouting and no impatience in traffic jams. I had everything under control. Noooo problems with my addictions. Quiet person, quiet life.
The second week the pulling started.
One morning the third week I got up early and drank my green cup.
I took my bike, cycled slowly in a convoy with the trucks- had to wait for the traffic lights.
Next to me a guy stopped, he was in bicycle costume and looked as if he had been travelling for at least an hour. He looked at me and said: 'Always the cycling- always the cycling'.
And always life.
Maybe that was the problem, that I understood.
I parked my bicycle, went up to a café and surrendered. I ordered a smooth white strong cappuccino.
The eternal and only solace.

Ultimate love

Many things can be done for the other. You can make breakfast in the morning, prepare your husband's favourite pizza and keep your mouth shut when you want to complain. You can go to his favourite pub and meet his friends. You can keep the apartment tidy, try to be positive in life and let him work at your birthday. When you're really into it, you can work out to look better and get a shiny face.

But maybe you think these things are not enough.
Maybe you want to save his life.
Suppose he's suffering from a typical male illness.

Then you can cut your hair, roast it, mill it and mix it with water. Let him drink it, but don't tell him what it is. It should be women's hair for a man, men's hair for a woman. It will stop the bleeding if nothing else works.

Make sure your hair isn't dyed when using it.

How to keep down your body weight

Get up at six.
Don't eat, you feel too sick so early anyway.
Cycle your one hour trip to the city. Keep up the tempo, otherwise you'll be late. Try to avoid buses and trucks.
Start your working day with a soy cappuccino and destroy your stomach for any further eating.
At 11 drink another coffee against tiredness.
Eat hot soup.
Finish at four.
Change at work and go running in Regent's park, raining or not. Push the limit, tomorrow you maybe won't have a chance to come.
Actively search the city to have a cosy tea somewhere. Never use the metro, only use your bike or walk.
At six cycle to the most trendy restaurant in town. When you realise you have a flat tyre, accept this and walk the rest of the distance by foot. Walk fast, in order not to come too late.
Eat a great prawn risotto.
Leave the restaurant and fix the flat tyre. Do not wait for any handy men to pass by.
Fight the head wind and cycle home.
After 40 minutes realise you have a flat tyre again. Walk. Keep up the tempo.
Arrive home.
Sit on the bed and relax at least 10 minutes.
Indulge in roasted sunflower seeds. Eat yesterday's dessert.
Fix the tyre again.
Sleep before one.
Get up at six.

I was curious to found out how my sister did it. Supermodel looks. Now I know. I even tried it for 4 days. The coming 4 days:

Honesty

Once upon a time a woman went to live in London.
She wanted to learn about food, so she started to work in EAT.
That seems very logical to me.They showed her how to make sandwiches, they taught her how to heat up soup. Above all, she learned how to smile to customers. Do you like turkey-cranberry, homous-carrot, bacon-lettuce-tomato, crayfish-lime-coriander, chicken-aioli, tuna-red-onion or prawn cocktail? Eat-in or take-away?
She served busy people with important jobs. They came in decent suits and elegant coats.
They had money to pay 5 pounds for a crappy 'smoked mackerel superfood' salad.
Yes, crappy. She tried it and could only identify a broccoli from the form, not from the taste. Water wrapped in the form of a vegetable. Chemical experiment that tricks the eye.
The clients got cute bags to walk their food 50 meters from the shop to their office.
In the evenings the woman threw out 50% of the food. Label: 'not sold' connected to 'food with a one-day shelf life'. At least, one-day before it enters the shop.
After work she walked to the beautiful square in front of the shop and sat down on a bench.
All buckets were full. Cups, boxes, napkins, cutlery with only one label: EAT.
'So far for this experience', she thought. 'Let's mmooove on'.

Nodig

Guillaume Apollinaire wrote: "We took them to the edge and bade them to fly. They held on. 'Fly!' we said. They held on. We pushed them over the edge. And they flew."

Guillaume Apollinaire schreef: "We brachten hen naar de rand en gelastten hen te vliegen. Ze hielden zich vast. Vlieg zeiden we. Ze hielden zich vast. We duwden hen over de rand. En ze vlogen."