Wishing I were in France

Who left the fridge open?

2012-02-01T16:47:00.006+01:00

Last Monday was a particularly gray and miserable day. In and around Brussels some light, so-called ‘moth’ snow fell. For a few hours it stuck to hedges and grass. The roads remained clear though and traffic was fluid, except during the usual evening rush hour, between 4 and 7 p.m. All day temperatures oscillated around +5°C.

When I left for work at half past six on Tuesday morning, the thermometer in my car indicated a skinny +3°C inside my garage and -1°C once I was on the road. This morning however, the garage temperature had dropped to an even skinnier +0.5°C and by the time I was 1 km up the road, it had dropped to a bone-shivering -8°C. Clearly someone up there had left the refrigerator door open!

It isn’t as if we haven’t been warned though. Since last weekend our friendly weather man Frank has been telling us about the Siberian bear that was lurking in its cage in northern Russia and the increasing probability that it would soon break free to invade Western Europe. Apparently it did so overnight.

This afternoon: a British Airway plane taking off from Brussels' Airport
against a steel blue sky. I wonder what the temperature is like up there!

Despite the steel blue sky and the radiant sun, the north-easterly wind makes it feel as if it is 10°C below zero right now. And worse is yet to come, with forecasts of -12°C in Brussels and as low as -18°C in the east of the country. Not something I look forward to, but as long as it stays dry, I don’t mind too much, although it will probably affect my gas bill.

Sunday lunch – with guests

2012-01-30T13:36:00.006+01:00

Thank you for your numerous comments on Saturday’s post. It seems the shorter the post, the more comments I get; as if my readers are trying to make up for the lack of lines. Mmmm, maybe I should keep this in mind the next time I get carried away writing a long entry. No sorry, I’m only kidding. You really are the best and I’m always looking forward to your feedback!

But back to the mystery party. It wasn’t a big deal actually. It was our regular Sunday lunch, with some extra trimmings in honour of our guests, my cousin I. and her husband W. As I mentioned before, I. is one of my mother’s bother’s daughters (he has three daughters and two sons). I. is also my mother’s godchild and as she is only 16 months older than I am, we’ve always been very close, except for some minor differences in recent years. But today, all’s well again and I was happy to have them over for a late New Year’s lunch.

I had put my camera in the kitchen, firmly decided to take a photo of each and every dish that left the kitchen. With my mother entertaining our guests, I thought I would have ample time to shoot some savoury shots! But I had forgotten that W., I.’s husband is a real foodie. Moreover, family chitchat between my mother and my cousin seemed to bore him. So each time I made my way towards the kitchen to open the bottle of Champagne, prepare the appetizers, the first and the main course, he came tagging along, offering a hand.

As a result I only shot one photo:

I tried to dress this elegantly, but W. was watching my every move,
which made me somewhat nervous.

Care to know what we had?

We started with Premier Cru Champagne from Heidsick Monopole and three finger foot appetizers (per person): a mini quiche, smoked salmon roll stuffed with Boursin cream cheese and a butternut squash velouté (hence the verrine).

Next came the Italian charcuterie anti-pasti: cured ham, salami, pancetta, bresola, mozzarella slices, mache and cherry tomatoes … served with hot ‘petits pains’ and real Belgian farm butter. I can’t claim any merit for this dish, because it only involved dressing everything on a large serving plate that once belonged to my grandmother. But my main course was home-made! The ‘Hairy Biker’s Ham, Chicken and Leek’ pie. Well, not completely. I confess that I bought the pastry ready-made. Not because I’m too lazy to make it myself, but simply because I’m no good at it.

With the meal we had an excellent Sancerre Rouge. Even W., who’s more a ‘vin du Sud’ man was impressed and really enjoyed it … handing over his car keys to I. for the drive home. Not that he had too much, but just too much when you’re stopped by the police; a very plausible risk these days.

Our guests brought dessert: a succulent fruit and cream tart. With it we had tea or coffee and by half past five our guests said goodbye, leaving us with a pretty good feeling and lots of late new Year’s gifts …

*****

P.S. You may have notived in the sidebar that it is snowing today in Brussels. I hereby confirm that it is. Not a lot, and nothing to worry about, road-wise that is, but let's hope it doesn't snow overnight. I hate driving on slippery roads!

Busy day ahead!

2012-01-28T15:13:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I did a lot of food shopping. Today I'm spending the best part of the afternoon in my kitchen. Something's up ... But what is it?

The above objects are just some of the items I need to turn this into a success ...
Care to take a guess what I'm up to?

Meet G-Man!

2012-01-26T13:47:00.008+01:00

Wikipedia:

“G-Man (short for Government Man) is a slang term for Special agents of the United States Government. It is specifically used as a term for a Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) agent.

According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, its first known use in America was in 1928. The earliest cite in OED for the American usage is 1930 from a book on Al Capone by FD Pasley.

The phrase may have been inspired by its use in Ireland by G Section of seven sections of the Dublin Metropolitan Police. G section was a plainclothes unit that specifically dealt with investigation of subversion and terrorism during the Irish Civil War ...”

*****

As far as I know, the FBI hasn’t come to Belgium yet. But then again, I’m sure that we, the law-obedient citizens, aren’t aware of everything that is going on in the world.

Anyway, this post has nothing to do with the secret service or plain-clothes’ policemen. It’s a tribute to one of my neighbours, Mr. G.! This is him.

Bringing his bike out of the garage.

He lives across the road and despite his advanced age (he’s well in his eighties) he’s still a keen biker. Three times a day – in the morning, at lunchtime and just before sunset – he brings out his specially fitted bike. Rain or shine, he never misses a ride, except when the roads are covered in snow. Even black ice doesn’t stop him!

Carefully navigating between the bike stand and the dust bin.

He has several set itineraries and the people who live along these all know him. I have been told that some of them actually synchronize their watches when they see him, because he’s amazingly punctual. He’s much admired by all, and yet people sometimes wonder about his mental health.

His appearance is really very unusual, especially when the weather is cold and wet. He always wears his crash helmet, long leather gloves and impressive boots. When it’s cold or raining though, he puts on an extra wind jacket, pulling the hood firmly over the helmet and part of his face.

Mr. G. on his daily lunchtime ride.

His peculiar position on the bike, the half covered face, leather gloves and boots and the large rear view mirrors on both sides of the handlebar make him look like an extra-terrestrial. People who see him passing for the first time often stop and turn around watching him go by. Young children are afraid of him and drivers who see him swaying down the road in front of them, give him a large berth because they are afraid he may fall over right in front of their wheels.

Mr. G, however, takes no notice of them and rides on, concentrating on the road in front of him. Which makes you wonder: could he really be a G-Man?

To the moon and back

2012-01-24T17:07:00.000+01:00

Going through the old postcards that I recently received from my mother (here), I noticed that several of them were signed by someone called Joe. The photos on the cards show exotic flowers, white sandy beaches and palm trees, luxurious hotels with large turquoise swimming pools and amusement parks, all located in Florida. The dates on the cards range from 1967 till 1974.

Who was this Joe? Another long-forgotten boyfriend? Very unlikely, considering that in 1967 I was only 10 years old! No, Joe was an old family acquaintance who had been in his late twenties – early thirties when he decided to emigrate from Belgium to the US shortly after WW2. He had lost both his parents at a young age (nothing to do with the war, as far as I know) and had been taken in by the neighbours who had given him room and board and an education as an butcher's apprentice.

I wasn’t even born when Joe left for the US and I don’t know how he finally made his way to Florida where he found a job as a bar tender in one of the luxury hotels on Miami Beach. However, I met him twice when he came to visit his ‘foster’ parents and their friends.

Joe’s visits where short – only three weeks – but intense. He made it a point to visit with everybody he had known when he had been living in Belgium. He usually came in August, just in time to savour the first real mussels from Zeeland, cooked ‘marinière style’, his favourite food and unobtainable in Miami. Each year, on the last weekend of August our village used to organize a three-day carnival. The main attraction was a large marquee where from 11 a.m. till 11 a.m. mussels were served. For three consecutive days, Joe was to be found there, three times a day to enjoy this precious delicacy! I was just a little girl then and couldn’t get over the quantities of mussels he devoured.

On two or three occasions my father, who in the sixties and seventies made frequent business trips to the US, managed to visit Joe in Miami. Every time, he came home carrying a little present for me: some exotic sea shells that Joe had collected on the beach, a ‘sand dollar’, tiny glasses with beach scenes …

He also sent me postcards and once a photo of himself, posing in his white jacket, black trousers, white shirt and black bow tie, with a suntanned face, by the swimming pool of the hotel where he was employed. Or a shot of his brand-new and shiny red Mustang …

The most remarkable card he ever sent, is undoubtedly this photo of a Royal Poinciana tree in full bloom (That's what it says on the back of the card. Correct me if I'm wrong!) ...

not because of the photo, but because of what Joe has written on the back:

“Wednesday, the 16th, I went to see the astronauts at Cape Kennedy going up to moon. So right now they are back. All O.K.” ...

The date above the text is July 27th, 1969 - six days after Neil Amstrong was the first man to set foot on the face on the moon. By the time the card reached me, Apollo 11 had safely returned to earth!

Joe was in his seventies when he died in Miami. As he had no family – he was never married or hadn’t any children – we don’t know where he is buried and what has become of his most cherished possession: his shiny red Mustang!

A friendly lodger

2012-01-22T15:50:00.002+01:00

While I was doing the dishes - aka loading the dishwasher - after Sunday lunch with my mother, I noticed a dark dot on the floor, just beneath the kitchen window. I had left it open while I was making the 'frites' (French fries).

It turned out to be a ladybird! I carefully picked it up and tried to set it free again. But the dark skies and strong winds clearly frightened it and it stuck to my finger like glue. In the end I managed to make it step unto the leaf of one of my orchid plants. When I tried to take its photo, it shyly scurried away, hiding in between the leaves. It took a bit of coaxing and manipulating, but in the end I managed to shoot this photo.

Since then the ladybird has settled in between the leaves of the orchid plants. I hope it'll find enough food there to survive until it is ready to move out again. Until then I consider it as a friendly lodger!

I am SO angry !

2012-01-19T19:09:00.020+01:00

I just got home from a short evening visit with my mother, who lives almost next door. We chatted about several things – her day, my day at the office, village gossip, etc. Just when I was about to leave she said: “By the way, I have to ask you something. Is it possible to phone from a public telephone box using a 5 euro banknote?” Her question surprised me … for two reasons: 1) the last public telephone box in our village was removed five years ago, and 2) I’ve never heard of a phone box taking banknotes (not in Belgium anyway)!

To make a long story short, it turns out that, on her way home from the hairdresser’s this afternoon – which by the way is less than 100 metres from her home – she was approached by what she described as a ‘well-groomed/dressed and good-looking young man in his late twenties’ who, in dodgy Flemish/Dutch, asked whether she had a five euro banknote change for the coins he was holding in his hand.

Luckily my mother only had a 10 euro note and some coins in a small purse and wasn’t carrying her usual handbag with her bankcard and larger notes! Because, without thinking, she showed the purse to the man, explaining she couldn’t help him. Then she enquired why he needed the money. And he – boldly taking advantage of her age – explained that he had to make a call from a public telephone box!!!!???

When my mother suggested he could try and change the coins at the hairdresser’s across the road or the petrol station 200 metres further up the road (that's my mum - always trying to help!), the man hurriedly said goodbye and ran towards a car that was parked nearby. Two seconds later – the driver had clearly been waiting – the car sped off in the direction of Brussels…

I think my mother had a very narrow escape. If she had been carrying her usual handbag and had opened her wallet in an attempt to find a five euro note, and at the same time involuntary showing how much money she might have had on her + her bankcard, the ‘well-groomed and good-looking’ young man might have pushed her, making her fall while he grabbed the handbag with its full content!

I’m furious! On the one hand, people who smoke a cigarette in a café or pub are fined 250 euro, on the other hand, criminals who attack innocent people, are – under the new Salduz law, imposed by Europe - no longer arrested, even when they are caught red-handed!! The police can just take down their name and invite them to come to the police station within 10 days to be questioned and make a deposition! What is this world coming to???

Following this incident, I have given my mother very clear instructions. I can only hope that she will keep them in mind the next time she is approached by one of these ‘characters’! However, as she is a very caring and ‘always-ready-to-help’ person I’m afraid that her kindness may be stronger than her suspicion! I think her guardian angel is in for some extra-time!

P.S. Sorry, no photo this time ... I'm just too upset and needed to get this off my chest!

A postcard from London

2012-01-18T17:34:00.000+01:00

Among the old postcards my mother gave me was one featuring the Royal Wedding of the Prince of Wales and Lady Diana Spencer on July 29th, 1981. The date is chiselled in my brain, because it was celebrated exactly one year and three days after my own wedding day, July 26th, 1980!

This is one of the rare cards that weren’t addressed to me, but rather to my parents. I kept it though, because of the memories that are attached to it. On that particular day in 1981 I was in Deal, spending a short vacation with my late husband at my former, 1970’s hostess Rowena’s house. As a present, we had brought her one kilogram of genuine Corné chocolates, many of which had a delicious and rich ‘crème au beurre’ (butter cream) or ‘crème fraîche’ (fresh cream) filling.

Rowena had invited her long-time friend Sue, who had a kinky Pekinese called Snooks, to spend the day with us at the house, watching the festivities and the wedding ceremony on TV. The box of chocolates had strategically been placed in the centre of the drawing room table and a bottle of Champagne was sitting in the fridge, waiting to be opened after the official ceremony. There were crisps, peanuts, egg and cucumber sandwiches, mini pork pies, sliced tomatoes, cheese and crackers … enough to keep the four of us (actually six, if you are counting Snooks and Slinky, Rowena’s nifty Siamese cat) happy all through the event.

The card and Sue's mug.

It was a very jolly occasion and we had a great deal of fun, ‘stuffing’ ourselves with the food and watching the bashful Diana become Princess of Wales. Poor girl, if she had known what life had in store for her, she surely would have fled right there and then.

The card and Rowena's mug.

The card isn’t the only memorabilia that I have from that day in July 1981. In my cupboard I still have two mugs commemorating the event: a rustic one, which was a present from Sue and a more traditional one, with a golden rim, that Rowena bought me. They are perfect for serving a soothing or invigorating herbal tea.

A blogger's Golden Globe!

2012-01-17T19:33:00.002+01:00

Now I know how it feels to be nominated and actually receive a Golden Globe! No wonder the Golden Globe winners are speechless! Because that's exactly how I felt when I learned that blogger friends Niall and Antoinette - Chez Charnizay - have bestowed this blogger award upon me:

Almost at the same time Jean from A Very Grand-Pressigny wanted to nominate my blog too, but found that Niall and Antoinette had beaten her to it.

I'm so grateful to both blogger friends, who received the award and decided to pass it on on me! Thank you! I really feel very humble.

Blog etiquette requires that I pass on the award to five other blogs that I like and that I post the logo in the sidebar. I've already taken care of the second requirement; the first will take some careful thought. Just give me a couple of days ...

Thanks again to Niall and Antoinette and Jean and to all my readers. You are the best!

A springtime crush

2012-01-16T12:48:00.000+01:00

In the spring of 1974 I visited Paris on a three-day school trip. We stayed two nights in some kind of youth hostel close to the Pont Neuf. Our class shared the first floor with a group of German students, who were more or less of the same age. In the evening we used to gather and hang out on the first floor landing where two or three old and worn, yet very comfortable coaches had been installed ... Much to our teachers’ dismay – we were a very strict all-girls’ school, and boys were seen as a menace!

Paris: Pont Neuf
Photo from the internet

It was all very friendly and innocent though, with brain-wrecking and sometimes hilarious conversations in a multi-lingual gibber that was a mixture of French, English and German. And that is where and how I met Jürgen G., the boy whom in the autumn of the same year sent me the postcard from Hessen that I mentioned in my previous post.

Before seeing the card I had completely forgotten about our meeting. That is why it took me over 48 hours to remember where I might have met this ‘Jürgen’. And when it finally came back to me, the only details I could come up with were that he was tall, had slightly curly shoulder-long hair (very fashionable in the 70ties) and unusual dark blue eyes. I guess I must have had a short and silly teenage crush on him.

The postcard was the last I ever heard from him. Although I’m not interested in contacting or seeing him again, I followed The Beaver’s advice (see yesterday’s comments) and googled his name. His first name and surname being very common in Germany, there are several Jürgen G.’s on Facebook, too many in fact to even consider doing further research …

However, finding his card after almost 40 years made a good blog topic, didn’t it? Especially at a time that there is nothing happening in my daily life that’s worth writing about …

Postcards from the past

2012-01-14T12:22:00.003+01:00

Just before Christmas my mother handed me a package containing well over a hundred picture postcards. As I’m not a postcard collector, I wondered why she thought I wanted to have them. I quickly browsed through them and noticed they were all addressed to me. The postage stamps dated from the mid-sixties to the early eighties. They came from all corners of the world!

Postcards from the past ... I'm sure you'll recognize some of these places/events!

I knew that my mother had been collecting postcards featuring churches from all over Belgium, but I never realized that she had kept all these cards from faraway places. In fact, I was even shocked when she showed me three large cardboard boxes, stacked to the brim with picture postcards. She explained to me that she has kept them all these years in an old sideboard in the attic. In an attempt to de-clutter, she has brought them down and has spent several afternoons going through them, throwing out the ones that have no sentimental value to her and setting aside the ones that are addressed to me. A formidable achievement for someone who, for as long as I can remember, has been pretending that she would have been a lousy secretary if she had worked in an office!

I thanked her for the postcards, took the package home and put it aside … until last weekend, when I removed the rubber band and looked and read each and every card. Some were from people whom I clearly remember. A few were a real mystery! For instance, a card from Hessen in Germany, from a boy called Jürgen. The stamp indicated that it was sent in September 1974 (I was 17 at the time). Seeing the name, the boy’s surname immediately sprang to mind. However, I couldn’t for the world remember where I had met him and why he had sent me a postcard – in German, a language that I hardly master! – apparently apologizing for not writing more frequently and indicating, in a not so subtle way, that he wouldn’t be writing any more letters or cards and that I shouldn’t bother answering this card!

It took me 48 hours to figure out (searching in the dongeons of my mind) who this Jürgen G. was and where I had met him … Care to know more about this long forgotten teenage romance and the history behind some of the other postcards?

P.S. I kept only 30 or so cards of the original package my mother gave me. Jürgen’s card wasn’t one of them. So he definitely wasn't the love of my life ... Wonder what has become of him, though.

Stop that thief …

2012-01-10T16:56:00.009+01:00

I’m sure a lot of people would be ready to oblige if I were to shout this across the office floor! However, there would be no one to stop as the culprit remains unknown.

Yesterday morning my manager returned to the office after a well-deserved one-week break. She had been caught in traffic though and was somewhat in a rush to get to her 9 o’clock meeting. A quick tour of the office to wish everybody a Happy New Year (involving more hugging and kissing) and off she went. To be honest, I had almost forgotten about the chocolate incident. It wasn’t until my colleague P. asked me whether the mystery had been solved, that I remembered that I had been the only one not having found a box of ‘Merci' chocolates in my desk drawer (with the compliments of the head of our department).

Not my box of 'Merci' and therefore not my photo.

Photo from the internet.

My manager ‘resurfaced’ at half past two, with just half an hour to go before her next meeting. Although it wasn’t the best time to inquire about my lost (stolen) present, I thanked her for the new 2012 office agenda she had put in my drawer and casually slipped in the ‘chocolate question’. She looked genuinely surprised confirming that the chocolates had been in the drawer when she had put the agenda on top of them. The colleague who had ‘hidden’ them there in the first place, also confirmed her action. They both kindly offered to give me their box, a gesture I declined because they both have children, who probably like the milk chocolate ‘Merci’ a lot more than I do. I’m not really a chocolate fan and when I do eat chocolate I prefer the real, black and bitter stuff with min. 80% of pure cacao.

This doesn’t solve the ‘who did it' issue, though? I can hardly imagine that one of my colleagues is the culprit, although there was one person who remained very aloof while the whole matter was discussed. But she doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who would do a thing like that.

My best guess it that it was someone who doesn’t work in our department or a member of the external cleaning team that comes in once a week. Normally these people are carefully screened and know that stealing will result in immediate dismissal. However, I know that during the holiday season these companies often work with temporary replacements (mainly students) who have little to lose.

I’ve decided to classify it as an incident best forgotten, but will nevertheless keep my eyes and ears open. Who knows, maybe the villain will make another mistake and lead us to his secret treasure chest. But I guess that, by then, he will have eaten the chocolates, don’t you?

Sunday lunch – Regal style

2012-01-09T16:31:00.000+01:00

Yesterday's lunch theme was Epiphany. I know; we were late celebrating this non-official holiday. But yesteday being the Sunday closest to this Christian event, my mother and I had a special ‘regal’ lunch. Regal not in the sense of ‘royal’ but in the ‘really-good-traditional-food’ way. I made a meatloaf, using my own secret recipe, and served it with boiled ‘kriel‘ potatoes (just google ‘kriel’ if you want to find out what they are) and parsnips, slowly braised in butter, vanilla-honey and thyme (don’t forget to add pepper, salt and a bay leave). It was delicious.

Peeled and diced parsnips, ready to be glaced in butter,
vanilla-honey and thyme.

For dessert we had a puff pastry ‘epiphany’ cake. I bought it ready-made from my favourite bakery. At 9.60 euro it didn’t come cheap, but it was excellent. Instead of the traditional frangipane filling it was layered with vanilla-flavoured apple and apricot sauce. It was nice and flaky, refreshing … simply gorgeous …

What was left of the puff pastry cake, with on top the 'bean'
(in the shape of a tiny geisha sitting on an egg).

And guess who got the bean? Yours truly! So paraphrasing Helen Shapiro’s words: “I was a queen for a day … ” But what happened to my king?

Back to business ...

2012-01-06T15:32:00.000+01:00

The holidays are over. Time to get down to business again. I returned to the office on Tuesday, went through the traditional hugging, kissing and wishing well and found that I had been robbed!

But let's not jump to conclusions. Our department manager was nice enough to present the whole team (70 people or so) with a box of MERCI chocolates. A nice and much appreciated gesture, despite the fact that the chocolates are of a mediocre industrial quality. But it’s the gesture that counts, isn’t it?

This year's card collection. A big' thank you' to all of you who sent me a present,
a card or email wishes. You're the best!

At first I wasn’t aware of the present, until my colleague P., who only joined the department last June, asked me about the box of chocolates that he had found in his desk drawer. Like me, he had taken the week off between Christmas and New Year and only returned on Tuesday. It took me some time to remember that we had had the same present last year. When I told him about it, he was really thrilled about the thoughtfulness of our department manager, a gesture he hadn’t experienced in his former department.

An hour later – I had been very busy reading and treating the 100 or so e-mails that had received during my absence – it dawned on me that I hadn’t found a similar box of chocolates in my desk drawer. What had I done wrong over the last year to deserve this? I decided to do some detective work to find out whether other colleagues had been deprived of chocolate too. It turned out that our department manager’s assistant had distributed the chocolates, leaving a box on the desk of those who were on vacation, including me. Apparently one my direct colleagues who is on vacation this week, had taken the initiative to put the boxes in the desk drawers of those who were absent, so that they wouldn’t disappear. I checked all of my drawers and found ... nothing.

At first I was really upset, but then I remembered that last year, my direct manager, who’s occupying the desk beside mine, had taken my box of chocolates to put it in her fridge at home, so that it wouldn’t go bad over the holidays. She might just have done the same thing this year. She’ll be back on Monday. I’m curious to find out whether that’s where my present went. If it doesn’t turn up on Monday, it means that I have been robbed! And then I will need to do some more detective work to find the culprit. Sherlock Holmes, watch out ... here I come!

Trash collection

2012-01-02T14:18:00.003+01:00

With the holiday festivities over – well, not quite, because we have another News year’s lunch planned with my cousin and her husband one Sunday in January and an ‘extended family’ dinner on January 21st – it is time to start thinking about getting to work again.

Today is my last day off. Around noon I took a short stroll up the road, because I had a small errand to run. I rarely walk that way as the village and the shops are the other way. I’m familiar with the houses there though, because every morning I take that route on my way to work. But, as I’m driving, I rarely pay attention to the neighbourhood and the changes it has undergone.

This morning, however, I had a chance to look around and was appalled by what I saw. A quite attractive – though not really my style - semi-detached house, which I think was built in the seventies, has a new fence. It looks like it really means ‘business’ when it comes to keeping intruders out. It is made of light grey painted steel panels and it has an electric sliding gate. It must have cost a fortune. I’m sure the wardens at Alcatraz or Saint Quentin wouldn’t object to a fence like that to keep the inmates ‘in’.

House on the right: Notice the newspapers taped to the window on the first floor
and the trash lining the garden path. In striking contrast with the new fence.

Why was I shocked? Well, judging by the state of the house and the front garden, I think these would have been enough to keep any intruders out. There are no curtains at the windows. To prevent people from looking in, the owners have taped pages of old newspapers to the windows. And the garden is a real mess. The path leading up to the house is lined with carefully positioned pieces of trash: old cases, buckets filled with more rubbish, garbage bags, empty paint and plaster cans and even a chair. You can see that a lot of time and thought have been invested in this arrangement; as to make it look pretty! By the side of the house lies another big pile of rubbish (you can't see it on the photo). By the state of it, you can guess that it has been there for a long time. It certainly doesn’t look like a temporary 'we are renovating the house’ situation.

I quickly shot a photo but felt a little uneasy to do so. I hope the owner didn’t see me, because some don’t take kindly to ‘snoopers’. I have heard of people being bashed up for less than that. Yet, I can’t understand what they are up to. Why buy a nice house (approx. 2 years ago), put up a deluxe, hi-tech adn state-of-the art fence and then let the whole place fall to ruin? Maybe you can up with a logical explanation ...

To all of you ... where ever you are!

2012-01-01T00:01:00.010+01:00

* * * * *

80,000 hits

2011-12-30T13:43:00.000+01:00

In the early hours of today the stats on my blog, which I started in May 2009, hit the 80,000th pageview mark!

Pageviews since May, 2009.
Image: blogger

I didn't actually see it happened, because I was in bed, warmly tucked in, listening to the rain that was hitting the window with gale force. Don't worry, it wasn't as bad as Joachim, that struck France a couple of weeks ago. It was pretty rough though. On the morning news I heard that the busy road on which I live had been cut off for several hours during the night some 5-6 kilometres east from my home, while firemen were cutting up and removing a big tree that had fallen across it.

But back to the 80,000th hit. I remember being in awe when I saw that same number appear on Ken's blog in 2008 (today almost 400,000 pageviews !!!) . I even suspected/hoped that I was the 80,000th visitor and I posted a comment asking whether there was a prize attached to it. Silly me!

At the time I wasn't even thinking about writing a blog myself. Today, I'm glad I did, because through it I have met so many lovely people. Thank you all for being such loyal readers and commenters!

The next target? 100,000 I guess ... I'm looking forward to celebrating it with you!

Back in time

2011-12-29T12:57:00.000+01:00

Since Christmas Day, Radio2, one of the many radio channels in Belgium is broadcasting the International All Time Top 1000. The channel is very popular with people born before 1970. During the year it has an interesting and varied offer of music, daily news, sports and lifetime items. Every now and then, usually when we have a long weekend, they broadcast the Top 60 of the sixties, the Top 70 of the seventies, the Top 80 of the eighties … For which people can vote in advance.

Image from the www.radio.be website.

But the really BIG one is between Christmas and the start of the New Year: the All Time Top 1000. They broadcast 24/24, with a rerun of the day’s charts between 6 p.m. and 6 a.m.

The program is immensely popular; especially because every hour there is a very simple quiz question. The prize is the entire CD collection of the current year’s Top 1000!

For as long as I remember – except in 2009 and 2010 – Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen was number one. In the two previous years it was The Rose from Bette Midler, in the version of Ann Christy, a Flemish singer who died in 1984 from cancer. She was only 39 at the time and has become a real icon. Her version of The Rose is often played at funerals.

Other candidates to the title are: Dancing Queen by ABBA, Child in Time by Deep Purple and You’re the First, the Last, my Everything by Barry White. What would be your favourite if you had to choose your All Time hit song?

Feel like listening in on our Top 1000? Click here. You won’t regret it … Btw, there is a news bulletin every hour and traffic information every now and then … So you’ll have to sit through those … as well as the odd Flemish classic. But who knows; you may get to like them!

In danger of extinction

2011-12-28T14:15:00.005+01:00

Since the introduction of a new law on July 1st, part of our National Heritage is in danger of extinction. Maybe it’s a part that some people would like to see disappear altogether. I’m not one of them, though, because it would mean the end of something Belgium is famous for. No it isn’t chocolate, frites, lace or even beer; although the latter is unavoidably linked to it. I’m talking about our small, local village cafés. I admit that they have lost of their former charm and function in the old days when village people used to gather there once a day to exchange the daily news, have a few drinks and play cards. And yet ...

Adolphe Sax - to find out where this famous man comes in,
you'll have to read the whole post!

Photo: www.itravel.com

Rural villages are getting smaller because the young people get married and move away towards towns and cities, while other villages slowly but surely develop into small towns with newcomers who have their own social circle and rarely mingle with the locals. In order to survive, local cafés in these new 'towns' at one point started serving food. At first it were just some cold snacks, sandwiches and spaghetti Bolognese. But gradually more culinary dishes started to appear on their menu cards.

This phenomenon as well as the growing consensus on the negative effects of tobacco has led to a smoking ban. At first the new rule only applied to cafés serving food: a rule I loudly applaud since the time when I was forced to eat a delicious casserole of mussels sitting next to a lady who apparently had a craving for' smoked' mussels. In between mussels she puffed at her cigarette which she kept in her left hand while picking up the mussels with her right hand. It was disgusting!

However, after a transitory period of about one year, the government officials in charge of controlling whether the new law was respected found that there was a very fine line between ‘food’ as it had been described in the law on the one hand, and the way in which it was presented in daily life situations on the other. Fining the offenders – the café owners who allowed people to smoke in their establishment – turned out to be a problem, as there appeared to be a lot of loopholes in the law text.

Therefore the government decided to ban smoking all together, including in the small village cafés where only a few elderly and locals come to exchange the local gossip and to play cards. After hardly six months, the new rule has turned out to be lethal, not to the smokers, but to the cafés! Settled into their long-time habits, sitting at the same old table, glass of beer in one hand and a self-rolled cigarette in the other, the regulars can't seem to cope with the chance and the new rule that forces them to go outside to smoke their cigarette, thus missing a good hand in a game of whist or a juicy piece of gossip! So, they prefer to stay at home ...

As a result 2,500 village cafés, where never an item of food has been served, have closed down since July 1st. Is it worth it? I have mixed feelings about the whole matter. I don’t approve of smoking and I’m glad that I can now enjoy a meal – simple or gastronomic – without having to look for my food through a cloud of heavy and smelly smoke that is hovering over my plate. However, why deprive some elderly – and sometimes not so old – village locals of their ‘watering hole’: the place where they used to meet their friends to stay in touch with village life?

My favourite café in our village (a village that had now become a small town) serves food and so smoking is no longer allowed in the main room. They have a back room though that opens up to the garden where you are allowed to smoke and where no food is served. When I go there once a week with my friend (who occasionally smokes), he disappears into the back room once or twice to have a cigarette, while I wait for him. I use this ‘time-out’ to practice my favourite pass-time: watching people!

The café is called ‘The Saxophone’. In the back of the café, safely protected in a large glass display case, hangs a real brass ‘saxophone’, an instrument invented by Adolphe Sax (1814-1894) who lived in the city of Dinant south of Namur, in the southern part of Belgium.

What did Santa bring?

2011-12-26T12:53:00.014+01:00

My personal Rudolf!

1) An extra day off from work
Normally, Boxing Day isn’t a holiday in Belgium. But because Christmas Day was a Sunday, the majority of working people are having the day off today. Our offices are closed too, like many other companies and government services. My friendly butcher is closed too, but our local supermarket will be open this afternoon. I don’t need to go out though, as I did all my shopping on Friday and Saturday. And although there are no leftovers from Christmas Day lunch, there is ample food in the house to keep me happy and fed for two or three days.

2) A simple but pretty Christmas table and a delicious Christmas Day lunch
Although I didn’t do much cooking – I left that to the professional chefs from Rob Gourmet Market’s caterer counter – we had a glorious meal of Champagne with stuffed puff pastry zakouskis, oven grilled scallops in an creamy Champagne sauce, hare fillet with a light ‘grand veneur’ sauce and a dark glossy gravy, apples and pears with cranberry stuffing and a bottle of red Menetou Salon and finally a traditional ‘bûche de Noël’ with coffee.

3) An intriguing book by Belgium’s best known war journalist
I admit that a book about the 10 years since 9/11 does not really fit in with the Christmas spirit. However, ever since I heard an interview with Rudi Vranckx and saw a documentary on him and his work in Afghanistan, Iraq, Palestine, Israel and most recently in Egypt, I’m really intrigued by this man and the way he copes with the horrors he sees every day. He has a master degree in modern history and has been working with our national television channel since the fall of the Rumanian horror regime. He became really popular during the recent crisis in Egypt, where he was one of the last Western journalists to leave the country.

4) A surprise telephone call from the US
At half past seven last night, my mobile phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number – which was much longer than our Belgian 9 digit telephone numbers. Imagine my surprise when I heard Bob’s and Pat’s voice. My blog friends were calling from Georgia in the US to wish me a Merry Christmas. A lovely and thoughtful gesture! Thank you Bob and Pat!!

This afternoon I’m going to plunge into that book and write some more Greeting cards while I listen to the All Time Top 1000 on the radio. Fantastic music that will bring back many happy and emotional memories of years and events gone by. It’ll be on every day of the coming week. As I have the week off from work, I will be able to enjoy all 1000 songs!

What did Santa bring you and what are your plans on Boxing Day?

When I was small … and Christmas trees were tall

2011-12-24T11:46:00.002+01:00

When I was a little girl, I couldn’t wait for my parents to bring in the yearly Christmas tree. While my father ‘planted’ the tree in a bucket filled with earth from the garden and moved it into a corner of the living room, my mother went up to the attic to get the worn and dusty cardboard box in which the Christmas stall, its figurines and the glass decorations for the tree were kept.

The small wooden stall had been handmade by a blind neighbour and was a perfect example of exquisite craftsmanship. It was set up under the tree with a fluffy layer of cotton wool to make it look as if the roof was covered in snow. The 8 centimetres figurines where carefully placed in and around the stable. The ox and the mule went in the back on a layer of fake straw. The crib with baby Jesus was placed in the middle, in front of the animals, because their breath was supposed to keep him warm. Joseph and Mary stood or kneeled beside the crib.

There were three sheep, one of which had only three legs. I don’t know who was responsible for the animal’s handicap. Two shepherds, one carrying a small lamb on his shoulders – maybe he should have carried the lame sheep? - usually occupied the left part of the stable, while the three wise men, stayed outside, as if they were just arriving after following the star that had guided them to their destination.

All the figurines were made of polychrome plaster, except for baby Jesus, who was made of plastic, which made me think that he was probably adopted. Later I learned that the original figurine, being very tiny and fragile, had lost both arms over the years. It had therefore been replaced by a plastic copy.

The tree itself was decorated with glass ornaments and multi-coloured lights. Most ornaments were sphere-shaped but there also were a small beautifully shaped silver teapot and a gold and red lantern. They were my favourites! Sometimes my mother would drape ‘angels’ hair’ over the tree which gave the tree a beautiful frosty glow. The downside however was the itchy feeling you got when handling or touching this ‘angels’ hair’, because was made of glass fibres.

This year's tree with the camera on 'candlelight' settings.

Over the last thirty years my taste in Christmas trees has changed: from a two metres tall life specimen in the eighties, to this year’s wooden cone, decorated with white led lights and shiny silvery stars. Die-hard Christmas tree fans may consider this as a sorry excuse for tree, but I like it. It’s small, simple and yet stylish. And, most important, it does what a Christmas tree is supposed to do: bring light into our homes. After all, in B.C. days, Christmas was a pagan feast, celebrating the winter solstice and marking the return of the light.

The same tree with the camera on 'party' settings.

Merry Christmas to you and your loved ones!

* * * * *

To go on strike or not to go on strike …

2011-12-22T16:48:00.004+01:00

I don’t like to write about political or social issues, because that’s not why I started this blog in the first place. Today, however, I would like to make an exception. I promise you I won’t make a habit of it.

If you’ve been following the international news, you’ll probably know that Belgium went without a proper government for over 500 days. A ‘government of current affairs’ that in 2009 had ‘fallen’ over language-related issues stayed at the helm for one and a half year, trying to keep the country out of stormy international waters. It must be said that they were rather successful and in the end everybody was beginning to wonder whether we actually needed a new government. Especially as the coalition of initially eight and later six political parties that had been trying to form a new government didn’t seem to make any progress. It wasn’t until the international rating bureaus Standard and Poor’s and Moody’s lowered Belgium’s rating, that the negotiators realized that they were toying with the country’s (and its population’s) future.

Despite de national strike, no traffic jams on this quiet country lane.

Apart from the language issues, the budget and the savings imposed by ‘Europe’ proved to be problems that were hard to crack, especially as the left and the right wing parties had completely opposite views on matters like employment, retirement, taxes, etc. Everybody knows that our social security system - which is very generous and therefore subject to a lot of abuse – is threatened and requires a serious reform. I’ll spare you the details, but the touchiest issue was the legal retirement age. Under the current legislation it is in some exceptional cases possible to retire at the age of 55. The average nowadays is 59, while the legal retirement age is 65. A career of minimum 35 years is required to enjoy full pension benefits.

Before the end of this year (2011) the new government wants the parliament to vote a law gradually increasing the minimum age to 62 by 2017 and a minimum career of 40 year to be entitled to the same benefits. It goes without saying that the Trade Unions are extremely upset, especially as the minister in charge refuses to negotiate the terms of the new law with them. As a result the civil servants have gone on strike today and the whole country has come to a standstill … except for people like me who work in the private sector.

There are no trains, buses, trams or metros. Village and town halls are closed, public hospitals and fire stations are running on weekend roster. Schools are closed or only provide limited daycare facilities. The different national radio and television channels are broadcasting a unique program. Postmen are not supposed to deliver any mail today, but apparently 80% of them have ignored the orders of the Trade Unions. And so did my loyal postman Wim. He didn’t bring any Christmas cards though. So I’m somewhat disappointed!

Several of my colleagues didn’t show up today, because of the lack of public transport. And traffic was denser as usual, with more people using their car to get to work. Two busy roads into Brussels were blocked this morning by angry Trade Unionists.

Public opinion is much divided over the strike. Left wing supporters refuse to accept the much needed changes, while centre and right wing followers realize that they are inevitable to protect the continuity of the welfare state for future generations.

How do these changes affect me? I will probably have to work till 60, or even maybe 62 or 63, instead of the expected age of 58. And I know that I will be paying more taxes. So for the time being, I’ll put my dreams of moving to France in the bottom drawer of the freezer, hoping that they will keep for another 5 to 8 years!

P.S. I just noticed that this is my 700th post. Hmmm, that calls for a celebration!

Orchid update

2011-12-21T18:00:00.006+01:00

I have been collecting orchids since – I think - 2004. My first plant was a Saint Valentine’s present from my friend. The flowers were mainly white with purplish dots in the middle. The decorative pot it came in was white too, with a similar purplish motive on it.

That first plant died a long time ago, after flowering several times. I still have the pot though and today it holds another orchid plant that I’ve bought or received in recent years. In total about a dozen plants have come, stayed and gone. Today six remain and only one of them is blooming. I bought it approximately two months ago when most of the flowers were still tiny buds, waiting to burst open. Right now it’s sitting in all its glory on my Japanese cabinet in the living room, where I can see it when I’m working on my computer or when I’m watching TV. I hope the flowers will last well into the New Year and at least till Valentine’s Day when my friend will probably surprise me with a new specimen.

My current orchid family.
The one in the centre sits in the pot of the very first orchid plant
that my friend bought me in 2004.

The five other plants are sitting on the sill of the kitchen window. Only one of them has actually produced flowers since the summer of 2010 when I lost three plants due to the extremely hot temperatures. Orchids being exotic plants, you would expect them to thrive in warm weather conditions. It wasn’t the heat that killed them though but the lack of daylight. For almost two weeks I kept the shutters closed, in an attempt to keep the heat out. It worked, partially, but it also had a fatal impact on the orchids. The leaves turned all yellow and brown and one by one tumbled to the floor.

This spring, during the move, the remaining plants took another bashing. In the old apartment they had been living in the second bedroom in summer, enjoying a north-westerly exposure, far away from the burning hot summer sun. In winter they sat on the kitchen window sill, taking in as much as possible of the cold winter light.

Last October I moved them to the kitchen. I also started adding some special orchid fertilizer to their weekly drinking water. I got really upset when the only changes I saw were changes for the worse. But then, two weeks ago, all of a sudden, I saw these green ‘sprouts’ appearing on all five plants. At first I thought it were new roots growing out of the plant. In fact, in three out of the five plants they were roots. However, the two other orchid plants are clearly producing new flowers.

In the new apartment, the second bedroom window doesn’t have a sill, because it’s a glass door opening onto a tiny balcony. The exposure is right, but there is no place to put the orchids. Until recently I therefore kept them on a shelf that was left by the previous tenant and that looked perfect for that purpose. However, the plants didn’t get any direct sun light and by September – after hardly six months in their new home – you could see that they were suffering, despite the loving care I was giving them.

I'm not a botanist, but I'm pretty sure the long green bud on the left is a root;
the small one on the right is a flower.

It’s been so long since they have had flowers that I can’t remember what colour they are. I can’t wait to find out whether they will be yellow, white, purple or pink! I had been hoping to see the orchids in full bloom by Christmas, because that’s what it was like in the past. But they still have a long way to go … I’ll keep up updated on their progress!

Santas, tea and teapots

2011-12-19T16:49:00.000+01:00

December is the month in which I traditionally pay a visit to Stonemanor, the British store in a nearby village. I usually have only two items on my shopping list: Christmas cards and … steak and kidney pie. But somehow there always seems to be much more in my trolley by the time I join the queue at the check out counter.

We entered Stonemanor store
under the watchful eye of this life-size Santa Claus.

Despite my efforts not to succumb to temptation the following items ended up in my trolley: 2 Scotch eggs, Pastrami, 2 mini pork pies, 2 packets of crisps (salt and vinegar flavour), Twinings chamomile teabags, organic raspberry yoghurt, a jar of mini marshmallows and, of course, three steak and kidney pies and a box of 10 Christmas cards.

Tea anyone?
What's your favourite blend?

The store was very busy, with people doing their pre-pre-pre Christmas shopping. According to a notice by the entrance, there will be a special delivery of fresh turkeys next Thursday straight from the UK. But that didn’t stop some people from already buying a frozen specimen.

This is the place to be if you need a new teapot.

I like the one on the top-left, with the black cats ...

We ate the steak and kidney pies as soon as we got home. I warmed them up in the oven while my friend opened a bottle of Côtes du Rhône wine. The pies were delicious. I’m not a big fan of offal – except for veal sweetbreads – but these pies are really yummy. The taste of the kidneys is very subtle and the pieces of meat are bite-size and particularly tender. The sauce that binds everything together is of a deep brown, almost chocolate-like colour. As soon as you put your knife in the crispy crusts it comes oozing out of the pie.

The rich, yet fruity Côtes-de-Rhône wine went very well with this exquisite pie. We didn’t have any vegetables with it, because we had it as a snack after a successful yet very cold and wet shopping trip. But I think some steamed broccoli or peas would have made a perfect side dish.

All this food talk has made me hungry. Time to head for the kitchen and prepare myself some supper! I had two smoked beef – a.k.a. filet d’Anvers’ sandwiches for lunch, which isn’t all that much. No wonder I’m hungry!

First snow

2011-12-17T14:29:00.004+01:00

You wouldn’t believe it this morning, because the sun is shining and the sky is almost as blue as my living room wall! And yet, last night it snowed. And just for a short while it seemed to stick to hedges and trees. Before sunrise cars parked in the street were wearing a white winter bonnet. But by nine the snow had gone. According to the morning news though the south of the country is covered in snow – up to 25 cm in some places – and more of the white stuff is expected to fall during the day.

View from my kitchen window last night.
The wind-swept snow flakes look like stings of golden pearls. Amazing!

We’re supposed to be on the dry and sunny side of the snow front. Next week temperatures should go up again and I shouldn’t have any trouble getting to work. And unlike last year, when the skies opened up on Christmas Eve and we were as good as grounded for several days because of the tons and tons of snow that fell in a few hours time, there is very little chance of having a White Christmas this year.

The bad storm Joachim that caused so much havoc in France and Germany hardly influenced our weather. Apparently we were sitting right in the middle of the eye of the storm, where there is hardly any wind. However, blogger friends Ken and Walt who live in the Loire Valley are without electricity since yesterday morning, due to Joachim’s antics! Other blogger friends Susan and Simon, who live in Southern Touraine, are running to their rescue with a generator, so that some electricity can be brought to their house. Isn’t it amazing what blogging can do!?

A day to remember - part 2

2011-12-14T16:57:00.000+01:00

If you've missed part 1, click here.

From July till November 2010 I visited five apartments. None of them felt like home and so I waited, hoping for a miracle, which could either be a successful leak detection or a nice apartment nearby. In the second half of November I learned of the death of a lady who had been living in an apartment on the first floor in a complex 50 metres up the road. Although the news upset me – I used to know the deceased rather well – this turned out to be the miracle I had been waiting for. Sorry if this shocks you.

A nice decorative piece handmade by my 'English mum's' daughter Teresa, whom I visited this summer, after not seeing each other since 1984. The stars are a reflection of the candle behind the hand-painted glass disk. This unique piece of art occupies a prominent place on my new sideboard.

On the eve of the lady’s funeral, a ‘to let’ sign appeared on the kitchen window of her former apartment. I immediately called the real estate agent’s number and scheduled an appointment for Monday night. One visit was all it took for me to know that this was the right place for me. The monthly rent was reasonable. The apartment was in spic-span condition and the location was perfect.

On Monday, December 13th, 2010 at twenty to six in the evening, I set out for my all important meeting with the real estate agent and my new landlord and –lady. It was a dark and cold night and I had some trouble finding the villa where the agent had his office. It was located in a narrow side street, in the middle of the fields, where it was hardly visible from the road.

My new landlord and –lady turned out to be very nice people. When I asked them whether I could install a dishwasher in the kitchen – at my expense – they immediately suggested they’d take care of it themselves … and they did. When I asked whether I could replace the old vinyl floor in the main bedroom by a nice wooden floor, they didn’t object and arranged for an identical floor to be laid in the second bedroom.

By the time that the contract had been read and signed it was snowing outside. Not much, but just enough to create that ‘Christmassy’ feeling. I drove home, slowly, not taking any risks. And I felt profoundly happy, because finally my worries were over … Well almost, because the ‘big move’ would only take place on March, 18th. I spent the three remaining months shopping for new furniture, curtains, wall paper, etc. Sheer bliss!

While I was happily spending money, a new leak detection took place in my then soon-to-be-former apartment. This time the janitor claimed that the cause had been found, and she tauntingly said: “Now that we’ve found the leak, you’ll probably regret your decision to move. Maybe you should have had some more patience!” I didn’t let it bother me though, as the so-called solution didn’t make any sense.

And I was proven right, because a few months after I had moved out, repair work was done to stop the water seeping into the ceiling and the wall. All in vain, because nothing has changed since then. Recently I ran into my former first floor neighbour (who also has water damage) and asked him about the situation. He said that since the recent technical intervention, the situation has become worse, indicating that the real cause of the leak still hasn’t been found ...

A day to remember

2011-12-13T16:46:00.000+01:00

For me, today – December 13^th, will go down in history as ‘the day on which I signed the lease’. That’s right, exactly a year ago, I was expected at 6 p.m. at the real estate agent’s office to sign the lease of my current apartment. Today, one year later, I can honestly say that it was the best thing I’ve done in years.

An orchid plant that I've recently acquired, looking pretty

against the background of my new blue living room wall.

You may recall that life in my former apartment had become unbearable due to an almost 20 month old damp problem that somehow seemed unsolvable. For those of you who have only recently ‘tuned’ into this blog, here’s a short recap of what happened.

In March 2009 I noticed a small grey stain on the wall, close to the ceiling. I thought it was a cobweb, but when I tried to remove it, it wouldn’t budge. By September, the small round stain had grown into a nasty looking triangle, 30 cm wide and over 30 cm long. That was when I called the janitor. She showed up – unannounced – one Friday afternoon while I was entertaining friends.

About a month later, she came back with some insurance guy, who wanted to visit the cellar (???) to find a plausible explanation for the stain by the ceiling! The most obvious cause was a leak in the kitchen sink in next door’s first floor apartment. A specialized leak detection company was contacted and their intervention was scheduled on December 18th, 2009. On the 17th I received a call from this company saying that the intervention had been postponed and that I would we contacted again as soon as possible. No particular reason for the postponement was given.

And then the wait began! In the end the leak detection man showed up some time in March; or was it April? He took some photos, examined the wall and the ceiling using a damp detector and off he went. Next door he rummaged through the cupboard under the sink, shifted some boards and went off without putting everything in its original place. An action that strongly upset the tenant, the landlord and the janitor of the adjacent complex and which marked the beginning of a very tense relationship that would finally escalate into a blasting row in July 2010. By then it had been established that the cause was external, meaning that it wasn’t water seeping in from next door.

I will spare you the details, but from March 2010 onwards, there were four more leak detection attempts. None of which were conclusive; although it has to be said that the recommendations made by my insurance company were – for some obscure reason or was it neglect? - never executed. In July, after the aforementioned row with the neighbours, I decided to call it a day, because I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I started looking for a new apartment: not an easy mission as I didn’t want to move too far away from my mother’s, who’s now 83 years old. Since 2001 I have been living next door to her; an pratical and reassuring arrangement that suits both of us.

(to be continued)

Sunday lunch – Hairy Bikers Style

2011-12-12T16:41:00.004+01:00

If you live in the UK or watch the BBC regularly, you are probably familiar with the cooking show ‘Hairy Bikers – Best of British’. When I discovered this show a few weeks ago, I almost immediately zapped to another channel, sighing “Yet another cooking program …” You know, I love to cook, but lately the offer of cooking shows is definitely exceeding my personal demand and interest. What I find most annoying is the fact that many of the so-called chefs don’t have a clue of what they are doing. The worst are these skinny celebs who are preparing their ‘amazing’ recipes that are ‘oh so nourishing’ and yet ‘so slimming’.

You can hardly call the ‘Hairy Bikers’ – Simon King and Dave Meyers – skinny; on the contrary. And they don’t really look like weathered chefs either. But after zapping away two or three times, I got intrigued by their way of cooking and the traditional British dishes they were preparing. And although they are constantly joking and fooling around, they work as a perfect team, in a professional yet congenial way. And the results always look very appetizing.The other day I watched them preparing a traditional chicken, ham and leek pie. It looked easy to make and I decided to give it a try, especially as the ingredients – leeks – are in season. As I’m not very good at making pastry, I bought it ready-made at our supermarket.

Poached chicken breast, diced ham and braised leek & garlic.

The other ingredients are (serves two):
- a bone- and skinless chicken breast
- a 1 cm thick slice of boiled or braised ham (approx. 250 gr)
- 2 sturdy leeks
- a clove of garlic
- a big handful of chopped chives (my personal touch)
- flour
- a generous splash of dry white wine
- chicken stock (home made or you can use a stock cube)
- 1 egg
- liquid double cream
- butter
- pepper, salt, nutmeg
- lemon juice (the Bikers didn’t use lemon, but this is my personal touch. It gives your dish a nice tang).

I did follow their recipe, but couldn’t help adding some personal touches …

The method:

Bring the chicken stock to the boil and put in the chicken breast. Let it simmer for 15 minutes. In the meantime, cut the ham in 1x1x1 cm pieces. Clean the leeks, cut them in half length-wise and next across in 0.5 centimetre pieces. Melt some butter in a frying pan and gently braise the leeks, adding the chopped garlic, salt and pepper. Don’t let the leeks turn brown. Remove from them from the pan as soon as they are translucent. Drain in a colander.

After 15 minutes, remove the chicken from the stock using a slotted spoon. Put the meat aside while you’re making the sauce.

Melt some butter in a pot, stir in 1.5 tablespoon of flour and make a béchamel sauce by adding the chicken stock one ladle at the time. Keep stirring until you obtain a tick and glossy sauce. Add a generous splash of white wine, (the juice of half a lemon – optional), pepper, salt and freshly grated nutmeg. Remove the pot from the stove and add a nice blob of cream. Keep stirring until all the ingredients have blended together. When the sauce is ready, pour it in a recipient and cover it with a sheet of plastic foil. Put the foil directly on top of the liquid. It’ll stop it from forming an unattractive ‘crust’.

Cut the chicken in bite-size chunks and put them in a shallow oven dish. Next, stir in the pieces of ham, the leeks and the chopped chives. Pour the cold sauce over the dish. Cut the pastry to fit the shape and size (slightly larger) of the dish and drape it over the filling. To seal the edges, lightly wet the rim of the dish using a piece of paper kitchen towel soaked in water. Press the pastry firmly on the rim, pierce three holes in the middle of the pastry and gently brush the top of the pie with some egg wash.

The pie, straight from the oven: crispy crust over a delicious filling. Yum!

Bake the pie in a 180°C oven for about 30 to 40 minutes. When the crust is golden brown and crispy, remove from the oven and serves immediately. Bon appetite!

Unusual pets

2011-12-10T14:41:00.011+01:00

I’ve taken an unintentional break from blogging. I should have told you in advance, but last Monday, when I posted my most recent entry, I had no idea of how hectic last week would be. If you have been following the news lately, you may know that we finally have a government – after 541 days of negotiations: a new world record, but not one to be proud of!

However, I never suspected that the new government and its 2012 budget would have such an impact of my employer’s daily business. As a result there was a lot of communication to be prepared: newsletters, FAQ’s, mailings, etc. By the time I got home in the evening, the sight of a computer screen was just too much, and I hardly had the courage to answer comments and emails and read my favourite blogs, let alone write a daily entry.

But I’m back! With a last entry on our visit to the Zoo. I still have two photos I really want to show you.

The Zoo also has a mission towards community. Not only does it offer accommodation to exotic and wild animals that have been found in miserable living conditions in private zoos and homes, it also provides training services.

Our guide, Paul, showed us into a room in which the walls were lined with glass containers. At first glance some of them looked empty except for a few dead branches. It was very warm in the room; 30°C, which is very hot when you’re wearing a winter coat! While we were peering into the glass containers, Paul explained that these were the reptiles that are used for training policemen, vets and other people who in their daily job are confronted with these animals, either in private homes, where they are kept as pets, either in exotic food containers that are shipped into Antwerp.

Despite our efforts to coax the animals out of their hiding places where they were probably napping between classes, most of the containers remained ‘lifeless’. Except for these two: a ferocious looking snake, and a lizard that was basking under a heat lamp!

Can you imagine having one of these as a pet and handling it with your bare hands or having it sitting on your lap while watching TV?

About tigers, vipers and seals

2011-12-05T17:01:00.003+01:00

What happened before …

By half past two lunch was over and we were requested to go outside where three guides were waiting, two Flemish speaking and one French speaking. We were free to pick the group of our choice. Although Flemish is my mother tongue, I joined the French speaking group for two reasons: 1. Most of my ‘favourite’ colleagues are French speaking. 2. It was the smallest group and therefore much easier to interact with the guide.

It was a chilly and drizzly afternoon and I was glad having donned my winter anorak. Some colleagues hadn’t taken the same precaution and were shivering with cold while our guide, who introduced himself as Paul, enlightened us on the history of the Zoo. One by one the groups set out on the backstage visit, each taking a different route in order not to bump into each other.

Our little group on our way - backstage - to see the tigers.

Our first stop was the tiger compound. The two large cages in which the tigers are kept overnight were empty except for one dead rabbit; a sight that upset the fainthearted among us (I’m not of them, btw.). Paul explained that, in order to recreate the real living conditions as much as possible, the tigers are fed four days out of seven. When they live in the wild they sometimes go three or more days without food too. On the ‘feeding days’ the tigers are given horse meat which is nice and lean. Beef and pork are too fat and the felines would soon get overweight if were to have it.

We asked why there was a dead rabbit lying in one of the cages. Paul said that on ‘foodless’ days the rabbit acted as some kind of bait to incite the tigers to come in at night. I wouldn’t like to be around when two hungry tigers throw themselves on that tiny rabbit!

Our next stop was the vet’s operating room. We weren’t allowed in, but got a good look at the operating table through the large window. The equipment looked rather dated. Logical, if you know that it’s former ’people hospital’ material that has been donated to the Zoo. The operating table will support animals up to 60 kg. You couldn’t operate a tiger, buffalo, giraffe or elephant on it.

Our guide, showing the jar containing the dead(ly) viper.

While we were examining the room, Paul unlocked a door in a sidewall and took out a jar filled with alcohol. At the bottom lay a dark brown, white spotted coil. Our guide explained that it was a dead Palestinian viper. It had been brought in by the police who had found it the home of a family with two small children! The parents had kept it as a pet … a very dangerous pet though, as this particular species is considered as one of the deadliest snakes on earth. Those parents were really irresponsible! The antidote for the viper's venom costs 10,000 euro and can only be kept for one year. The direction of the Zoo therefore decided that it was too dangerous and expensive to keep this specimen, and it was put down. Yet another innocent victim of modern society in which it‘s fashionable to keep wild animals as pets.

Paul produced more jars containing very obscure items. Some were too gruesome to look at like a 3 inch baby kangaroo that had died in its mother’s pouch. There was one rather funny anecdote though: a jar filled with coins! These had been 'recovered' from the stomach of a seal. Apparently people tend to throw coins in the pool in which the seals swim. One seal had mistaken the shiny coins for fish … till the weight of the coins literally proved to be too heavy on the animal’s stomach … preventing it to surface to catch its breath. If the vet hadn’t operated on the poor animal, it would have … drowned!

The viper, the seal … all perfect examples of the silliness of humans towards animals.

And the winner is ...

2011-12-02T13:40:00.000+01:00

What happened before....

The academic part of the day ended around half past twelve. When we came out of the conference room we were greeted by two waiters, holding large platters containing glasses of white and red wine. In one corner of the room a large buffet had been set up with cold and warm dishes. On the cold end there was a selection of small bread rolls, poached salmon with cocktail or/and tartar sauce, smoked salmon, large chunks of melon coated in thin slices of Parma ham, a salad of cherry tomatoes and mini mozzarella balls, couscous, a potato salad, a mixed green salad and a cold pasta dish.

The sign by the door of the 'animal food kitchen' ('dierenkeuken' in Dutch)
at the Antwerp Zoo.

On the warm end were four dishes: two kinds of pasta, roasted deer and poached cod with leeks in a cream sauce. On the table on which in the morning the staff had been serving coffee and croissants a dessert buffet had been dressed. It contained a large collection of miniature cakes, cups and glasses, ranging from tiramisu and chocolate mousse to fruit salad and strawberries cakes, etc. Yummmmm …

The only negative points were the high tables and complete absence of chairs. Don’t you just hate these ‘walking’ lunches and dinners, where you have to squeeze with six or seven people around a tiny table with a mere 50 cm top? You just stand there, uncomfortably, wobbling from one foot onto the other, precariously shifting your food around on a miniature plate; with you elbows glued to you side, trying not to stick them in your neighbour’s ribs.

After the meal, the five winners of a little quiz that had been held during the academic session were announced. I almost dropped my glass of white wine when I heard my name being called, as I’m not in the habit of winning prizes. What did I get? A box containing 8 CD’s of classical music! Okay, call me a philistine, but I don’t like classical music; it has a depressing effect on me. When I offered the CD box to the people at my table, three of them immediately showed a keen interest.

My first instinct was to throw it in the air, letting the best man or woman win. It wouldn’t have been practical though considering the glasses and plates that were still sitting on the table. So I gave it to a colleague who had travelled all the way by train from the southern part of the country to attend the teambuilding day. The poor guy had left his home at half past five in the morning to get to Antwerp in time. And he wouldn’t be home before nine if he managed to catch the 4.30 train home. An effort that really deserved recognition and a small compensation; don't you think so?

Antwerp, here we come!

2011-11-30T16:40:00.000+01:00

The carefully prepared daytrip to Antwerp was a success, despite the fact that we started out late. At 7.40 a.m., when I was about to leave my apartment to meet M.H. at the bus stop, she called me on the phone to say that she was running late. Her dog, a King Charles Cavalier, which is getting on in years and suffering from diabetes, needs an insulin shot every morning and evening. On that particular day, the poor little fellow hadn’t been very cooperative, and had hidden under the sideboard when M.H. was trying to administer the medication.

Luckily the bus to the airport was late too … and we did make it after all, with ample time to spare to catch the 9 o’clock Airport Express to Antwerp. The ride to the airport was very pleasant and surprising, because the bus took an unexpected route through the office and workshop district of ‘Sabena Techniques’ where my father used to work from 1950 till his early retirement in 1980. I know that area rather well, because on special occasions, like my birthday, my father used to take me to visit the workshops where the Sabena airplanes were being serviced. At the time the whole area was off-limits for unauthorized personnel and it was a real treat for an 8 or 10 year-old to be allowed to climb into the cockpit of a Boeing and sit in the commander’s seat. Happy days!

When we arrived in the underground bus station, there was no Airport Express coach to been seen. The wait was very short though, as hardly five minutes later a shiny blue coach pulled up by the platform. It was carrying a dozen of passengers from Antwerp who quickly got out, collected their luggage and hurried off to catch their plane. It was only half past eight, and we still had half an hour to go before the scheduled departure time. We considered going into the airport to have a coffee while we were waiting. However, when we saw other people boarding the bus, we dutifully followed them.

As soon as the last passengers had taken their seat, the driver closed the doors and sped out of the station. It was only twenty to nine!! By the time we got onto the motorway and saw the dense traffic coming into Brussels we realized that we were on the eight o’clock bus that had been delayed on its way in.

Antwerp Central Train Station. The exterior is 19th century but the inside has been renovated recently. It's all modern and light, with a lot of steel and glass. No photos, sorry ...

Our ride was very smooth and comfortable. In the suburbs of Antwerp we saw some beautiful Art Nouveau city houses and large contemporary villas with neatly kept gardens. This was clearly a very prosperous district. The bus dropped us off at Antwerp’s Central Train Station, which is located next to the Zoo. While we were walking towards the entrance, four of our colleagues came out of the station.

So we were six to arrive at the same time. Inside we were greeted by more colleagues who were already sipping coffee or orange juice. There were delicious mini croissants, chocolate, cream and sugar cakes to nibble. The room started filling up nicely when more and more people, alone or in small groups began to arrive. There was the usual kissing and hugging – a custom in Belgium among colleagues – which may seem very peculiar to you. I’m saying this because, when I was visiting my friends in the UK last July, I mentioned this custom to them, and they were very surprised, dare I say even slightly shocked. Does this surprise or shock you?

On the stroke of ten, we were requested to move to the adjacent conference room, where we were to spend the rest of the morning for the academic, ex-cathedra part of the day.

Outside we could here the sounds of the animals calling us to pay them a visit soon ...

Why I went to the Zoo!

2011-11-29T16:45:00.001+01:00

The animal photos I have been posting recently where all shot at the city Zoo of Antwerp. Antwerp is located some 45 km north of Brussels on the estuary of the Schelde River. The people of Antwerp are very proud of their city, which they like to refer to as ‘The Metropolis’. A title it mostly owes to its international container traffic port, which is size-wise the 3rd largest in Europe (Rotterdam in Holland is the biggest, while Hamburg in Germany occupies the second place). When we look at the volume that is handled in these three ports, Rotterdam remains first, but Antwerp comes in second. On a global level, Antwerp is 13th. Not bad.

As I mentioned before, the Antwerp Zoo was inaugurated on July 21st, 1834. In the early days it was mainly or even solely visited by the upper classes, as the entrance fee was very steep. Working class people had to toil a full week to earn enough money to be able to buy a just one ticket.

19th century entrance gate, with an undeniable oriental touch.

In the 20th century the entrance fee became more democratic and since then the Zoo has been a popular daytrip destination for (grand)parents with small children. It’s also an absolute must for primary schools that want to take their pupils on an educational school trip.

My recent visit to the Zoo wasn’t a school trip, but it almost felt like one, because what we did was basically the same. It was a teambuilding event! I usually try to avoid these get-togethers, because of the silly tasks you are asked to perform in an attempt to get better acquainted with people you spend the best part of your working days with … but who you would probably never invite in your home or spend a holiday with.

This time, however, I decided I would attend the event. Why? Because the afternoon activity sounded really interesting: a backstage visit of the Zoo and because I guessed that it would make great blog material. In the dark days before Christmas it’s hard to come up with subjects that can capture and hold my readers’ attention… and generate the odd comment every now and then.

So one dark and windy November morning I set out on my safari adventure. We had been asked to use public transport to get to Antwerp, as the rates of the nearby underground car park are outrageously expensive and our employer was refunding our travel expenses. I had studied the whole matter closely and discovered that taking the train would be too much hassle. It involved driving my car to our local station, where parking space is rare, catching a stop train into Leuven. Take another stop train to Mechelen. Transfer to yet another stop train to Antwerp. A trip that would take me 2.5 hours … If the trains were running on time, which can be a bit of a problem.

At some point I even discussed with my colleagues the possibility of renting a coach bus. We could rendezvous at our office in Brussels, leave our cars in the company’s underground free car park and share the cost of the coach bus. However, this proved to be more expensive than we thought.

So I started looking for another option. Antwerp being the Metropolis it claims to be, there had to be a direct and easy connection between the city and Brussels airport. Thanks to my good friend Mr. Google, I discovered that there was a special coach service running every hour from the airport to Antwerp and back. The ride took 45 minutes and one-way ticket cost 10 euro.

The Airport Express at Brussels' airport bus station.

I shared this information with M.H., a colleague of mine. Although we are not really close we get along and chatting with her is always fun. But most important, like me, she lives at a stone’s throw from the airport. We rendezvoused at the bus stop near my apartment and drove to the airport where we were to board the Airport Express …

Sunday lunch – ‘Lazy’ style

2011-11-27T11:33:00.005+01:00

It’s been a while since I’ve posted a ‘Sunday lunch’ entry. It’s not because I haven’t done any cooking lately, but most of the time I have been making traditional dishes such as pork roast Maréchal style, paprika chicken, meatloaf with ‘salade liégeoise’, etc. I’ve posted these recipes before and have therefore refrained from writing about them again.

Today, however, I’m cooking something special; simple but special. On Friday my friend and I visited Rob’s Gourmet Market again. It was meant to be a kind of scouting trip to collect some ideas for the upcoming holidays: Christmas and New Year. Seeing all that glorious food was very tempting though, and one thing led to another. By the time we joined the queue at the cash register our caddy was laden with goodies.

The prime catch was an over two kilo ‘pindade’ (guinea fowl) from a farm called ‘Le Devant’ located in the village of La Chapelle-Naude in the French Saône-et-Loire department. The grower was at Rob’s to promote his produce, serving roasted pieces of guinea fowl and ‘poulet de Bresse’ – another specialty of his farm - to the shoppers. He even explained how to prepare the birds in order to enhance their unique flavour. It includes putting a ‘petit Gervais’ (fresh cream cheese) and chopped apple in the bird’s cavity. Next you are to coat the whole bird in butter and roast it in a 160°C oven for 45 minutes per kilo.

A 'prize bird' of well over two kilos.

Care to join us, because this is way too much meat for two people ...?

This morning, when I started preparing the guinea fowl before putting it in the oven, I realized that I didn’t have any cream cheese or apples. I did have some yoghurt with diced apple in the fridge. So I carefully spooned 125 gr. of it in the emptied bird, followed by a bay leave and some thyme, just like the man had explained.

Instead of coating it in butter and roasting it – which always leaves you with a messy and greasy oven, I decided to cook the guinea fowl in my handy chicken brick. Because of its size I was afraid that it wouldn’t fit in the brick, but I managed to squeeze it in – only just. I sprinkled some special chicken herbs mixture over it and put a few lumps of lightly salted butter between the thighs. It has been sitting in the oven like that for an hour now and still has another 50 minutes to go.

I’m calling this a lunch ‘lazy style’, because I’ve bought all the trimmings ready-made at Rob’s too: cooked apples with cranberries and walnuts, baby pears poached in red wine and a spicy celeriac mash. All I have to do is shove the lot in an oven for 15 minutes before serving it.

How lazy can one get?!

As for the wine, I’ll let you take one guess …

Enjoy what is left of the weekend!

Help is on its way

2011-11-24T13:18:00.005+01:00

Okay, where was I?

After mopping up most of the water that had spouted from the dodgy valve (almost a 10 litre bucket full) I sat down, contemplating what to do next. It was Sunday late afternoon, half past six and already pitch-dark outside. My first reflex was to phone my mother to tell her about my ordeal. But that wasn’t really an option as there wasn’t much she could do to solve the problem. Moreover, the whole matter would have her worrying, with a sleepless night as a result. And at her age she needs a good night’s rest.

Finally I decided to call my landlord; a decision I took reluctantly, considering that the poor man is undergoing cancer treatment at the moment. His wife answered the phone and was very helpful and sympathetic. She even apologized for the inconvenience. She also suggested that I’d call a nearby plumber and have the bill for the repairs sent to them.

Nothing to do with today's subject, but yet another pretty picture of a resident of the Antwerp Zoo. This is Kai Mook's mother.
Kai Mook is the baby elephant that was born in the Zoo almost two years ago.

I googled the company’s phone number, called their office and not surprisingly got the answering machine … this was Sunday evening after all! There was a standby technician available till 7.30 p.m. though and I was given his mobile phone number. By then it was almost 7 o’clock, so I had no time to waste. I called the number once, twice, three times … and each time got his voicemail. After the third attempt I left a message. All I could do was wait and hope that the technician wasn’t a loafer who was already celebrating the end of his weekend duty with his pals. Five minutes later the phone ran and ten minutes later a tall and bulky young man came walking up the stairs. Help had arrived!

He carefully examined the spot where the geyser of water had emerged and very quickly came up with a diagnosis. Two parts, a valve and the expansion tank of the heating system needed to be replaced. He asked me to turn on the water supply again. I did, and when I came back upstairs he showed me where the dodgy valve was. Every now and then a drop of water appeared at the edge of it and gently plopped into the funnel of the underlying pipe.

My recent ordeal had been caused by a valve that had succumbed under the combined pressure of the hot water for the shower and the heating system. Until the valve and the expansion tank are replaced I am not to use both at the same time. He also advised me to cut the water supply during the day when I’m not at home. If the valve were to fail while I’m out, at least the water wouldn’t be spouting from it, flooding the apartment.

On Monday morning an order was put in for the two spare parts that needed replacement and a technician will come over do the repairs on Thursday afternoon. In the meanwhile I make do with what I have: 30 minutes of heating every night, just to break the chill, and a lukewarm shower as soon as I’ve turned off the heating system. Every morning I dutifully descend the steps into the basement to turn off the main water supply to the apartment. In the evening, when I get home, I walk down the steps again to turn the water back on.

Luckily the weather is very mild for the time of year. Wednesday was particularly sunny and the temperature indoors was 21.6 C when I came home. I therefore decided not to turn on the heating. I warmed up some of the thick vegetable soup I had made on Saturday, snuggled up under a fleece blanket and watched an extremely interesting program on the BBC, called H£ir Hunt£rs. Maybe you’ve seen it too. All in all not a bad way to spend a November evening …

I wrote this entry yesterday. Right now I'm waiting for the plumber to arrive and do the necessary repairs. If all goes well I should be at peace with the water gods before long... Keep your fingers crossed!

Tête de linotte* !

2011-11-23T16:46:00.005+01:00

That's what I am ... a scatterbrain*! During lunch break I prepare the sequel to my Monday post. And then ... I forget to mail it to my private e-mail address! Now it's sitting there, on the hard disk of my professional computer ... waiting for me to collect it tomorrow.

Feeding time at the Antwerp Zoo.

The emperor penguins show poor aristocratic behaviour when the bucket of fresh fish arrives. They start shuffing each other around and don't hesitate to push each other into the water to get to the largest fish first.

In French a penguin is called a 'pingouin' or 'manchot'. In colloquial French 'manchot' is also used to refer to a 'dumb person'. So I guess that name applies to me today as well ...

I'm afraid you'll have to wait for the rest of my story till tomorrow. Sorry for the delay. But let me reassure you: help is on its way and if all goes according to plan, my living situation should be back to normal by this time tomorrow. In the meanwhile I'm dry ... but not really warm.

The enemy strikes again

2011-11-21T12:29:00.006+01:00

I’ve never liked water; probably because it’s wet! Mind you, I like drinking water, but I don’t like being in it. I don‘t like soaking in a bath tub and I hate swimming. As I child I always used to find excuses not to attend swimming class. That explains why I’m a lousy swimmer; my favourite stroke being ‘baksteenslag’, which is Flemish for brick stroke, meaning that I sink like a brick after 10 metres or so. I do like taking showers though, but can’t stand having water in my eyes and ears.

I guess the fear stems from the time when I was six or seven years old. I had spent a summer day with friends at an outdoor pool, mainly staying in the children’s pool where the water was only 50 centimetres deep, when my mother called me because it was time to go home. I walked along the edge of the ‘big’ pool to the spot where my mother was waiting for me with a large towel when a smartass kid ran past me and pushed me into the deep end of the pool by the diving board. I immediately sank to the bottom and it seemed like ages before I surfaced again. All the time I saw air bubbles floating in front of my face, making a terrifying shushing sound in my ears. I survived … but never got over the trauma.

A pretty fish at the Antwerp Zoo; clearly not afraid of water ...

Is it because I don’t like water that it seems as if it is following me around? In the first apartment where I lived from 1980 till 2001 I had a water leak in the utility room and my upstairs neighbour frequently flooded her utility room, causing the water to run down the pipes into my apartment, drenching the fitted carpet in my hallway. Moreover, the complex had been built with poor-quality materials and the windows were ill-fitted, so that water seeped in underneath the windowsills when a south-westerly storm hit the building … a frequent phenomenon in the early 90ties.

When I moved into my former apartment in 2001, I felt a sense of relieve, leaving the water problems behind. And then, in 2009 the enemy struck again. If you’ve been reading this blog for a while you know all about the damp problem that in the beginning of this year made me flee the apartment, where I had been so happy for almost 10 years. By the way, the origin of the leak still hasn’t been found and the apartment is still vacant, and not up for rent yet.

More fish ... bad tempered or just shy?

Since March 2011 I have been enjoying the dry comfort of my present apartment. Until last night! I had just taken a shower and washed and dried my hair when I heard an alarming shushing sound in the utility room where the gas burner for the central heating is located. I opened the door and saw a geyser of water spouting from one of the pipes behind the gas burner. I also found myself standing in two centimetres of cold water. I saw several red handles and frantically started pulling and turning them. Nothing happened; the water kept spouting. I squeezed myself in the narrow space behind the big burner and found another red handle, close to the spot where the water was coming from. I pulled it, pushed it, and hammered on it with my fist. The silly thing wouldn't budge a millimetre.

By then my neatly brushed hair was soaked again and my slippers felt like two sponges. I realized that I needed help. I slipped on a pair of dry shoes and a fleece jacket and ran downstairs. Just when I arrived at the bottom, my downstairs neighbour came out of his apartment. He’s a young divorced father with two small girls. He’s a heavy smoker and I suspect him from drinking a lot. He doesn’t look healthy at all, with a green-greyish complexion and hardly any flesh on his bones. Not exactly the kind of man you want around in a crisis situation. But what the heck, he was there, so I asked him whether he had a second to come and help me turn the red handle and stop the water from flooding my apartment. He looked at me as if I came from another planet and mumbled: “I have to go and get my kids. I don’t have time. Just cut off the water in the basement.” So much for friendly neighbours!

I succeeded in cutting off the water, like he had suggested and went upstairs again … finding myself in a cold (I had switched off the gas burner, just as a precaution), wet and waterless apartment. No water to wash, to flush the toilet or to make a cup of comforting herbal tea. Not a pleasant situation on a Sunday evening … or on any night, come to think of it.

(more to come)

A field trip

2011-11-18T13:31:00.000+01:00

Ten days ago my employer took our department on a 'field trip' aka a teambuilding day. I'm not too keen on these events, but this time I was mildly enthusiastic. Why? Because of our destination! The last time I visited this well known location was in 1971, when I was 14 years old.

I'm talking about the Antwerp Zoo. This animal park, which was officially inaugurated on July 21, 1843, is one of the oldest zoos in the the world and the oldest in Belgium. It's located smack in th middle of the city of Antwerp. In 2007 it was declared the most beautiful and well-presevered 19th century city zoo in the world. It owes this award to the quality of the landscaping of the park and the historic architecture.

The statue on top of one of pillars by the entrance gate of the zoo.
The seagull is just a temporary resident!

Today the zoo hosts more than 5,000 animals, representing almost 770 species. Every year approximately 1 million people visit the zoo, with a record number of 1,5 million in 2009 when baby elephant Kai Mook was born. Kai Mook is an Asian Elephant and the first ever to be born in a Belgian zoo.

The invitation to the field trip read that we were expected at the zoo between 9.30 and 10 a.m. for breakfast. After which our department manager would inform us on our company's production results and objectives. Next there would be lunch and in the afternoon specialized guides would take us on a guided tour of the zoo ... backstage! I found the idea of seeing how the zoo is run behind the screens quite intriguing ...

I know that a lot of people don't like zoos, because they feel that animals shouldn't be locked up and put on display. How do you feel about it?

A short excursion – the end

2011-11-16T16:52:00.022+01:00

The general look and feel of the village of Montmédy, or at least the historic part that is located within the enclosure created by the ramparts, is rather distressing.

The fortified village of Montmédy - Photo from the internet.

The twin-towered St. Martin’s church dominates the whole scene. It dates from around 1750 and is currently in very bad repair. When we were there in October, the three large wooden doors were locked so I can’t tell you what it looks like inside. It couldn’t have been much worse than the exterior though.

The most distressing part however is this ‘bomb-struck’ café across the road from the church. A Hollywood producer could very easily shoot a wartime movie here on location, without having to build expensive cardboard sets.

Ironically enough the café is called ‘La Bombarde’ (the bombardment). I can’t image anyone calling a derelict building la ‘Bombarde’ just for the fun of it, especially as the sign over the door looks really old and authentic. So I guess the name refers to an historic event that has nothing to do with the building’s current condition, which is probably the result of wear and neglect in recent years; and the lack of funds to restore it in its original early 20th century condition. The first event that springs to mind is the shelling of the citadel by the German army in 1914, at the beginning of WWI.

According to a plaque, located near the one and only entrance gate into the citadel, 2.500 soldiers of the Montmédy garrison had sought refuge within the safety of the 16th century ramparts. After a violent siege, the French surrendered. Some were shot on location, while others were sent to prisoner camps.

I also did some research on the internet as to the possibility of a recent explosion that might have caused the damage, but the only report I could find dates from November 2009 when two tons of explosives were found in the former cellar of the derelict café. Experts from the French army identified it as dynamite that is used in quarries. It was removed from the site and destroyed elsewhere.

A hazy view of the 'new' Montmédy.

Driving up the hill we had seen some spectacular panoramas, but it was too dangerous to pull over and stop by the side of the road. We therefore wanted to find a way up to the top of the ramparts to admire the scenery and immortalize it with our digital cameras. The only way up was via the tourist office near the entrance gate. Outside there was a notice board indicating that the complete tour of the ramparts was a 6 km walk, which took one to two hours. By then it was quarter to five and the tourist office was about to close. Too late …

The October sun setting over the cemetery of Montmédy.

Disappointed we returned to the car and drove down the hill. Just outside the gate we stopped at the parking area reserved for coach buses and shot some photos.

It was almost dark when we reached the village of Habay-la-Neuve where we were to spend the night at my favourite hotel and have dinner at its famous and excellent restaurant.

Dinner by the open fireplace was excellent and fun. B. and J.L. both had the deer fillet while I enjoyed a delicious partridge. The next morning we left Habay around 10 a.m. but not without stopping at the local butcher to buy a kilo of boar meat, which I will be preparing for my mother presently. For the moment it’s sitting in the freezer waiting for the right occasion.

A short excursion – 5

2011-11-14T17:16:00.000+01:00

Did I tell you that I made it into France this year after all? Yes, I guess I did. It was only a very short visit, not more than an hour or so, but enough to just give me that ‘Alice in Wonderland’ feeling. That’s the effect France has on me!

After finishing our drinks in Torgny, I suggested to my friends ‘hopping’ over to the other side of the valley, straight into rural France. And that’s exactly how it felt. I can’t explain it, but as soon as you’ve crossed the border, even for 50 meters, you notice differences. It’s less obvious when you’re taking the motorway, because the landscape only changes gradually, and apart from a few traffic sign, the scenery is northern France is not that different from what you see in Belgium. In the country, it’s different, though.

The road signs all of a sudden have black characters on a white background, whereas in Belgium they are white on a blue background. The official mailboxes are yellow in France and red in Belgium. And the postman’s little van or moped is yellow too, instead of red and white. The license plates on the cars are of another colour too: black characters on a white background, instead of burgundy red on a white background.

Seeing these small but familiar difference, added to the ‘Alice in Wonderland’ feeling. That and the fact that after 500 meters we were already lost … Pretty soon we were on the right track again and on our way to the basilica of Montmédy. I remembered driving past this huge structure that has been erected in the local iron ore stone, in the middle of nowhere. We dutifully followed the road signs ‘Montmédy’ but failed to see the basilica on the horizon. What we saw instead was a fortified city on top of one the French Lorraine hills. Two towers of a church – that had nothing in common with the aforementioned basilica - were clearly visible against the autumn sky.

Montmédy, sitting on the top of its fortified hill.
Photo from the backseat of a driving car.

The ‘new’ town at the foot of the fortified old town didn’t have much to offer, so we drove straight up to the top of the hill. The ramparts where impressive and to our surprise we were allowed to drive all the way up and in, over the wooden drawbridge which rambled ominously when J.L. drove over it at very low speed. Inside the walls we were stopped by a red stop light.

The road leading up to wooden drawbridge.

Modern times had come to the historic town! We waited well over three minutes until the light finally switched to green. During our wait no car came down along the narrow tunnel leading to the heart of the fortress.

Looking down the tunnel.

When we were finally allowed to continue, we didn’t know what to expect … and then we saw this!

What happened here?

A short excursion – 4

2011-11-11T12:32:00.004+01:00

The quiz regarding the lighting device for the historic street lantern in Montmédy was apparently too difficult. Carolyn and Jean were on the right track but in the end it was Sharon who came up with the answer. Congratulations!

I must admit that my friends and I were really puzzled when we saw this contraption. Luckily a local resident noticed us wondering over its use and volunteered this explanation:

The funnel used to run up to the gas lantern, which was on a much lower level than the current electric lantern. In the evening the ‘lantern guard’ walked to every lamp house, opened the small door with the key that he was carrying. Next he lit the fuse, attached it to the pulley device and winched it up to the lantern. Ingenious, no? So much more practical than using a ladder …

But before travelling into France to visit the fortified town of Montmédy, we had a refreshing stop at Torgny, the most southern village of Belgium. In spring and summer it has a Mediterean feel. In autumn, it’s still pretty and interesting, yet less colourful as you can see. Here are some photos of our walk through the village.

The 'Lavoir', very uncommon in Belgium. But we're close to the French border here,
which probably explains its presence.

The Lavoir - interior.

Pretty sand stone houses.

The barn of one of the local winemakers.

The owner of this house has turned his front garden into several vegetable plots.

15 minutes and 25 photos later – the village is really miniscule – we sat down on the terrace of the one and only tavern ‘in town’, and therefore THE place to be for a nice and refreshing drink. Because, although it was end-October, the temperature was really mild and every now and then the sun made a short appearance.

We asked for the local wine – Torgny having a small vineyard, mainly producing an Auxerre-type dry white wine. However, the waitress blandly refused to serve it to us. When she saw the bewilderment on our faces, she realized that her reaction could have been mistaken for rudeness and she explained that there had been a mix-up with the labels on the bottles. As a result, old wine which was destined to produce Ratafia liquor had been delivered to the tavern. The beverage was quite undrinkable...

Instead we opted for a local beer: La Gaumaise, a nice ‘blond’ beer, which was very refreshing. We sat outside and watched the village life. At some point we were witness to a traffic jam – very common on the roads in and around the big cities, but quite unusual in the out-of-the way country village. It was caused by a school bus, which due to a minor technical problem with the backdoor, blocked the main street for several minutes. It didn’t take long before twelve or so cars were queuing up behind the bus. In Brussels drivers would immediately start honking their horn, with nervous aggravation. In Torgny, the cars peacefully waited till the bus finally drove on. Ahhh, life in the country!

A short excursion - 3bis

2011-11-09T17:09:00.000+01:00

Here's an extra hint: Notice the (nowadays electric) street lantern and the funnel. When you open the door of the 'device' you'll find a small pulley hanging inside ... Come on, don't be shy and take a guess!

A short excursion - 3

2011-11-08T19:36:00.002+01:00

As I mentioned in my most recent entry, the village of Torgny was our next stop. But more about that later ... And we did cross the border into France. Yes, we did!!!

In the fortified village of Montmédy - more about that later too - we saw this strange contraption. The main body - the part with the door - has a height of 25 to 30 cm. It sat on the corner of one of the houses. Any idea what it is?

Good luck!

A short excursion – 2

2011-11-06T15:53:00.003+01:00

After our delicious meal of different kinds of ham and sausage, we decided to have a peek at the little museum that is attached to the tavern. We didn’t know what to expect and were therefore quite surprised when we were shown the actual curing process of the hams and sausages that are served and sold at the tavern.

He’s the curing chamber, where the hams and ‘noix de jambon’ are left to ‘macerate’ in coarse sea salt for several days (or is it weeks?). Because of the glass between the curing chamber and the hallway where we were allowed to pass, the picture is slightly blurred. And if you look closely you can see the reflection of yours truly taking this photo.

The small hallway in which we were standing led towards a heavy, black metal door. We pulled it open, in search of the next step of the production process. As soon as we opened it, the smell of sizzling wood hit us. We quickly stepped into the dark room, which was filled with smoke. High above our heads hung several hams, sausages and … strings of garlic happily ‘smoking’ away! At the top of the roof we could see the light that seeped in through to top of the chimney. Breathing in that room was very difficult, and before long the smoke was pricking in my eyes, making them water. I quickly shot two photos and hurried out of there, followed by B. who was badly coughing after inhaling too much of the penetrating smoke. J.L. bravely stayed behind, making more photos.

The smoking room: on top, the light seeping in through the chimney,
beneath it, the strings of garlic and bottom right the 'noix the jambon'.
All over ... the smoke!

Back in the airy dining room of the tavern, catching our breath and waiting for J.L. to re-emerge from purgatory, B. and I sniffed at our clothes and decided that we would probably smell like smoked ham and sausages for the next two days! We just hoped we wouldn’t run into a hungry dog!

Before leaving the tavern we did some shopping. I bought two jars of local jam for my mother and a small ‘sanglochons’ sausage for myself. B. and J.L. splashed out and bought a sausage, a ‘noix de jambon’ and a large string of smoked garlic. By then it was almost three o’clock and time to move on to our next destination, the village of Torgny, the picturesque Belgian village located on the border with France.

By then, a question was tingling in my head: “Would I make to France this year after all?” What do you think?

A short excursion - 1

2011-11-04T14:18:00.018+01:00

Exactly a week ago, on Friday, my friends B. and J.L., with whom I visited the Loire Valley in May 2010, set out on a short gastronomic expedition to the Belgian Gaume region. The Gaume is the most southern part of Belgium and it’s known for its micro-climate. Till about 15 years ago it was the only spot in Belgium to have vineyards.

By 11 the sun was breaking through the clouds.

Friday started overcast, but by the time we got south of the Meuse Valley the sky was beginning to show some patches of blue. We took the motorway, which offered some awesome views of the hills of the Ardennes clad in the most intriguing and amazing autumn colours. I tried to shoot some photos from the back seat of the car, but they don’t do the region justice, so I won’t post them.

La Ferme des Sanglochons near Neufchâteau.

Our first destination was a picturesque tavern near Neufchâteau, where they serve the rare and absolutely exquisite ‘sanglochon’ meat. ‘Sanglochon’ = sanglier + cochon (wild boar + pig). In the old days, when pigs were still allowed to roam the forests for food, a lady pig sometimes ran into a gentleman wild boar, that didn’t always behave in a gentlemanly way (aka hanky-panky). With the well-known result: piglets. However, these little piglets have the most curious colours (a pink torso and striped bottom, or the other way round) and a delicate and yet slightly gamy meat; the perfect meat to produce cured hams, smoked sausages and streaky bacon.

A 19th- early 20th century coal burner and cooking stove.

The tavern has kept all the typical features
of the traditional farmhouse in which is located.

The former owner of the tavern picked up the old tradition and started breeding ‘sanglochons’ in a controlled environment. The tavern is the main outlet for the meat, and people come from miles around to taste and buy this unique product. The new owner is following his predecessor’s footsteps, and the tavern is very popular with the locals and tourists (like us) on their way south.

We arrived at quarter to twelve. The right time to savour a local aperitif: ‘vin blanc aux fleurs de sureaux’ = elderflower white wine. It was very nice. Next we all opted for the local specialty, an ‘assiette the sanglochons’, a large plate of different cuts of ham and sausages and a slice of pâté served with raw grated white cabbage, celeriac and carrots and a slice of red beet. All meat products are made at the tavern, as we saw later in the small museum that is attached to it. The dish came with a nice vinaigrette (on the side) and a large basket of whole grain bread and farm butter. Mmmmm!!

As usual I was too focused on the plate that was put in front of me,
and I forgot the take a photo before 'attacking' it. sorry.

I’ve eaten at this tavern many, many times in the past when my friend – who used to be a salesman – was still working. Today he’s retired and we don’t get out that much anymore. So I was glad to return there with my friends B. and J.L. who really liked the atmosphere and the great food. This was all new to them and they assured me that that will return to savour some more specialties … I secretly hope they will invite me …

Without wheels

2011-11-03T12:24:00.004+01:00

As I’ve mentioned yesterday, I’ve taken the week off from work. This gives me plenty of time to take care of some small jobs in and around the apartment and to entertain my cousins on the occasion of All Saints’ Day.

One of the items on my ‘to do’ list is having my car fitted with a full set of winter tires. I’ve been driving since 1984 (reluctantly, because I hate it), but never had any of my consecutive cars (three in total) fitted with winter tires. The reasons were obvious: the limited number of snowy days and the short distances that I travel. However, last winter was horrid and long with early and heavy snowfall, resulting in extremely bad and dangerous driving conditions.

"Even experts prefer ... winter tires.",
that's what this add is saying. Cute, no?

Photo from the internet.

Winter tires are not compulsory in Belgium (yet), but more and more people tend to have them installed. And those who had them last winter, all testify that they really do make a difference. They are recommended as soon as temperatures drop below 7°C (which is not the case yet) and from mid-October till mid-April. So I ordered a set two weeks ago at my local car mechanic, who called me last weekend to tell me that they had arrived and that I could bring in my car on Wednesday (yesterday). Which I dutifully did, hoping that I could pick up it up with its new ‘shoes’ this morning. However, the shop was very busy with cars parked all over the place. Most of them waiting to get a new set of winter wheels. In the meanwhile I'm grounded, but if all goes well I should be able to retrieve my car tomorrow morning.

I think the relatively high cost, (mine cost 650 Euros for four tires fitted on new steel rims – 1,000 Euros, if you prefer aluminium rims), is justified considering the extra safety they offer. Although I have this strange gut feeling that we won’t get any snow this winter. Just my luck!

Tell me, are winter tires compulsory where you live and if not, do you have them installed anyway, for your own safety?

Saints, Souls and Cousins

2011-11-02T13:25:00.003+01:00

Yesterday was All Saints’ Day, and therefore a holiday in Belgium. The weather was unusually warm and sunny, with temperatures as high as 18°C. The difference with the All Saints’ days of my childhood couldn’t have been any bigger.

In the morning my mother and I went to our local cemetery to put flowers on the graves of my father and grandparents. Usually it’s a real chore, because of the bad weather conditions. This year, however, it was quite pleasant. Walking up and down the cemetery, hauling the big chrysanthemum plants didn’t seem as difficult as the previous years. Simply because it was warm, sunny and the place was really ‘alive’, with many people doing the same thing.

The cemetery on a sunny November morning.

We ran into several friends, some of which we hadn’t seen for many months or years: a former colleague of mine, who used to be one of my father’s closest friends and my former next door neighbour, the 90 year old gentleman who moved out of the apartment hardly six weeks after my move and who now lives in a service flat for senior citizens in a nearby town. It was lovely seeing them again and catching up on the latest news.

We spent more than an hour at the cemetery, arranging the flowers, but mostly chatting to people. I could tell that my mother really enjoyed it. And so did I …After taking care of the flowers we went to a casual restaurant for quick lunch of pizza and Saltimbocca. And then it was time to go home and prepare the house for my cousins’ arrival.

They are the children of my mother’s only brother. There are five of them. One of them couldn’t make it though as she has had a very ugly accident doing the ‘déscente de la Lesse’ a few weeks ago, the Lesse being a River in the Ardennes. Paddling down-river takes you along some rocky patches with small rapids. Although it isn’t very dangerous – nothing to do with wild water rafting - my cousin managed to bump her head against one of the rocks and badly injured her face. Doctors are waiting for the wound to heal, but she may need plastic surgery in the spring. We are all very concerned about the outcome as she has always been considered as the ‘Barbie doll’ of the family. We are afraid that the scar, if there is one (we hope not) may have an everlasting impact on her morale. Which might drive her into a depression.

Her brothers and sisters with their spouses arrived around 3 p.m. and half an hour later my mother’s cousin and her daughter dropped in. We (eleven people in total) had a merry time, sitting around my mother’s dining room table, sipping coffee and eating cakes. There was a ‘flan Brésilienne’ (egg custard in a nice crust covered in whipped cream and grilled and shredded nuts), an autumn fruit tart (puff pastry, with a thin layer of custard cream, with cherries, prunes, pears and apples) and a raspberry clafouti.

The party, before the last two guests arrived!

They only stayed till four thirty because they had come to visit the cemetery too. By then it was raining and it was getting quite dark. My mother and I stayed at home, did the washing up and put everything in its right place again. Living on her own, my mother isn’t used to having so many people in the house at once. And it did take some advance planning and arranging to fit everybody in. But it was certainly worth the effort, as my cousins and I don’t see each other as much as we would like to.

P.S. The ‘Souls’ in the title refer to today’s holiday ‘All Souls’ Day’. It isn’t an official holiday in Belgium, but I’ve taken the rest of the week off.

Savouring Brussels – the end

2011-11-01T12:15:00.004+01:00

After a short ecclesiastical stop at the Saint Nicolas church, which by the way is located near the Brussels’ stock exchange, I guided my friends towards the nearby entrance of ‘La Bécasse’ (the woodcock), an old and authentic café. It’s also THE place to savour the typical Brussels Gueuze and Lambic beer.

My guests looked slightly worried when I invited them to follow me down this small alley way.

However, the dim light and somewhat musty smell in the alley were quickly forgotten when I pushed open the door that led into the café. The place was buzzing with life and the whole atmosphere was warm and inviting.

The café was very crowded with large parties of people chatting and drinking. We squeezed our way to a corner table. The waiter, who was dressed in a typical brewer’s apron, clearly had trouble serving the thirsty crowd. Finally he made his way towards where we were sitting and we ordered ‘une pallette’, a selection of four Gueuze and Lambic beers, served in tiny, 100 ml glasses.

When I was here in the seventies they only served half a litre jugs of Lambic, so this new presentation of four different beers was a nice extra. It gave my friends the opportunity to get acquainted with different beers without getting completely drunk!

The ‘pallette’ contained:

- A ‘Lambic doux’, a still and therefore froth-less amber coloured beer (front centre of the photo)
- A ‘Bourgogne des Flandres’, Gueuze beer, very dark – not unlike Guiness – with a generous white froth collar (left)
- A ‘White Gueuze’, golden blond in colour, somewhat opaque, with a spicy sourly taste obtained by adding a secret spice mixture, i.e. coriander, to the brew (back)
- A ‘Kriek’, a fizzy Lambic to which cherries have been added, giving it its nice dark red body and sweet-sour flavour (right)

Like real professionals we sipped, savoured and discussed the different tastes. While we were engrossed in the tasting process, a group of four English people walked in and sat down at the table next to ours. When they saw our ‘pallettes’, they enquired what it was that we were drinking and ordered the same.

After our tasting session we decided to have another beer, the one we had liked best: Sue surprised me by ordering a still Lambic, because it is quite unusual and not really everybody’s cup of tea. Veronica and I both had a Bourgogne des Flandres. While we were enjoying our drinks, more and more people ‘poured’ into the café and the place became really crowed and noisy. At six o’clock we decided to call it a day and share a taxi, dropping of my friends at their hotel, before driving me home.

We had some trouble finding one. There were none or few taxi at the usual taxi stations and the one or two we found, refused to take us. While we were hanging around waiting for a new taxi to arrive, a suspicious looking guy, in a car without the official taxi sign, drove up to us and enquired “Taxi?” From behind the windscreen he showed us an unfamiliar identity card and we declined his offer, saying that we weren’t waiting for a taxi. A little white lie ... You can't be too careful! Heaven knows where he would have taken us!!

People queuing at the 'frites' stand across the road from the taxi station.

Finally we found an ‘official’ cabby who accepted to drive us to our destination, despite the protest of his colleague, one of the taxidrivers who had refused to take us.

I was back home by 7 p.m. after a very enjoyable lunch and afternoon with my British guests. Veronica and Sue left Brussels the next evening after a ride on the hop-on/hop-off bus visiting the main tourist sites from the top of an open double-decker bus.

Savouring Brussels – 4

2011-10-30T12:26:00.004+01:00

Our visit to the ‘beer temple’ was great fun. Even I, a true beer drinking Belgian, was overwhelmed by what we saw. Looking at all these beers made us slightly thirsty. I herefore decided to take my guestes to a place where could quench are thirst but at the same time live a new experience.

Our destination was ‘La Bécasse’ – the Woodcock – a typical Brussels café, serving the ultimate Brussels’ beers: Lambic and Gueuze. These beers own their unique taste, colour and ‘body’ to the Zenne River. The Zenne meanders through the city. In the old days it was visible but today it mostly runs underground, except for some places, like the lobby of the Radisson SAS hotel neat the Grand’ Place.

We didn’t see the river but we did taste the beer that owns its fame to it. Apparently the water contains a special ‘bacteria’ that produces the beer’s unique characteristics during the fermentation process. You’ll find Lambic and Gueuze beers in most, if not all Brussels’ cafés, but ‘La Bécasse’ has a special feature, which – like the beer – makes it quite unique.

Before last week’s visit, I had been to ‘La Bécasse’ only once; in 1976, when two fellow students took me there to taste the famous Lambic. I knew the café was located at the end of a rather obscure alley near the Grand’ Place. Before setting out for my meeting with Veronica and Sue, I had ‘done my homework’, meaning that I had looked up the café’s location on ‘mappy.be’. Nevertheless, I wasn’t quite sure about our destination, and my only ‘point de repère’ was the Saint Nicolas church, which is just across the street from the café.

We found the church quite easily and because Veronica and Sue hadn’t visited it yet – when they had walked past it on Wednesday the entrance had been completely blocked by beggars – we decided to have a look inside. Here are some photos of the interior.

The main altar in baroque style.

A guilded shrine. Saint Nicolas' maybe?

A modern stained glass window.

A man seeking peace and quiet to read his newspaper.
So 'not done' in a church.

Savouring Brussels - 3bis

2011-10-28T08:46:00.002+02:00

Yesterday I tried to post several photos of our visit to the 'Biertempel', but somehow blogger refused to insert them in the editor. Downloading the photos wasn't the problem, but publishing them failed over and over again. So, after five frustrating attempts, I simply gave up.

Today I'm giving it another try ...

Veronica checking out some of the many beers.

A 'personalized' shopping bag.

Funny and colourful labels, not always in good taste though.

Don't let the prices frighten you; these bottles are 'magnums' or even bigger.
So you get a lot of beer for your money.

These beer mug keyrings were quite cute.

While we were browsing through the shop, I had an idea; something that would certainly surprise and please my friends ...

Savouring Brussels – 3

2011-10-27T12:10:00.004+02:00

After our meal at the ‘Roue d’Or’ we set out to visit some of Brussels’ sights. As Veronica and Sue had already been exploring the city for two days, I tried to come up with some lesser known places; places where tourists rarely venture. I ran a short list of places to them and was surprised that they hadn’t seen the statue of Brussels’ most famous citizen yet: Manneken Pis. I’ve posted about his legend here.

The statue is very close to the restaurant and it took us only five minutes to get there. The street leading to it was very crowded with tourists. When we got there they were thronging to get a good look and a photo of the ‘great’ hero – who is barely 50 cm tall! On this particular day he was wearing a new costume – some kind of monk’s habit. It didn’t do the little guy justice. I prefer him in his birthday suit!

The little guy in his new costume.

A lot of people were eating – or should I say gobbling – Belgian waffles, covered in thick layers of whipped cream. I shot this photo of all the possible toppings, and it made me feel slightly queasy. The original Belgian waffle comes with only a fine topping of whipped cream and maybe a few strawberries. I think some of these ‘creations’ look absolutely disgusting.

I carefully steered my guests away and led them to the Queen’s gallery where I showed them the shop of one of the best Belgian ‘chocolatiers’: Corné, where I bought a small box of chocolates for my mother and another one for Veronica and Sue.

Our next stop was the ‘Biertempel’ (beer temple). I have walked past this shop many, many times but have never been inside. This time we did. We were overwhelmed by what we saw! I can’t even guess how many different types of Belgian beers there were, many of which I had never heard of. Some of the labels were really funny, although not always in good taste. The bottles came in all sizes and colours and there were a lot of ‘prularia’ (Belgian slang for trinkets, gadgets, …).

Photos yet to come! Blogger is playing up again ...

Savouring Brussels – 2

2011-10-24T12:28:00.000+02:00

Veronica and Sue were really impressed with the interior of the Roue d’Or (The golden wheel) restaurant where I took them. This restaurant is a very ‘local’ affaire. By this I mean that you rarely find tourists eating there. Most patrons are locals or businessmen, discussing shop over lunch. From what I’ve been told, Belgium is the only country in Europe where so much business is done over lunch.

The interior of La Roue d'Or.
This photo was taken at the end of our meal,
when most of the patrons had already left.

We were given a corner table near the kitchen and Veronica and Sue seemed to like the aroma’s that came floating out of the kitchen. Our waiter was a somewhat elderly man, with grey-streaked hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. While we were studying the menu card (we were all given the English version) we ordered and sipped a glass of Champagne. I had some trouble recognizing the typical Belgian dishes in their English translation. Moreover, the translation wasn’t always correct. In vain I looked for the ‘Waterzooi op Gentse wijze’ but failed to find it. We started our meal with one starter which we shared: ‘rillettes de canard’ and warm toast. It came on a rectangular plate in three neatly presented portions. We were each given a small plate and a knife. Six slices of burning hot toast were served on a separate plate. Sue, who had awful memories of some pork rillettes that she once had in France, bravely tried some of the duck version and found it to be much nicer than the pork.

Next we ordered:

Veronica: ‘rable de lièvre Arlequin’ = hare filet with two sauces, a light and creamy pepper sauce and a dark venison sauce. It came with a half pear stuffed with cranberries and a celeriac mash.

Sue: the dish that on the English menu card was listed as ‘chicken stew’, and turned out to be the famous ‘Waterzooi’ that I had been looking for = boiled and de-skinned chicken pieces in a creamy soup containing carrots, leaks and boiled potatoes.

Me: ‘saucisse de campagne et stoemp’ = potato and carrot mash with sausages. It turned out to be huge … and by huge I mean really huge. The plate that was put in front of me contained a quantity that usually my mother and I share over Saturday lunch.

We had the house wine with it; a nice and dark red, and some sparkling water. By the time we had finished our meal, half of the other patrons had left, and the restaurant was much quieter. We didn’t have any dessert or coffee, as I wanted to take my friends to a different place for that.When we left, I foolishly forgot the plastic bag containing the tea towel and the book, my friends’ gifts. Luckily Veronica was more vigilant and picked it up. I would have felt really bad if I had lost it as it really means a lot to me.

Savouring Brussels - 1

2011-10-22T12:27:00.002+02:00

Veronica and Sue, my blog friends from the UK, arrived in Brussels on Tuesday afternoon for a four-day visit. As I was working I had to wait till Friday to meet up with them. We rendezvoused at La Chaloupe D’Or on the famous Grand’Place. They arrived on the stroke of noon, just as planned. And they were bearing gifts: a tea towel featuring the main sights of Brighton, the seaside town where they live and a very interesting and beautiful book about Brighton’s most famous building, the Royal Pavillion.

We chatted for about an hour, about what they had been up to since their arrival on Tuesday and their plans for rest of their stay. The atmosphere was really relaxed and easy going. Although we had only met once before, when I was staying overnight in Charing last July, it was as if we had known each other for years.

As they had seen most of the interesting Brussels’ sights on Wednesday and Thursday, I suggested that we would spend the afternoon discovering Belgium’s gastronomy. And somehow, they didn’t object. So after drinks at the Chaloupe D’Or we set out for my favourite restaurant in the Grand’Place district: La Roue D’Or. It’s only a three minute walk from the Chaloupe to the restaurant. By the time we arrived, we found the restaurant crowded and very lively. Fortunately, I had taken the precaution of booking a table …

They’re coming!

2011-10-18T16:46:00.004+02:00

Today my two guest writers from the UK, Veronica and Sue are setting out for Belgium. They left their home this morning at 7.15 a.m. local time (6.15 a.m. Belgian time) to take the Eurostar to Brussels. I expected them to arrive in Brussels around 11 a.m., on the same Eurostar from Ashford that I took three months ago on my return journey from Deal.

This train re-emerges from the channel tunnel on the French side around 10 o’clock after a 25 minute drive beneath the seabed. I wanted to surpise them and therefore left a text message on Veronica’s mobile phone, for her to receive as soon as the train made its ‘landfall’. It read: “Welcome to Belgium.” Three minutes after sending the message, I received an answer: “We’re still in London, but we are on our way.” So they weren’t using the Ashford connection after all and had gone all the way up to London to catch the train.

I don’t know when they will be arriving in Brussels, but I hope that by the time they get here the sky will have cleared, because right now– I’m writing this during my lunch break and will be posting from my laptop at home later this afternoon – it is raining and there is a stiff wind blowing (16:45 - update: the rain has stopped, but it's still windy and really cold; only 10°C).

However, according to Frank, our national weatherman, the weather should improve as from tomorrow. I guess that we are in for some nice sunny and dry – yet probably chilly – autumn days. I hope it’ll hold till Friday when I will be meeting Veronica and Sue at their hotel. The intention is to walk to the Grand’Place – a 30 minute stroll – to have an aperitif and lunch together.

July 2011: Sue and Veronica on the village green in Charing.

Amazingly enough they are staying in a hotel which is located at 300 m from my employer’s former offices and 100 m from my old school where I studied as a translator. What a strange coincidence, especially as they picked the hotel at random. It’s also the hotel where in 2005 my former classmates and I celebrated the 25th anniversary of our graduation. In total I spent 15 years in that part of Brussels, so I’m familiar with the neighbourhood. I also know my way around there, which is more than can be said for the rest of the capital.

I’m really looking forward to seeing my two guest writers again. That is, if I can make it, because there's an itchy-pitchy risk that I need to go into office on Friday after all, although it is my day off. Let’s keep our fingers crossed!

Mystery solved

2011-10-17T17:09:00.001+02:00

I admit that the quiz I posted over the weekend required some careful research and I really applaud and thank those of you who took the trouble.

Okay, now it’s time to reveal the answer. The link is Saint Martin, whom you can see in the painting. The top photo is the picturesque village of Candes Saint-Martin, on the confluent of the Loire and the Vienne. Saint-Martin died here at the end of the fourth century. And the third photo is the village church of Zaventem in Belgium where the above-mentioned painting by Sir Anthony Van Dijck is hanging.

Saint-Martin was quite a character. He was born in Hungary in 316 A.C. His father was a high-ranking officer in the Roman legion, which probably explains why Martin enlisted too at the young age of 17. The painting depicts a legendary scene from the young soldier’s life. He’s cutting his military cloak in half to hand part of it to a half-naked beggar by the city gates. Martin must have been about 25 at the time. He was reprimanded for this kind gesture as his senior officer claimed that the cloak was property of the Roman Empire and the young man was ordered to refund the cloak from his meagre salary.

The interior of the church in Zaventem.

Later Martin left the army and became a missionary. The travelled extensively with explains the presence of the many Saint Martin churches and villages all over France and Europe. The story goes that he brought a vine from his home country, carrying it the hollow bone of a bird filled with earth to keep it alive. When the vine grew, he put it in the bigger bone of a donkey and later that of an oxen. When he arrived in the Loire Valley, he planted his vine, which by then was big and strong, in the chalky soil around Vouvray … where it flourished and grew.

Martin was very popular and became Bishop of Tours, where he later, in 397 died and was buried at the fine old age of 81. He must have been a very healthy man, to have lived that long in those dark ages. Maybe it was the Loire Valley wines that contributed to his good health!

Sir Anthony Van Dijck, a famous 16th century portrait painter, was born in Antwerp. During his life, he lived in Zaventem for a while, where since the 1950ties Brussels airport is located. During his short stay, he fell in love with the daughter of one of the village’s noblemen. They never had a change to get married though, because Antony was called to the English court, where he became portrait painter to the English royals. To show his affection for his beloved and the village where he had spent such a great time, he donated the painting of Saint-Martin to the village, where until this day it is still on display in the local church.

Well, that’s it; the famous link. I’d like to end this post on a poetic and romantic quote. A quote that beautifully expresses the serenity and royalty of Candes Saint Martin. A French poet described it as the spot “where a King (The Loire, Le Fleuve Royal) receives a Princess (The Vienne River) in his bed …”

The link

2011-10-15T14:37:00.000+02:00

I haven't posted a quiz for a long time. So here's another little puzzle for you to solve... I know it's a very long shot, and I don't expect anyone to find the answer. But just give it a try... who knows!

The question is: What's the link between these three photos?

My favourite spot in the Loire Valley.

The man without whom we wouldn't be drinking Vouvray wines nowadays,
nor any of the other Loire Valley wines ...

The village church of a small town near
my home town in Belgium.

Our own Jamie Oliver

2011-10-12T14:39:00.000+02:00

I suppose that everybody living in the Anglo-Saxon world and even only mildly interested in cooking knows who Jamie Olivier, aka The Naked Chef, is. Since his first appearance on television in the late nineties, he has become a leading British chef. Personally I think he owns his success to his charismatic personality and his ‘easy’ way of cooking. Although he isn’t exactly a composed and calm person, cooking becomes child play when you watch him putting his dishes together. I realize that some people can’t stand him, but I like him … and his recipes.

Since last autumn we in Belgium have our very own Jamie Oliver called Jeroen Meus. I don’t know who discovered him, but about ten years ago a local television station that was operating on a small budget called in this young man to do a daily cooking show, which only took 10 minutes or so.

Little by little Jeroen made his way up. A few years ago he was the official ‘City chef’ of Leuven, the town where he has his restaurant called ‘Luzine’. ‘Luzine’ is the Flemish, yet non-existing spelling of ‘L’Usine’, which is French for ‘factory’, his restaurant being located in a former industrial building. It is located along the canal across the headquarters of the world famous InBev brewery. Which by the way makes our two national lagers: Stella and Juliper.

But back to the television program. Every week day the cooking show with Jeroen Meus is broadcasted just after the six o’clock news. It’s called ‘Dagelijkse kost’, which is Flemish slang meaning ‘Daily food’. And that’s exactly what he’s doing: cooking every day food based on recipes that have been around forever: pork roast with peas and carrots, cordon bleu with mixed salad and boiled potatoes, beef stew … Every now and then he throws in a more exotic recipe: Italian, Chinese, Mexican, Thai …

Jeroen preparing pork roast with peas and carrots.

Like Jamie Olivier he's very lively and straightforward.

The photo is slightly blurry because it's a shot of my television screen.

All the recipes are available in a book, which over the last two years time has become the best selling cook book in Belgium. It is also sold in Holland, but the Dutch seem to have some problems with the ingredients because the Flemish vocabulary is slightly different from the Dutch. When Jeroen speaks of ‘zwarte pens met appelspijs’ (black pudding with apple sauce) the Dutch don’t understand what he’s talking about, because in Dutch the same dish is called ‘bloedworst met appelmoes’ …

But as Shakespeare said: “What’s in a name?”… As long as it tastes good!

An organic whopper

2011-10-10T16:52:00.002+02:00

This morning my colleague C. arrived at the office with a big smile on her face. “I have a little present for you” she said. I was puzzled as I didn’t remember talking about anything in particular lately that could have caused this unexpected show of generosity.

She rummaged in her backpack and pulled out a small paper bag, the kind vegetables are wrapped in. She delicately handed it to me. While I opened it I could feel that she was watching me, anxious to see my reaction. “I’ve kept the biggest and the nicest one for you.” she said, adding some more suspense to the whole matter.

The bag contained a huge orangey-red tomato. It looked and smelled delicious. “It’s organically grown.” C. proudly said. I thanked her for her kind gesture and asked her what had incited her to present me with this big, shiny tomato.

A 'whopper' tomato: 12 cm in diameter and 333 gr.

C. lives out in the country, some 35 km from Brussels. There are a lot of large, traditional farms in the area. Although she doesn’t live on a farm herself, she’s a keen gardener. She also has several chickens, two donkeys and a dog. And I know from our mandatory early morning chats that she’s very much into healthy living and organically grown vegetables.

The tomato she gave me comes from a farm in her neighbourhood. It is run by a young couple who are putting a lot of time and effort in growing organic vegetables and producing cheese from organically raised and fed cattle. Last weekend, in order to promote the farm’s produce, C. had organized a tomato tasting session at her home. Fifteen or so invited friends and neighbours had feasted on several species of tomatoes which C. had cut into bite-size slices. With the tomatoes she had served vinaigrette, sliced baguette, cheese from the same farm and some chopped parsley and basil.

The initiative turned out to be success, because before leaving most of the participants put in an order for more organic vegetables, ranging from tomatoes and pumpkins, to leeks, celeriac, potatoes, beans and onions.

The large tomato in the bag was a ‘left-over’ from the tasting session. I asked C. whether it was a ‘coeur de boeuf’ (beef’s heart), a plausible suggestion considering its size. According to C. it wasn’t, although she wasn’t really sure.

I guess I’ll chop it up tonight and serve it with spring onions and a vinaigrette of olive oil, honey and garlic vinegar, pepper and salt. It should go well with the ‘chicken schnitzel’ I bought at my butcher’s last Saturday. A ‘chicken schnitzel’ is two thin slices of chicken breast, with a creamy filling of cheese and shredded ham. It’s rolled in beaten egg yolks and covered in bread crumbs. You simply fry it in a hot pan, with some olive or coconut oil, until it is golden brown and the cheese comes oozing out when you cut the schnitzel in half… Must run, because I can hear my stomach growling.

When good neighbours become good friends ..

2011-10-07T14:18:00.005+02:00

On September 10th, I posted about buying a new chandelier. You can read about it here, just in case you are new to this blog or missed the post.

My friend and I picked it up almost a month ago, but never got round to putting it up ... until yesterday. For the last four weeks the big white box had been sitting in the second bedroom, bothering my cleaning lady and giving my mother several sleepless nights.

My mother, who's the sweetest woman in the world, is also the most overprotecting person I know. She's constantly warning me about things being too difficult or too dangerous for me to do. After trying to lift the box containing the chandelier, she started having nightmares about it dropping on my head while I was holding it up in the air while my friend was attaching it to the ceiling and connecting the wires.

Last Sunday, during lunch, I noticed her glancing at the ceiling every now and then. In the end she could no longer keep her fears to herself. "You can't hang up that chandelier. It's too heavy. It will never hold and bring the whole ceiling down. You have to take it back to the store and buy something less heavy." She said without ever actually having seen the chandelier.

There was only one way to calm her down and to reassure her. Show the photo of the chandelier that I had taken in the showroom and promise her that I would get in an extra hand to help us.

Well, here it is ... at last.

What do you think?

For two days I wondered who would be available on Thursday afternoon to give us a hand. On Tuesday the answer presented itself in the person of my former upstairs’ neighbour, the husband of the young Italian couple. I ran into G. in the yard behind the apartment complex. I know he works as a waiter in a nearby restaurant and is at home between lunch and dinner shifts.

When I asked him, he immediately said 'yes'. However, he wouldn't be home till half past four; by then my friend would be gone, because he had an important appointment at 4 p.m. But then G, suggested that maybe his neighbour S. from across the landing might be at home. S. is a very nice man, who's always very cheerful and smiling. He's in his mid-thirties, tall and strong. The ideal man for the job. Moreover, a few days before my’ big move’ in March, he had spontaneously suggested to give me a hand if or when I needed one.

G. took my mobile phone number and promised to take up the matter with S. On Wednesday evening S. called me and we agreed that he would come at half past two on Thursday (yesterday) to give us a hand. When I told my mother about this little arrangement she was relieved that there was no longer a risk of me being crushed by the chandelier.

Yesterday my friend, S. and I worked for about an hour, assembling the chandelier, which came in bits and pieces, figuring out which was the best way to fix it to the ceiling without drilling holes and actually putting it up. We wore chirurgical gloves in order not to leave nasty fingerprints on the metal. Another reason for wearing the gloves were the halogen capsules that needed to be fitted into the glass domes. Having worked with a lamp bulb manufacturing company for five years in the nineties, I knew that bare halogen capsules are very fragile and that greasy finger prints can cause them to explode when lit.

After we had put up the chandelier, the three of us enjoyed a cool beer. When S. left, I gave him a bottle of bubbly to thank him for his time and help. That’s how good neighbours become good friends …

Wish I could have been there

2011-10-05T17:02:00.000+02:00

Last night I received a phone call from my former colleagues and friends B. and J.L. Last year I acted as their unofficial tour guide on their first trip to the Loire Valley. Recently, I was invited to their home for lunch. During the meal they informed me that they were going back to the Loire Valley in the beginning of September. Not as tourists this time, but as potential buyers of a holiday home.

They admitted that they had fallen in love with the region and that it looked like the ideal place to spend their vacations; alone or with their children and grandchildren. They were particularly interested in the area around Saint-Aignan on the Cher River.

May 2010: the railway crossing near Langeais in the Loire Valley.

I've always been amused and yet slightly bemused by the sign saying
'Un train peut en cacher un autre.' wondering what it implied.

And now they were back and had a lot to tell. B. and I spent more than an hour on the phone – which by the way is free between 5 p.m. and 6 a.m. and on weekends. It was fun learning about their adventures. They had visited several houses in and around Saint-Aignan and Selles-sur-Cher. Two of them appealed to them a lot. But one stood on too much land and it is hard to manage a large garden when you’re not living full-time on the premises. The other was perfect, yet too small as it only had two bedrooms, and B.and J.L. have two children and five grandchildren.

However, they found the experience very satisfying and they are more then ever determined to buy a house in the area. They will be going back in May to do some more house hunting.

They also did a bit of sightseeing. They returned to the village of Crissay-sur-Manse where I had taken them last year and where we had had a lovely salad lunch alfresco at the Auberge ‘Les Coups de Coeur’. Unfortunately they found the Auberge closed (weekly closing day).

They also tried their luck at 'L’Hélianthe' in Turquant; another restaurant they had very much enjoyed during last year’s visit. But the restaurant was also closed. B. told me that J.L. had been very disappointed as he had really, really liked the food and the atmosphere of the restaurant when we were there in May 2010.

Listening to B.’s stories made me realize how much I miss the Loire Valley. This year was the first time in 13 years that I didn’t visit my favourite holiday destination. I admit that I had a great time in Deal in July, and that it was fantastic seeing Teresa and Mats again, meeting Veronica and Sue and visiting all the places where I spent such happy holidays in the seventies. But somehow, a year without seeing my friends in the Touraine and not being able to visit Candes-Saint-Martin, Vouvray, Amboise … is really getting me down.

B. and I also made some arrangements for our next outing together: a gourmet trip to the Gaume region in southern Belgium, with an unusual snack lunch in farm-like tavern near the town of Neufchâteau and a gastronomic dinner in my favourite hotel-restaurant in the village of Habay-la-Neuve. When? End of this month. You’ll get a full report afterwards, of course!

Punk! - No, not the music ...

2011-10-03T18:26:00.003+02:00

I once read somewhere that there are more insects on this earth than there are people. And lately I’m beginning to believe this theory. Just a week ago this grasshopper spent the best part of the weekend hanging on for dear life on the glass of my living room window.

A photographic attempt
to make an insect look like a design item.

And tonight, when coming home for work, I found another intruder. This one had actually found its way into the apartment and quickly scurried into safety under a small lamp stand by the entrance door. At first, in the penumbra, I mistook it for a dark feather or a dot of dust floating across the floor. Why the darkness, you’ll ask, as it was only half past four when I got home. Well, when the temperatures are really high and the sun is shining at full strength, like it is nowadays, I find that the only way to keep to temperature in the apartment to a reasonable level is by tightly keeping the curtains shut during the day.

But back to my agile intruder. It didn’t take long before I realized that it wasn’t a fluffy dot of dust, but a real, one-inch in diameter black spider; the kind that makes women scream and jump onto chairs. Not me! No, because although heights give me vertigo and the fact that I’m a complete wimp when it comes to driving a car or diving into water, I’m not afraid of spiders. On the contrary! Don't worry, I would never keep a Tarantula as a pet, but I’d rather have one of those creeping over my arm than performing a Benji jump!

How to I explain this? Very simple; my mother has always been a big fan of spiders. For as long as I can remember I’ve never seen my mother jump with fright at the sight of a spider. When she finds a small spider in the house, she usually carefully picks it up between two fingers and puts it back in its natural habitat, the garden. When it’s a bit out of her league, she’ll try chasing it outside, urging it towards the door using a broom. Only if it won’t cooperate, she will kill it.

I guess I take after her. Small spiders are given a second chance. The large ones, I send to spider heaven. I don’t mind having them around as long as I can see them. But the thought of them walking over me while I’m asleep, doesn’t really appeal to me. Especially not since I’ve read somewhere that during our lives, we swallow at least a hundred insects while sleeping.

Regarding today’s visitor, I took out a broom and swiftly moved it around under the lamp stand under which the spider had disappeared. It didn’t take long before it reappeared, slightly stunned. Being lost for directions it gave me an opportunity to kill it. I won’t tell you how, but it was definitely more efficient than the method my friend used in the eighties when we were staying at a hotel in the Lorraine region in North-eastern France.

While I was changing in the bedroom before going down to have dinner, my friend called out to me to see this two-inch spider sitting in the bath tub. Instead of taking a shoe to kill it, he picked up my hair spray and generously sprayed it on the spider, giving it a completely new and spiky hairdo! But I guess 'punk' was in fashion then, wasn't it?

How do you react and act when you find a spider or any other creepy crawler for that matter in your home?

Summer or Autumn?

2011-10-01T11:50:00.004+02:00

It looks as if nature has totally lost control. Since last Monday we're having temperatures in the high 20°C. Temperatures we rarely had in July or August! And more sun, blue skies and warm, dry weather are expected for the next three days. Wednesdays is supposed to bring rain and as from Thursday is should get cooler.

I'm not complaining, but does that mean that Winter will be sudden, hard and long? I hope not. I don't even want to think about it, as I hate Winter, my two favourite seasons being Spring and Autumn.

So here are two photos I shot today, showing you signs of Autumn, while the weather is still Summerish ...

Clear blues skies on October 1st, 2011.
The leaves on this tree are beginning to turn brown, though.

On my way into village: the street littered in beech nuts and their shells
from the old beech tree that has been there for as long as I can remember.

Frank, our weatherman says that we have to go all the way back to 1921 for an Autumn like we are having now. I really hope the weather will hold till my blog friends from the UK are coming to Brussels ... (only three more weeks to go!), so that I can show them our capital in the best possible weather conditions.

It’s that time of year again

2011-09-30T14:50:00.004+02:00

Although we are enjoying exceptionally nice weather for the time of year - with blues skies, bright sunshine and temperatures as high as 28°c in some regions – there is no denying that autumn is on its way.

Yesterday morning, when I left for the office at around 6.30 a.m. it was pitch dark outside and there were some flimsy mist clouds hovering at ground level. An unmistakable sign of the upcoming season! And there was also that ‘je-ne-sais-pas’- kind of smell in the air, which I automatically associate with dry leaves, damp soil and wild mushrooms.

A recurrent phenomenon on our roads that also indicates that it’s that time of year again is the almost endless convoy of large agricultural tractors pulling huge trailers which are almost overflowing with sugar beets. The last two weeks I’ve seen many of those passing under my living room window. Unfortunately, I never had my camera at hand to shoot a photo. But I can assure you that the sight of these almost one story high vehicles and their load is very impressive.

A pile of freshly harvested sugar beets.

Photo: google images

According to the internet 90,000 ha, i.e. 20% of the agricultural land in Belgium, is used to grow sugar beets, producing a yearly crop of 6 million tons. The beets are not edible as such, simply because they are too hard. Therefore they are cooked and shredded. The pulp is put in a centrifuge to extract the juice. After crystallization, it is sold as granulated caster sugar or pressed into 2x2x1 cm lumps which are used to sweeten coffee or tea. The total yearly production amounts to 800,000 tons.

Granulated caster sugar from the plant in Tienen.

Another typical sugar is the ‘cassonade’ (in France called Vergeoise). It’s a light or dark brown sugar. Surprisingly enough it’s not made from sugar cane as one might expect. The light brown version is affectionately known as ‘kinnekessuiker’ – kids’ sugar. It owes its nickname to the image on the packaging, showing a 1950-1960tyish child eating a slice of bread richly covered in ‘cassonade’. Two years ago a search was launched to find the boy who at the time posed for this ever popular photo… and they found him. There is no further information though about whether he’s still putting ‘kinnekessuiker’ on his bread …

The 'kinnekessuiker'- kid
Photo: google images

Today there are still five plants in Belgium where sugar beets are being transformed into sugar, the most important one being located in Flandres in the town of Tienen, some 40 or so kilometres east of Brussels. The trailers with sugar beets that are passing beneath my window are almost certainly heading that way. The other plants are located in Wallonia, the southern, French speaking part of Belgium. You’ll find them in Fontenay, Brugelette, Wanze and Oreye.

Can you get 'kinnekessuiker' - Vergeoise - cassonade - where you live?

Dragon plant

2011-09-28T16:48:00.002+02:00

A few years ago my mother was alarmed by the presence of a strange plant in her garden. It probably grew out of a seed that ended up there via the droppings of a bird. At first she was in awe, because the seedling developed in something looking like a pumpkin plant. But little by little, it grew into a huge specimen, with large, menacing looking leaves. She tolerated the plant until ... the first fruits appeared. They were green, egg-shaped and sized and covered in ugly ferocious looking thorns. By then the plant was well over 1,50 m tall and my mother referred to it as the 'dragon bush'.

When it reached the point were it looked as if the plant was about to take over the whole back part of the garden, my mother called in a specialist. He didn't say what it was, but immediately identified it as being extremely dangerous and advised my mother to get rid of it as soon as possible, before the fruit would burst into seeds. He also said that it was important to make sure that the root was completely removed or killed in order to stop the plant from growing and spreading the next year.

We did exactly that, cutting up the plant with a large pruner and burning the branches and fruits. Next we poured chlore water and salt over what remained of the stalk and the root. This method proved to be efficient, because we haven't seen a similar plant since.

So imagine my surprise when last week my mother urged me to have a look at a new strange specimen that had appeared in the garden. It wasn't anywhere near the spot where the dragon plant had been, but my mother had no idea where it came from or what it could be.

Luckily I had my camera with me and I shot this photo.

The plant looks rather nice, with delicate tiny blue flowers, but it seems to grow out of control and the stems are really spiky.

Can anybody tell me what this plant is called and what we are to expect next year?

P.S. Recently we discovered the name of the dragon plant. Click on the link to find out what it was and why it was so important to get rid of it.

Fun for all

2011-09-26T17:00:00.005+02:00

Last Saturday, after lunch, I walked over to the village event organized on the occasion of the 'Journée du Client'. Although it was still early afternoon, there was already a small crowd sipping drinks on sidewalk terraces - a rare scene as usually this is the busiest cross roads of our village. On a normal week day, early morning and late afternoon, thousands and thousands of cars queue at these traffic lights making their way in and out of Brussels.

The music was provided by a small travelling jazz band playing catchy tunes ...

Further down the road a large bandstand had been prepared for the local brass band that would be performing later that afternoon. I didn't stay long enough to enjoy their concert.

The best and most interesting stall was definitely that of the delicassen shop where you could taste all kinds of olive oil.

The kids had fun too. Isn't this girl cute? It wasn't until I downloaded the photo on my laptop that I noticed how sweet she looked.
I hadn't even noticed her when I shot the photo. I wish I knew her parents,
because I'm sure they would love to have this photo of their little girl!

And finally this year's gift from my friendly butcher.
Two small bowls, perfect for serving an appetizer or a pudding.
I like the shape, don't you?

La Journée du Client

2011-09-24T15:15:00.000+02:00

For the last twenty-four years, the third weekend of September has been 'La Journée du Client' - The day of the customer. This yearly event is an initiative of the Federation of self-employed entrepreneurs, ranging from butchers and bakers, to car salesmen and local social organizations.

This year, the main road leading through the village centre has been closed
for traffic for the occasion and seen from my balcony it looks like a village fair.
This is at about 500 metres from my home.
The zoom on my new camera is amazing, isn't it?

It's tradition for shopkeepers to give their customers a special treat on this day. In the early years, they used to give customers a red rose. If you played your cards right and did all your weekly shopping on the same day, you could very easily find yourself with a nice bouquet of matching roses by the time you got home. Over the years shopkeepers have become more inventive and surprise their customers with more to their personal activity linked gifts.

I'll be popping over later this afternoon to see what my friendly butcher has in store for us this year ... I'll be back with a full report in my next post!

The elephant is moving east

2011-09-23T14:00:00.005+02:00

In my early blogging days I once wrote a post about Belgian chocolate. Since then I’ve regularly commented on the subject, because - beside Belgian beer - chocolate is definitely our best known and most appreciated export product.

At the time one of my first and since then most loyal followers, Carolyn who lives in the US (Hi Carolyn!) posted a comment saying that her favourite Belgian chocolate brand was called ‘The Elephant’. Having lived in Belgium all my life with a mother who for as long as I can remember has been a chocoholic, I was ashamed to admit that I didn’t know the brand. I even asked Carolyn whether she was sure it was Belgian. At the same time I searched the internet looking for the forger who had the nerve to pretend that his chocolate was Belgian.

It took a while but finally I came across a website of an online grocery store, which advertised a chocolate called The Elephant. I clicked on the link and a photo of a bar of chocolate appeared. And there it was: The Elephant aka as Côte d’Or, or actually it’s the other way round: the actual brand is Côte D’or and ‘The Elephant is just a nickname, referring to the image of the animal that, since the 19th century when the company was founded, has been posing as the logo of the extremely well-known and high-quality chocolate.

Noir brut: a bitter chocolate with 86% of cacao,
which is supposed to be extremely good for you ...
Doctors recommend 7 gr per day
to protect yourself against heart diseases.

I’m not going to bore you with the company’s long history, but believe me when I say that it really is a Belgian institution, with solid Belgian roots and 'ancestors'.

So you can image the outrage that struck the Belgian chocolate lovers, when the company announced that the production of one of the company’s figure heads was being moved to Eastern Europe. The Chokotoff – I’ve written about it before – would no longer be ‘made in Belgium’. Despite the general protest the Côte d’Or management stuck to its plans and the Chokotoff was shipped off to some obscure destination. The management however assured us that only the best Belgian chocolate would be used to produce this national icon.

At about the same time a new Chokotoff was launched: the White Chokotoff. It became a real hype and by the time that most people had found their way to the supermarket to buy and try this new sweet, the limited stock had already been sold. For weeks and weeks people desperately tried to lay their hands on this ‘forbidden fruit’. All in vain.

Until … last Tuesday, when all of a sudden the White Chokotoff magically reappeared on the shelves as a ‘limited edition’. Of course, I couldn’t resist. And here it is.

I’ve even tested it for you. It’s nice; very nice even. Yet it can’t beat the real thing. In fact, it’s basically the same, except that the outer coating of rich dark chocolate has been replaced by a much sweeter white chocolate. The heart of the sweet is identical though. A sticky, chocolaty toffee that takes fifteen minutes or longer to melt in your mouth, filling it with the well-known and much loved flavour that no one can resist. Believe me,I don’t know anyone who doesn’t love a Chokotoff.

Now that I’ve sacrificed myself to be able to write this highly scientific report for you – I also had to buy a bag of black Chokotoffs in order to compare – I have no other option than to eat all 600 gr of them. Any volunteers to help me?

One is the loneliest number*

2011-09-19T17:26:00.000+02:00

This guy really has an original way of displaying his house number.

When we walked past the house last Friday, we noticed that an advertising agency has set up its offices in this old building. You can't beat those creative minds when it comes to being original, can you?

(*) Remember which band had a song by this title in the seventies?

Another gourmet post

2011-09-18T11:56:00.000+02:00

Our shopping expedition last Friday was swift and efficient. We picked up the chandelier I had ordered ...

It's there somewhere ... care to take a guess which one it is?

... and visited the showroom of a major bathroom supply store to have a look at some showers for my mother's bathroom.

It was almost half past twelve when we parked the car close to a bistro in a nearby village. We had had pre-luncheon drinks on the terrace in the past and my friend, who had been inside ordering and paying for the them, had noticed that they also served food. The place looked very cosy and the menu card had some interesting dishes on it.

A cosy interior, not unlike an English pub.

Nothing fancy, just decent and traditional Belgian classics. So we decided to give it a try. And we weren't disappointed. On the contrary. My friend had some tasty 'Carbonades à La Flamande', Flemish style beef stew, and I had my all-time favourite: 'Boulettes sauce tomates' (meatballs in tomato sauce).

Carbonades à la Flamande.
You can just make out the meatballs in the background.

Both dishes came with 'frites' (French fries), of course, and we had Belgium's most popular lager-type beer with it, called Jupiler. The food was delicious and the bill very modest; only 43 euros (including 4 beers and 2 coffees). A bargain ... We will definitely go back there!

A daily gourmet visitor

2011-09-17T14:00:00.000+02:00

Last night I dropped in at my mother’s to tell her about the ‘shower shopping’ we did on her behalf. She was resting after having spent the best part of the afternoon working in the garden. I can’t get over the fact that she's still so active at her age, 83 since last month. I simply can’t imagine doing all the things she’s doing when I’ll have her age; if I ever get to live that long!

She was sitting in the veranda enjoying the evening sun and looking at her garden. I pulled up a chair and explained all the details concerning her new shower. At some point I noticed that she was hardly listening to me and was focusing on something in the garden. A few seconds later I saw what it was …

'Peekaboo!!'

Twice a day, around lunch and supper time, this cute pussycat comes strolling down the garden path and takes up a strategic position under the kitchen window. And there it waits, patiently, until my mother has finished her meal … as it knows that it’ll get the leftovers. Mind you, it’s a very discerning pussycat, that won’t eat anything that is overcooked or too spicy. It doesn’t like sauces and won’t even touch tinned food!

Except last night. My mother had had some tinned mackerel fillets on toast and there was one fillet left. She put it on a plate which she placed on ground at about a metre from where miss pussycat was sitting. As soon as my mother had closed the door of the veranda, the cat casually walked over to the plate. It sniffed at the mackerel, looked up to the sky as if to check there were no predators lurking overhead that might try to attack and steal the food. Reassured the cat sniffed the fillet again and carefully licked it. Apparently it liked what it tasted, because after a second glance into the air, it delicately started nibbling the mackerel, licking its ‘lips’ frequently.

I'm warning you! Stay away from my food.

Hardly a minute later, the mackerel and the cat had disappeared. We saw the cat strolling up the garden path again. At the end of it it disappeared into the bushes … Until tomorrow, well actually today, when it will turn up again around lunchtime. My mother is making chipolatas and spinach for lunch today. I wonder whether miss pussycat will like the spicy chipolata sausages …

A black-out and a shock

2011-09-16T11:13:00.009+02:00

The past week was very hectic, especially at the office. By the time I got home, my brain was literally drained and I couldn’t muster the energy or ideas to write a blog post. But today is Friday and my day off and the weather is fairly nice. So my friend and I are off on a shopping expedition: getting the new chandelier I ordered two weeks ago and collecting ideas for a new shower for my mother's bathroom. We’ll also have lunch at a restaurant and do the weekly grocery shopping. A lot to look forward to!

I’ll be back later today to tell you how on Monday this past week started with a black-out and ended with a shock …

--------

7 p.m. update

Last Monday, I woke to up the usual routine … until I opened the door that leads unto the landing and the stair well. When I pushed the time switch that turns on the light in the stair well, nothing happened. As I had lent my flash light to my mother, I had no other option than to descend the stairs in a complete black-out. There is a skylight over the stair well which provides daylight during the day, but at 6.30 a.m. in mid-September it isn’t of much use.

I made my way down the 16 or so steps, carefully holding on to the banister on the left and the wall on the right, balancing my handbag on my left lower arm, and using the discrete light of my mobile phone to distinguish at least the edge of each step. And I made it, unharmed.

Later that morning I called my landlord and informed him of the problem. He promised to take care of it and I spent the rest of the day carefree except for the stress linked to this important product launch which has been keeping me (pre)occupied for the last four weeks.

On my way home, and because I like to come prepared, I dropped in at a local supermarket and bought this trendy flashlight. Just in case the problem wasn’t solved the next day. I didn’t feel like risking my neck again venturing down the staircase in complete darkness.

When I came home, there was a paper taped over the downstairs’ doorbells indicating that they were out of order. The lights were still out of order too, but the skylight provided enough light to find my way up without tripping over or missing a step.

Little after seven o’clock, while I was watching the evening news, the doorbell rang! Great, this meant that the problem had been solved. I picked up the speakerphone. The man on the other side introduced himself as the janitor. He explained that he was checking whether the system was in working order again and enquired whether I had any other complaints. Although I had none, I said I would come down to explain to him what had happened and to thank him for his quick intervention.

I walked down the stairs and saw this silhouette standing out against the daylight in the doorway. Somehow it looked familiar. And that is when the ‘shock’ came. This was the same guy with whom I had had this awful dispute a year ago when I was struggling with the damp problem in my former apartment. At the time I assumed he was the landlord of the next door apartment which might have been the cause of the problem. He had been extremely rude, stumping into my apartment, violently pulling away he curtains looking for more damp stains and calling me irrational, hysterical and so on. I admit that after these insults I hadn’t been really kind towards him either.

Back to last Monday night! It was an awkward situation but somehow I kept my wits and I walked over to him calmly and with a big smile: ‘I think we have met before, haven’t we?’ I enquired. ‘Yes, we have.’ he answered, tending me his hand to shake it. I immediately accepted this gesture of reconciliation saying: ‘It wasn’t in the best circumstances, was it?’ He laughed, shook my hand and said ‘No, but let’s forget about that now.’ We chatted a little longer about the ‘black-out’ and what might have caused it.

By the time he left we were on what I would like to call ‘friendly’ terms, but it was clear that this guy is a real ‘macho’, who has very little respect for (independent) women. However, I must admit that he’s very practical and efficient. Much more than D. my former janitor who never took the damp problem in my apartment as a serious matter. I’d rather have this ‘bully’ as a janitor anytime, than that skimpy creature D. who pretends to be a janitor.

A ‘Maréchal’ Sunday lunch

2011-09-12T17:58:00.006+02:00

As promised in yesterday’s post, here’s the recipe for ‘Filet de pork Maréchal’.

What you need (serves four):

Find the missing ingredient!

I forgot to put it out for the photo ...

What you need (serves four):

- 500 gr of lean pork filet/roast
- 250 gr of mushrooms
- 250 gr of ham – boiled or braised (Jambon blanc)
- 200 gr of grated cheese – Gruyère, Emmenthal or Comté
- 20 ml of veal stock
- milk
- Juice of half a lemon or lime
- Two table spoons of flour
- butter, oil, pepper, salt

This is what you do:

Sear the pork on all sides in some butter. Put the meat in an oven proof dish, pour the butter over it and cover the dish with a sheet of aluminium foil before placing in the oven at 180°C for about 40 to 50 minutes.

Sear the pork on all sides.

In the meantime, very finely chop the mushrooms and the ham. Fry the mushrooms in some oil, adding pepper, salt and the lemon juice. When the mushrooms have given off their moisture, drain them, reserving the liquid.

Next make a béchamel sauce, using 30 gr. of butter, the flour and the stock. Add the grated cheese and keep stirring until it has melted. Add the mushroom liquid, the chopped mushrooms and ham, and some milk in case the sauce is too thick. Set aside.

A nice and glossy sauce ready to be poured over pork slices.

When the meat is ready, take it out of the oven, remove it from the dish and wrap it in aluminium foil. Set it aside and let it rest for 10 minutes. This way, the meat can relax, which will make it a lot juicer and more tender. After 10 minutes remove the foil and cut the meat into very thin slices. Place them in a clean oven proof dish and pour the sauce over it. Sprinkle some left over grated cheese over the top and put under the grill until the extra cheese has melted and turned golden brown.

The sliced pork covered in sauce, ready to go under the grill.

Serve immediately with mashed potatoes or ‘pommes croquettes’. I used frozen croquettes as they are a bit of a hassle to make at home.

The deep-fried 'croquettes' ready to serve.

Yesterday, my pork Maréchal was a big hit! Both my mother and I enjoyed it immensely. Not only did it make up for last weeks catastrophe; it also brought back nice memories from the time when my mother used to serve this dish in the early eighties when my father and husband were still alive.

Sunday lunch – Maréchal style

2011-09-11T12:07:00.006+02:00

It’s been a while since I’ve done a ‘Sunday lunch’ post, isn’t it? There are two reasons: 1) I was too busy writing about my Deal adventures and 2) It has taken me some time to get used to the new electric stove. I’ve always cooked on electric devises, so it’s not the energy source that has been causing the problem. For ten years I cooked on a vitro-ceramic plate, which is very ‘reactive’, meaning that it is easy to control the heat. In my current apartment the kitchen has a classic, 1990-ties electric stove, with four solid black steel electric hubs.

Don’t worry, we haven’t been starving. I have been cooking lunches and other meals on the stove, but I tried to KISS [Keeping It Simple and Stupid]. I also produced some horrors, like last week: a tasteless stuffed courgette with mashed potatoes. My mother ate it, because she was hungry, but I could tell that she didn’t like it.

Today I’m making a special effort to make for for last week’s disaster. I’m doing a ‘Pork roast, Maréchal style’. Recipe and photos of the final result yet to come …

Soon gone

2011-09-10T11:59:00.001+02:00

Next week it’ll be six months since I moved into my new apartment. I’ve settled in nicely and am enjoying my new, damp-free surroundings.

You remember that I did quite some decoration work (well, had it done, to be precise) and that I bought new curtains, a sideboard and a kitchen cupboard, a carpet and two new armchairs. The shopping and decoration part was fun … but also rather demanding on my credit card. So there were still some ‘loose ends’, things to take care of when my savings account had regained its normal ‘stamina’.

One of the ‘loose ends’ is this lamp - called a 'lampe de braconnier' in French (poacher's lamp) - hanging over the dining room table. There are two more like this: one in the bedroom and one over the drawing room part of the living room. The bedroom is not really an issue, as I have a nice bedside lamp which is largely sufficient to find my way around the room. So the solitary lamp against the ceiling doesn’t really bother me. The drawing room is a bit of problem from an aesthetic point of view, but that’s all.

The real problem, however, is this little guy. So two weeks ago I decided to go and buy a new ‘chandelier’. My friend and I visited a store called Massive, which is part of the Dutch Philips Empire. The showroom is huge and the assortment gigantic. I had a vague idea of what I wanted: something modern, aluminium or stainless steel, with LED lamps. We toured the showroom several times and saw four fixtures that were really nice. I quickly ruled out one when I saw the price, though: 1,140 euro! Of course, it was the one I liked best, but one has to remain reasonable, hasn’t one?

One down, three to go. We toured the showroom a fifth time, undecided. But somehow I kept returning to the same one, time after time. My friend, who knows me as if we had been made out of the same block of clay, immediately knew what this meant: this was the fixture that would shine over my dining room table!

If you expected to find a picture of it here, I must disappoint you. The ‘chandelier’ was available but they didn’t have the required LED lamps. We therefore put in an order. And then, yesterday I received an e-mail saying that my order was waiting for me in the showroom. We will be picking it up next Friday. I can’t wait to see it hanging in its place. It’ll make a huge difference from the solitary light bulb I have staring at for the last six months, and from the French 19th century bistro-style chandelier I had in my former apartment.

Biking

2011-09-07T17:32:00.000+02:00

Seen in a nearby village ...

Now why would anyone want to hang his bike on the wall?

Autumn already?

2011-09-06T17:10:00.000+02:00

Our 'national' weather man Frank has just announced on TV that the very first autumn storm is on its way. It's supposed to 'strike' tonight with strong winds up to 90 km/h in coastal areas and 80 km/h in the rest of the country. Peanuts, if you compare it to Irene and other natural phenomena we've been confronted with lately.

A peaceful summer sky over Deal on July 6th, 2011.

Only three weeks ago a rock festival in Belgium was completely 'blown away' by a storm. Five young people died and several were severely injured when a large marquee collapsed on them while they were seeking shelter from the storm. Wind gusts up to 150 km/h were recorded. It was a very local phenomenon, although the whole country took a serious bashing, with streets being flooded, falling trees and two or three houses burning down after being hit by lightning. Let's hope it won't come to that tonight.

I don't mind the occasional, harmless storm, because it makes me want to cuddle up in my armchair with a nice glass of wine, watching a good show on TV. Autumn has its charm too ... but it's much too early. We've hardly had any summer this year!

The little green monster …

2011-09-05T17:52:00.000+02:00

Remember my friends, B. and J.L. with whom I enjoyed a memorable week in the Loire Valley last year? And only recently I spent a very pleasant afternoon and evening at their house, eating a delicious lunch B. had prepared, looking at photos of last year’s trip and catching up on the latest news.

One of the things they told me was that they would soon be returning to the Loire Valley … to look for a house. They had mentioned before that they really liked the region and that it was the perfect place to buy a summer house.

This would be the perfect house, wouldn't it?
Seen in Angles-sur-Anglin in June 2008.

Well, yesterday morning they left on a scouting trip, visiting several areas, starting in Saint-Aignan, where Ken and Walt live. Next they will move on to southern Touraine, Susan and Simon’s stamping ground … and who knows what other places they will (re)discover?

If you are good at reading between the lines, you’ll notice … the little green monster, aka ‘jealousy’, lurking in the bushes. But can you blame me? After all they are living my dream …

What the heck! It only proves that I’ve been right all the time. The Loire Valley is the place to be for those who want to live the ‘Good Life’! Go for it B. and J.L., and make sure to buy a house with a guest room -preferably with a walk-in shower …

Happy house hunting, my dear friends!

The end

2011-09-02T13:34:00.015+02:00

Well, we’ve come to the end of our journey. Here’s the last instalment about my short trip down memory lane, to Deal, the Kentish seaside village where I spent many a happy summer in the seventies.

As I mentioned in my last post, I had to wait for about half an hour in the entrance hall of Ashford station before check-in started. The check-in counter was located on the first floor, at the top of the stairs. There was another Eurostar scheduled prior to the one for Brussels. Its destination was Avignon, in the south of France. Judging by the crowds that went up those stairs, it was very popular.

At half past seven the monitors by the entrance switched to ‘Check-in Brussels – open’. I went through the usual routine of having my ticket checked, my luggage scanned and showing my identity card (we don’t need a passport to travel between countries that are part of the European community) to a French (???) policeman. No Belgian police in sight! Next I arrived in the main waiting room, which was awfully crowded … until the passengers for Avignon were invited to go to platform 4.

This guy was obviously nervous or anxious to get on the train,
because he kept pacing up and down the waiting room.

When I glanced at the timetable I noticed that the Eurostar to Brussels would be 15 minutes late. There was nothing else to do than wait. I was beginning to feel a little hungry as I didn’t have any breakfast at The Oak. There were a lot of food stands in the waiting hall, but I resisted the temptation to buy a sandwich as I knew that they would be serving breakfast on the train.

Finally, we were invited to go down to the platform. The train, which came from London, had already made up 5 minutes of its initial delay. It was very impressive to see the train pulling into the station. The engine is a formidable machine! I hadn’t seen it in Brussels on the trip out, as Brussels-Midi is the terminus and the train had been ‘waiting’ for its passengers.

The staff was as efficient as ever. The passengers who had boarded the train in London had already had their breakfast and the newcomers where served in a jiffy. I was so hungry that I forgot to take a photo BEFORE eating it …

As the train had been late, there was a short delay at the tunnel too. We sat there for well over five minutes before slowly moving towards the ‘black hole’. Just when we were entering the tunnel I received an SMS message on my mobile phone from Mats enquiring whether I made it to the station in time. Mats would be taking the Eurotunnel car train later that morning and he had been my back-up plan in case I missed the Eurostar.

Speeding through the tunnel under the English Channel.

In the tunnel and in France the train travelled at very, very, very high speed. The carriage violently swayed from left to right. Apparently, the driver was trying to make up for the delay … and he did! Because we pulled into Brussels hardly 3 minutes late! Bravo Eurostar!

Pulling into Brussels-Midi. The tall building with the dome
is the 'Palais de Justice',
Belgium's main Court of Justice.

I took a cab home, where my mother was waiting for me, with a lunch of sausages, cauliflower in béchamel-cheese sauce and boiled potatoes, a tradition we instaured in the seventies. Home sweet home … and yet a load of happy memories of three fabulous days of meeting old and new friends.

The story ends here, but I still have a lot of photos to show you. I may throw them in every now and then, when there is not much happening in my usual humdrum life. Thank you for sticking with me for the last two months! I hope you enjoyed it ...