To a warm country

Three sad noses press against the window of the back door. The glass is studded with drops. It is raining. Again. And it is cold. Come, Tijm pulls his sisters away. They get their rug sacks, their suitcase and climb up the stairs. In the suitcase they pile clothes. Linde’s new pink sundress. Tijm’s favourite checked shorts and his new giraffe shirt. They don’t forget swimming costumes and towels, and in the side pocket they stuff toothbrushes. Tijm puts his new flowery short on, and Linde slips into her strawberry dress. Flip-flops on their toes. Jasmijn toddles around with her baby float. She stuffs and stuffs, but all inflated, it won’t fit in the suitcase.

When they walk down the stairs fully loaded I ask what they plan to do with all that stuff.

‘We are moving,’ answers Tijm, ‘to a warmer country.’

‘Nice,’ I say. ‘Can I come?’

I can.

Tijm puts all the chairs in a row. The little bear chair, the old wobbly one, the dining chairs and the orange high chair.

Jasmijn climbs on the bear chair.

‘That one’s for you, mama,’ the stewardess points.

I sit down while Tijm loads the luggage on the plane. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Australia,’ yells the pilot.

‘No, Singapore,’ screams the stewardess.

Before things escalate, I propose: ‘What if, we go to Singapore first, and then fly on to Australia? That’s how it happens with real planes. It is too far to fly to Australia at once, so planes always stop over in Singapore to rest and refuel.’

Only when all of the staff have agreed we take off. But, somewhere over the Indian Ocean danger arises. One of the passengers decides to leave the plane.

‘No, Jasmijn,’ yells Linde. ‘She will fall in the sea, help!’

But Jasmijn has left already. ‘Let her go, she’ll be all right.’ I point out. She brought her float.

We fly on, calmly and without further problems.

‘We are going to land, in Singapore,’ the pilot announces.

We fasten our seatbelts and hold on tight for landing. When I want to disembark the pilot and stewardess protest loudly. We still need to go to Australia.

‘No mama, we won’t have anyone left.’

I look around and have an idea. I put Poppa, Nelly, Miss Piggy and Duck on the empty chairs. ‘You guys fly on,’ I say. ‘Mama has work to do. Mama is very busy. Mama has many things to organise.’

Because, yes, it is a lot of work, moving to a warmer county. Removers need to be found, flights be booked, temporary houses be located, kids registered at schools, houses de-cluttered, assets sold, a rabbit re-homed, and leaving parties organised.

Later, behind the computer, Tijm stands behind me. ‘How many days until we move, mama?’ he asks.

I count down. And, counting, both euphoria and panic strike. Only forty. Forty days. Forty nights. And then we will move to Singapore!

Power to the princess!

Yesterday a little girl turned three. A very special occasion, off course, and a princess party was requested, o yes, and a puppet show. Since mama is not too mean a mummy, she complied, grudgingly, but readily. However, there are limits. There is just so much pink and sweetness this mama can handle. So when it came to the puppet show, and the story line, she decided that all those disney stories were just not exactly what little girls needed in the twenty-first century. So she wrote her own. And, just in case you have a birthday coming up soon, of a little girl in need of some princess glitter, I'll share it with you. In hope we can reach all those little girls out there and show them what a real princess is made of!

The princess that did not want to marry

Once upon a time, in a country far, far away, lived a princess. Her name was Linde. She had long, blond hair, and eyes dark as coal. She had beautiful dresses, and her favourite one was pink.

Linde: Hello children, how nice to see so many of you. Are you having a birthday party? Who’s birthday is it? It is my birthday too today, did you know? Tonight we will have a fabulous ball, right here, in the palace. We will dance all night. I love dancing, it is my absolute favourite. Do you like dancing too?

But, do you know what is so stupid? My parents, the king and queen, they want me to marry. With a prince. A real prince. In a minute a lot of princes will come and visit, and I have to pick one to open the ball with tonight, dance the first dance. Yuk. I am sure they will all be horrid. I do not want to marry. I want to dance, and play. I do not want to be queen. Then I’ll have to do bow for people all day, and wave from the golden carriage, and be nice, and formal and stiff. No!

Queen comes up: Come on Linde, the princes have arrived. Let me see your hair, and your face, is it clean? Hurry up, and stand straight, dear.

The king and queen sit on the throne. One by one the princes are presented. First, a young boy in a football outfit comes up, running about.

Football Prince: Oi, princess! Got a ball, or something to shoot about? Nah. Come and see my big game tomorrow. You can sit in the stalls, be beautiful, smile and wave at me!

Linde, angrily: I do NOT like football. And I don’t want to sit, be beautiful and wave. I want to dance. And play in the wood, with sticks.

‘Next,’ shouts the king.

Prince Monkey comes up, bows, says ooh, ah, ooh ooh ooh, and monkeys around.

Linde, angrily: What a terrible prince. He has no manners at all. He acts just like a monkey!

‘Next,’ shouts the king.

Prince Penguin bows, ‘good afternoon princess. How do you do?’

Linde, icily: Hello.

Prince Penguin: Sweet princess, you are so pretty. I would love to take you to my Ice Palace, with it’s winding towers of sparkling blue. We can slip and slide down the stairs and have so much fun.

Linde: No. I do not like blue. Slipping and sliding will ruin my dress. And most of all, I do not want a palace made of ice. Ice should be ice cream, three scoops in a bowl, with a cherry on top. No. I won’t marry him. No!

Linde shouts: I will never marry, do you hear me? I won’t. Tonight I will dance with my friends. Or, even better. I will dance with a frog. That will show them. Pfft (blows raspberry) I don’t want some poncey prince. I am going to the woods, and I will play with sticks and get very dirty.

Linde, in the woods, with a stick: I told you, I won’t marry those stupid princes. A snobby footballer, who just wants me as his trophy? Or a crazy monkey? Or that ice penguin with his frozen palace? You wouldn’t want that either, would you? I don’t want to marry anyway; I don’t want to be queen. I’ll have to make stiff bows, wave from the golden carriage, and sit still and straight, and host dinners. No. I won’t do it. I want to always stay a princess, and dance all day and play in the woods. And when I grow up, I want to decide what I’ll be. Maybe a doctor. Or a pilot. Or the king. Yes, that would be good, because everyone would have to do as I say. Yes, don’t you agree, being king is be best.

Frog comes up, ribbiting.

Linde: Look a frog. I will take him to the dance, that will show my parents. Hello frog, would you like to dance? Linde and the frog dance and play.

Linde: Children, do you know what I am thinking? Frogs are often enchanted, aren’t they? He could be a prince? What do you think, shall I kiss him?

Unsure: No, maybe I shouldn’t. He is very green, and very slimy.

The children encourage her to do it anyway, and what do you think! The frog turns into a handsome prince. The prince gives Linde a big hug and a kiss. He seems very happy, and then retreats.

Prince charming: Thank you, princess, for kissing me. Very decent of you. But. I suppose I have to marry you now? He looks at the children. That is the proper thing for a prince to do, isn’t it, when a princess kisses him back from being a frog?

Linde: Actually, I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t want to marry at all. I do not wish to be queen, and bow, and wave from the golden carriage, and sit still and stiffly. I want to run in the woods and play with sticks. And when I grow up I want to be what I choose. Pilot, or doctor.

Prince charming: Oh, I love playing with sticks! And I don’t want to marry either, at least not yet. Let’s be friends, and always do what we want.

Linde: Yes! And can I then be king when we are bigger?

Prince charming: Well, we’ll have to see about that.

Linde: All right. But, one more thing. Would you mind dancing the first dance with me at my birthday ball tonight?

Prince charming: I’d be honoured to. I love to dance!

Together they dance away. 

The mamamonster

When there is too much screaming around me I can no longer think clearly. The pressure in my head builds up, higher and higher, until it bursts. I lose all patience, if I ever had any, and the screaming needs to get out. Out of my own mouth. The mamamonster has been freed.

There is a lot of screaming in our house. The vicious cycle twists round and down, they scream, I scream back, they scream louder and then me too. I barely dare go outside, in the garden. What will the neighbours think? Is it good that they can’t understand my Dutch, and can’t hear how I bawl at every kid’s nagging? Or is it a shame they can’t hear how they moan my life into a living hell, and understand my wrath is well deserved. I know I am the eldest. I know I should be the wisest. I know they are four, two and one years old. But the mamamonster is not sensible. She knows patience nor common sense. She let’s herself be dragged into pools of hormonal fury. The mamamonster talks in low-pitched, separate, demanding words. Stop. Now. Or…. then a silence follows, in which she thinks of terrible things. Or I will hurt you, thinks the mamamonster. I will wring you out till there is no scream left in you, I will kick you flying over the hedge, I will box your ears till they pound more than mine. But she will reach into the depths of her soul and drag out the last ounce of self-control she can muster from the deepest of her monster belly and growls: Or… Go. To. Your. Room. Now! The last word is spoken with her deepest, darkest voice, and all the terrible things shine through her piercing eyes. The frightened children start crying, which works like oil on the monster’s fire and makes her grab arms and legs and she drags the screaming inside, into the study and closes the door.

Surrounded by silence the mamamonster retreats, and when the children reappear, with crocodile’s tears on their cheeks, her last remains are cuddled away, send back to her dark cave deep inside.

But the next time there is arguing, over the colour of the cereal bowl, over who gets the spotted spoon, over the food that is not their favourite, when there is fighting, pushing, hear-pulling, and screaming, the mamamonster will rear it’s ugly head again. At the next tooth that breaks and sets off days of crying. When they throw food, moan, whinge, yell and squeal. When they are bored, when they whine, three times, mama, mahma, mahama. When the shoes are still not on after I asked ten times. When they cry, cry, cry and cry. When they scream. When the sound exceeds by far the allowed maximum of decibels at any other workplace the mamamonster will soar and roar. The mamamonster is mean. Little children beware. She is on her way.

On safari

‘Mama,’ Tijm calls. ‘We are going on safari.’
His rug sack is ready. The binoculars are in, the book of plants, some biscuits. From the handle bar of his scooter the tent dangles.
‘Come on,’ he calls, scooting on.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
‘Exploring,’ he answers. ‘To find the waterfall.’
Just before the bridge we turn left, into the wilderness, and the mud.
Tijm gets his binoculars. He peers over the water, then at me.
‘Mama, you are very small. You are very far away.’
‘You need to turn it around,’ I point out. ‘What is far will become big and close.’
‘No,’ he yells. ‘It is right like this. Look, everything looks far away now.’
What can I say? In Dutch we call binoculars “far-looker”. So I nod.
Satisfied, Tijm looks around him. He spots something, far away, next to his foot.
Little flowers, like stars. We look them up in his book of plants.
Linde laughs at the name, speenkruid.
‘For Jasmijn,’ she grins, as speen means dummy.
She has found something too. Little brown balls, in the muddy water.
‘Frogspawn,’ Tijm tells us. ‘We must to take some home. Then we can make frogs. Just like at school.’
‘Maybe on the way back,’ I answer. ‘We haven’t found the waterfall yet.’
‘O. Yes,’ says Tijm and pulls Linde’s hand. I follow, drudgingly, with the buggy through the mud. Tijm and Linde run over the narrow sluice. The buggy won’t fit.
‘Mama,’ Tijm points at a wobbly bridge. ‘That is for you.’
Step by step I stagger over the boards. We have to, as we must find the waterfall. Tijm and Linde found it already. The water swishes over the stones, foaming, and roaring softly. Tijm climbs down, onto the stepping-stones.
Linde reaches out, ‘Mama, help.’
I help her over and look back, to the heavy buggy, and suddenly I do not know how to do this. Yet I do it. I step back, get Jasmijn and park her, behind a fence, as far away from the water as I can.
‘Tijm,’ I order, ‘watch your sister. Make sure she does not get near the water.’
As fast as I can I hop back, from stone to stone, looking back over my shoulder, to fetch the empty buggy. On the way back I look at my feet for just a moment, and when I look back up Linde and Jasmijn are in a tree. Jasmijn is nowhere.
My heart stops and I jump on land.
‘Where is Jasmijn?’ I scream, ‘you were watching her!’
‘There,’ Tijm points, calmly.
A bit further down I see Jasmijn’s back disappear into the park. Safely at the field we put up the tent, eat biscuits and pick flowers for our tea. Jasmijn keeps running away and on the way home Tijm falls in the rivers while scooping up frogspawn.
With wet wellies he screams the whole way home.
‘Mama,’ he yells.
‘Stop it,’ I grumble, ‘are you a tough explorer?’
‘But mama, there is a frog in my wellie.’
We poor it out, not once, not twice, but three times, until we are home and ready for bath.

On my facebook page you can find pictures of our exciting trip!

Mama tea

She needs to be dealt with, this shouting, stressed out mummy. I need to relax. Pondering behind my laptop I know what I need. A week at a spa, with yoga, massage and steamrooms. Me, enveloped in a chocolate-lavender wrap, listening to soothing muzak, nibbling on celery stalks and sushi. And daddy at home with the kids. That will add to my relaxation, revelling in the idea of him struggling, handling a toddler, a pre-schooler and a baby on his own. With two loads of laundry a day, three healthy meals, and a house where you can put one foot in front of the other without stumbling. I picture it, blissfully, until the bubble pops with a bang. He’ll laugh, say it will take the new and relaxed me five minutes at home to be her old angry self. And he is right, off course. I need a better plan. I think again, and if a personal masseuse won’t be an option either, what will? Pills, no. Homeopathy, I don’t know. Herbal concoctions, those I like. Herbs contain enough molecules to satisfy my scientific brain and enough magic to warm my heart. I sigh with relief. Finally, a plan. And how useful I named my children after herbs.

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Growing up

I no longer have a baby. On wobbly legs she toddles, round and round.
Zigzagging she sways through rooms, to where big sister catches her in widespread arms.
They leave the the hall door open, and before I can blink, she is up the stairs. From the top step she waves down, cooing triumphantly.
Tijm and Linde trek up as well, rug sacks on, to play in their room. Jasmijn follows, quick as a dart. Tijm clicks the stair gate, safely shut behind her.
I want to get her, take her down, secure under my watchful eyes.
‘No,’ Tijm shouts. ‘You can’t come up.’
Three a row, they grin at me from behind the gate.
‘I just want to get Jasmijn,’ I try.
‘No,’ says Tijm. ‘Jasmijn has to stay here. She is our friend.’
Linde nods. ‘Our fliend.’
I go back down, my heart in my mouth. Upstairs I hear clattering, laughing, bumping. Only a few screams. When I go up to check, around the edge of the door, six eyes eye me indignantly. Defeated I retreat.

I no longer have a toddler boy. With his tongue between his lips, in utmost concentration, he writes. Tijm, he writes. And 4. Linde, papa, mama and Jasmijn. Tom is easy, that is just like Tijm. In mass production he draws trains, trees, monsters giraffes and people with heads, bodies and feet.
Then, he rushes to the laptop, ‘type, mama, can I type?’
His fingers dance over the keys. Opa, oma. Opi. Omi. Omama, Roos, Bas and Maas. Others are more difficult and mama spells it out. An F, an R and an E. Slowly Frederiek appears on the screen. Then the A, for Anneke.
Later he nestles in the corner of the sofa with the Ipad, hidden under a plaid. He plays Sonic, Agry Birds, until I catch him on You Tube, staring at blazing guns and bombs, and I hide it on top of the fridge. Were we living back home, in the Netherlands, he’d have started school. He is so ready, my big boy.

And then there is Linde. The most incredible 2 year old ever. With bold, big eyes she defies me, staring over her plate.
‘Don’t want it,’ she pushes it away.
Where Tijm, who is so handy, refuses to put on his shoes, she needs to do everything herself. Everywhere dolls sleep, under blankets, tea towels and dishcloths. Everywhere Linde goes the dolls go too. On the Ipad she plays doctor, cooking and colouring. With felt tips she draws circles and curls, on paper, her head and her hands. She draws the L, for Linde, which she loves so much she uses it everywhere, in warking and rovely. Mole kisses, she demands, in bed, until she decides no, mama, enough, now she will teep.
Linde knows what she wants. And when she looks at me, from under her spotted hat, with those steel-blue eyes, I know one thing will never change. She will always stay my wilful child.

Stay calm and...

It is quiet in the yoga hall.
‘Inhale,’ says the teacher, ‘Exhale. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight…’
The breath of fifteen mothers rustles through the hall. Again. ‘One, two, three, four…’
The first grizzle starts. A soft cry. Slowly the mothers rise. It won’t be, please? Fourteen mothers settle back down, relieved. Not theirs. One mother pulls herself up. A baby is cuddled, cradled and put back down, on the floor. The teacher continues, imperturbable. ‘Pull your navel down, put your legs up into the air.’
More grizzling starts. A moan here. A cry there. The air fills with little sounds. Yet it stays quiet, peaceful in the hall. We do yoga. The peace is inside us.

Even inside me. I have been on edge all week, bursting at every moan and every scream of baby or toddler, but here I let go. The soft, soothing voice of the teacher, the smell of incense, as soon as I put one foot in the hall my stress disappears, like snow from the sun, in the serenity of the hall. Nothing can disturb my peace.
The babies give it their best shot. One by one they are cuddled, rocked, fed and put down again. I rock mine, my nose in her neck, where her sweet baby scent mixes with the incense, forming a tantalising perfume. Back on the ground, she lies between my legs. My bum sticks in the air, my legs point up, one by one. She looks at me. Was that a smile, a chortle, does she think, ‘Mum, what on earth are you doing?’
She snorts and utters a small groan. I rub her belly and yoga on.

Half an hour later the babies get their turn. We are in a circle, fifteen naked babies, fifteen mothers that pour oil on their hands. We massage the babies, until they slither over the mats and their greasy fat legs slip from our hands. We roll every miniscule toe between our fingers. We rub oil in every crease, every dimple in their thighs. Over their bellies, their backs. My baby gets tired. She does not want to go on. Elsewhere babies get louder too. The naked babies get dressed. Slowly I feed her and cuddle her to sleep. Tea appears, biscuits, the mothers and babies enjoy their snacks. The silence disappears quickly, with fifteen tea drinking and biscuit eating mothers. Chatter fills the hall. Words, sentences, and laughter float around, bounce off the walls.

With mind and body cleared, I step outside, into the sunshine. I look around. Did I forget something, leave something behind? I have my baby, my bag, my buggy. That’s all I need, what I shed in the hall I do not need back.
Cheerfully I leave, to pick up my toddler girl and her big brother. Later that day, they cry, moan, flip and scream, but I don’t scream back. Angry and surprised they look at me. They grunt, frown, and then turn quiet. I smile. I am relaxed.

Cakes in a pan

One by one I take the orange bags from the man in purple. Tijm and Linde grab them, and drag them to the kitchen. Bags full, of milk, yogurt, flour, eggs, fruit and cheese. And much more.
‘This one’s too heavy, mummy,’ Tijm puffs, lopsided.
I take the sixteen pints of milk off him and pick up three bags of satsuma’s.
‘I wanted those!’ he screams, and snatches them back.
Cheerfully they run, back and forth, until the kitchen is lined with shiny orange bags.
When I want to take the carton of eggs the man pulls back his hand.
He observes the box. ‘One is broken,’ he concludes.
He puts it back in it’s crate.
I stick out my hand. My eggs?
‘One has broke. I’ll get you a refund.’
He scribbles on a piece of paper.
I don’t want a refund. I want my eggs.
‘There are still eleven left,’ I point out. ‘And I need them.’
He grins his crooked teeth. ‘I am supposed to send them back. But here, take them. For free. They’ll only bin them. You’ll need your eggs today.’
‘What’s special today?’ I ask.
How can he know what’s on the menu?
‘Well, off course. It’s pancake day!’

How could I forget. I blogged about it last year, on my dutch website, how this lovely English tradition of finishing all your eggs, milk and sugar before Lent starts was so sweet. How the shelves full of lemon, flour, and big banners made sure everyone knew. But not me, this year, me, who can’t face dragging three kids to the supermarket and orders everything online. I had planned something else. Also cakes. Also from a pan.

There are many little cakes and fritters that you can fry up. Children and adults alike will love them. They are an excellent weaning food for little ones, as well as a good way of getting vegetables into picky toddlers.

Latke, Jewish potato pancakes, are simple and tasty. You can eat them on their own, as a starter or side dish. With sour cream or apple sauce.


Potato latke

Potato
Egg
Pepper, salt, oil

Peel and grate the potato.

Now comes the most important part, you have to squeeze out excess water. This can be done in a muslin cloth (the baby ones are perfect) by wringing out as much as you can. If you do not do this your latke will go soggy and fall apart. Then add the egg, roughly one per half a kilo of potato. Season to taste. If you like you can add a little (potato)flour, to make them easier to bake, but you don’t need to. Fry the latke by dropping a heaped spoonful in hot oil and squashing in place with the back of your spoon. Fry until crispy on both sides and serve hot.
You can vary by adding other vegetables, for instance carrot, onion or parsley.

Anything fried and frittered is very popular in our household, and I make many different versions. For my children the following recipe, which is a combination between a latke and a pancake using various vegetables, is a favourite. The recipe below uses courgette, but you can basically use any type of grated, chopped or pureed vegetable. For instance carrot, spinach, sweet potato, squash or whatever takes your fancy. To make them a full meal add some cheese or tinned mackerel and serve with sour cream or cream cheese. As in our families we cope with different food intolerances we make them with glutenfree buckwheat flour and soy milk. But any type of flour and milk will work.


Courgette fritters

1 courgette
small cup of milk
around a cup of flour
2 eggs
1 teaspoon baking powder
green herbs to taste (parsley, thyme, coriander, …)

Mix the milk, flour and sugar into a think batter, add more milk or flour if necessary.

Grate the courgette and mix it in. The exact ratio does not matter, you can make them more pancake, or more fritter . Season with pepper, salt and whatever herbs and spices you like. Scoop spoons into hot oil to form little pancakes and fry them golden in a few minutes.

Food that bites

Tijm stirs his sauce. ‘Curry,’ he says. ‘Jummy.’
‘Go on,’ I encourage him. ‘Not just the rice.’
He spoons a big spoonful into his mouth. For a while he chews happily, then his mouth turns into a skewed grimace. He spits out the curry.
‘Don’t spit it out!’ I say, annoyed. ‘Swallow it.’
He shakes his head. ‘But mama, it hurts my mouth.’
Linde licks her spoon. ‘Ouch. It bites my tongue.’
Tijm agrees, it bites.
Eve Jasmijn, who eats anything, looks flustered and shakes her head.
I taste some myself. I enjoy the fruit, the sweet, creamy coconut. Then it hits me, viciously the curry stings my tongue. Delicious. For me. I fell for it again, the jar of cayenne pepper. Just the tiniest whiff spices any food flaming hot. I make a mental note to push the jar to the back of the spice cabinet. Never, ever to use again for the kids. I rush to the kitchen to save the dish. From the fridge I get yoghurt and sweet mango chutney. I stir it in, generously. With small, sparing bites they try again. And eat piles of white rice.

But still, also for kids who don’t like it hot you can cook spicy food. Most will love aromatic spices like ginger, coriander, cumin and cinnamon, especially when made extra sweet with fruit. Just be careful with the chilli!


Easy & mild apricot chicken curry

1 onion
1 clove garlic
1 large teaspoon each of dried coriander, ginger, cardamom, turmeric and cumin
3 cm of fresh grated ginger
300 g chicken, of quorn chicken pieces
1 aubergine
1 lime, juice and zest
handful of green beans
2 carrots
1 tin of tomatoes
200 ml coconut milk
1 tin apricots in juice

Chop and fry the onion and garlic and add the spices. Add the chicken and fry for a few more minutes. Add the carrot and beans, both in smallish pieces, and fry some more. Then add the tomatoes, coconut milk and lime zest. Let cook until the vegetables are cooked, around 15 minutes. Add some water when it gets too dry. Chop the aubergine in pieces of just over a cm an roast them in a dry frying pan. Add the juice of half a lemon and season well. Finally add the aubergine to the curry together with the apricot pieces. Add some apricot juice and lime juice to balance the sweetness and season to taste.

You can vary this recipe easily. For instance by using mango instead of apricot, or by using other vegetables, like squash or courgette. If you do like it hot, add a red chilli.
Serve with rice and a raita of cucumber, yoghurt fresh mint and coriander.

To the other side of the world

We are going on a journey, to the other side of the world. It is far to the other side of the world. We load the car with: nappies, scooters, a buggy, a pink blanket, peanut butter sandwiches, baby food, wipes, rice crackers, nappy bags, clementines, a camera, clean pants, hats, scarves, mittens, crayons, colouring books, a dummy, another dummy and a final spare dummy. We stuff it all in rucksacks. It is far to the other side of the world. We park the car at the station. In the train we jump on benches, stare out the window at cranes, and passing trains. We wobble through the rattling and rumbling train, further and further south. We get off, but we aren’t there yet. It is far to the other side of the world. We get in a different train, an underground one. We tear through dark tunnels, our noses flat against the window so we can see the black. We get out, but we aren’t there yet. It is far to the other side of the world.
We cross a bridge, onto a pier. We board a boat. Through the window we look at the giant wheel we pass. The Big Ben, the London Bridge and the Tower. The museum in the electricity plant. The shard and the gherkin. The highest building with the triangle on top. We eat our peanut butter sandwiches and drink hot tea with milk. We disembark, but we aren’t there yet. It is far to the other side of the world.

We walk, scoot and ride on. We puff and toil up the hill, until we reach our destination. There, across that line, the other side of the world starts. The line, the meridian that separates east from west, is the middle of the world. We dodge the Japanese queuing for a picture on the line and, a little bit further on, we stand, with one foot in the east and one in the west. We rest a bit. We see the museum. We peel a clementine. Then we start our journey home.

We race, rush and zoom down the hill. We walk past the pubs to the station and climb the docklands train. One station on, we alight, under construction, closed. We roll up, on escalators, and in a lift, up to the bus. We stuff in the bus, us, and many more, till it is more than full. Between piercing elbows we shake asleep, on laps and in buggies, until the flow takes us out, into a new, underground, train. Sleeping, dreaming, and staring at the dark we let the train take us north. We get off but we aren’t there yet. Home is far away.

A new train takes us to our car, and then, finally we are home and in our beds. It was a long journey to the other side of the world, and back. It was a beautiful day.

Life’s a journey, not a destination. You'd better enjoy the trip!

Keeping cool

The happy Kamel family in the snow:



The next day the kids had a meltdown and mummy fell apart...

Those funny Brits

Pub grub is great, and there is usually something on the menu to laugh at. A plate of spotted dick anyone? Toad in the hole? Maybe bangers, mash and mushy peas. Or do you rather fancy faggots, black pudding, cullen skink? No? Bubble and squeak, then? A spot of haggis? The poor creature, two legs longer than the other, doomed to circle the Scottish highlands eternally, until it is tricked, caught, to end up on your plate, wrapped in a sheep’s stomach. You could also choose the nation’s favourite, chicken tikka masala, for a truly authentic experience. If you’d rather eat a ‘lite’ lunch, choose a bacon butty or a sarnie, but don’t forget the side of chips. O no, I mean crisps, off course. Chips are the thick, floppy, greasy ones. Nor the pudding that does not have to be a pudding.

The spoken lingo is, if possible, even more incomprehensible. Fancy a cuppa, anyone? A strong brew, white or black? Tea is a meal here. Not a high tea, but afternoon or cream. As a foreigner, even if you think your English is fluent, there are plenty of pitfalls. Kids don’t eat cookies but bickies. A muffin is not a cake but a cross between a pancake and a Dutch beschuit. Even the pronunciation is treacherous. A scone is not a ‘scown’ but a ‘scohn’. It’s not ‘paysty’, but ‘pahsty’. A mistake is easily made.

Luckily there is enough cheap plonk to drown all misunderstandings. The Brits are friendly, and generous. With food, that is. When it comes to alcohol it is everyone on his own. Bags of crisps, bought in the pub, need to be ripped open lengthwise, to be shared by all. Is it all getting a bit much? Keep calm and drink gin! Family size, off course, a full pint. Double, no, make it triple. With a dash of tonic.

Even though, as they say, eating is cheating, here’s a recipe for you. Bubble and squeak contains no mouse’s whiskers or tails, and is actually quite nice. It is made of leftovers. The dish has many different versions, but is always based on mashed potato. No, not potahto. In the mash leftover veg is mixed, cabbage, or sprouts for instance, whatever you find in your fridge. The mixture is fried, loosely, in a large pancake, or rolled into hamburger shaped disks. They can be eaten for breakfast, lunch or dinner. With a fried egg or chipolata’s. Whatever, however. The name of the dish comes from the sound it makes when it is frying in the pan. And, for Dutch readers: Yes, it is remarkably like a traditional stamppot fried up the next day! Boerenkoolburger anyone?


Bubble and squeak

Mashed potato
Vegetables: For instance cabbage, greens, kale, or sprouts
Some flour
A handful of bacon or cheese if you wish

The best is to use leftover mash for this dish as it will have dried out nicely. If you make it fresh, pour off all water of the potatoes, let them steam dry and do not add any moisture like milk or cream. It does not really mater which vegetables you use, but strong flavoured ones are the nicest. The vegetables need to be cooked or stir-fried, and all water drained or squeezed out. Mix the mash and vegetable roughly one on one, volume based, or how you like it. If you wish you can add some fried bacon or grated cheese (I know, a sneaky Dutch addition). Season well and roll into round, flat shapes. Roll them briefly in some flour and fry them in oil or butter. Serve with a fried egg or sausages.

For small children you can make funny mini bubble and squeaks, by rolling small rounds the size of marbles and frying them extra crispy.

Mommy brain

Slowly I drive backwards, manoeuvring carefully to avoid pre-schoolers at large. The parking lot is small and spilling over. In the rear I pause, needing to change gear for the car and myself. Before I can accelerate I see a car in front of me slowly backing towards me. I wait. The cars pulls further back, and further. Does she not see me? Really? My hands flap around the wheel, should I honk, pull back quickly? But anything could be behind me and before I can decide I feel a thud. We collide, bumper to bumper. In the car in front of me I see a silhouette, still, bend over the wheel, cupping her face. Then, she gets out. She apologises, extensively. I smile, don’t worry about it. Nervously she studies my bumper, looking for marks. I see plenty. But not on the bumper she just grazed. She keeps apologising and I keep dismissing, keep smiling. After a while she finds a tiny crack in the number plate. She asks for a pen, paper, and whether I want her number, for damages. I smile again and point at all the scratches, bigger than hers. If it even is hers. I’ll find you, I say, if my stricter husband thinks otherwise. She nods at me, desperately. Or tell me your name, I say, to make her feel better. She is Mary, mum of Henry in the blue group.

On the way home I keep smiling. Why do mothers lose their brains in the chaos of every day? Pregnancy brain, we like to call it, but it does not leave your body when the baby does. I turn all my own incidents over in my brain. The car I brushed by at the petrol station, already late for school. The side mirror I hit on a car by the side of the road, distracted by a screaming back seat. To which I returned, blushing with shame, an hour later with a windscreen note. A birthday party for Tijm’s friend that I simply forgot. My mobile phone, of which I now have two, identical, ones, after I lost it not once, twice or even trice last year. And found again. The times I drove happily to little gym, until Tijm asked whether we should not pick up Linde from the child-minder first. And so it goes on, and on, and on. I am surprised I have not yet lost a child.

When a mother hears a child, in the supermarket, screaming, wailing and kicking, she only thinks one thought. Thankfully. It is not mine. That is exactly how I felt when Mary bumped my bumper today. Thankful. It wasn’t me. At least. Not today.

Fishy little balls

It is cold and damp, the wind whistles around the house and beats the trees. Drops hang from red noses and coughing sounds everywhere. Appetites are minimal, just now when we need our vitamins most. A good thing that mama knows a trick to get vitamins, minerals and healthy fats into toddlers and pre-schoolers. We are going to hide vegetables and fish in crispy little balls. Tijm comes running as I put the ingredients down on the worktop. ‘Mama, can I help?’
Off course he can. Food made with your own hands tastes the best.

Suspiciously Tijm eyes the ingredients. What are we making?
Cheerful and precise Tijm throws fish in the blender. He likes fish. But when I put my knife in the carrot and the courgette he shouts: ‘No mama! Not green. I don’t like green.’
‘Carrot is not green,’ I comment.
‘It is,’ says Tijm and that says it all.

When I put the balls on the table he screams. ‘I do not like fishballs!’
‘Taste one,’ I insist. He refuses, I persist, and after some, or rather a lot of debate he tries, reluctantly.
‘And, do you like it?’ I ask.
‘No,’ he nods, positively. ‘I do not like them.’
He pricks another one on his fork, chews, swallows, and shakes his head.
Then, he polishes off the plate.


Fishballs with carrot and courgette

300 g mixed fish (any will do, salmon, cod, mackerel, haddock, whiting)
1 small courgette
1 carrot
1 egg
4 spoons of (glutenfree) oat flakes
handful of finely chopped herbs (parsley, dill or thyme)
breadcrumbs or polenta for coating

Chop the fish very fine or smooth it briefly in a blender. Grate the carrot and courgette and mix them through the fish, together with the egg, oatmeal and herbs. Make sure the mixture is neither too thin nor too thick, it needs to be nice and firm so you can shape it into little balls. If it is too wet add some more oat flakes. Let the mixture cool and stiffen in the fridge, preferably for about an hour. This will make it easier to shape. Roll little balls of around 3 cm and flatten them slightly. You can also make slightly larger disk shaped fish burgers than can be served in a bun. Roll the balls through the breadcrumbs or polenta to coat and shallow fry in some hot oil for a few minutes on each side. Ready rolled balls can be frozen so one portion will make several meals. Serve with tomato sauce and fried potatoes.

For variation you can add other vegetables (just make sure they are not too wet) and spices. Why not some curry powder and fresh coriander for an Indian version, and serve with mango chutney and yoghurt.

Here and now

A year ago, around this time, not far from where I am sitting, I was hunched over my birthing ball. De doorbell rang. Never have I lived as intensely in the moment. I clenched Roel’s hand. I did not let him go, not even to open the door for the midwife. Word by word, image by image, I can remember what happened next. Not so much the pain, but me running to the pool, and after, on the sofa, baby Jasmijn on my belly. Tijm and Linde with Roel next to us, smiling. Me and my family. Nothing else existed.

What I did yesterday is fuzzy and grey and what I’ll do tomorrow I do not know. Of the future I can only dream. My mind is in Malaysia, thirty years ago, in my new book. Last year exists in snapshots. A broadly smiling baby on the beach. A little girl, blonde pigtails, and a mouth purple with blackberry juice. A boy, stirring a bowl of pancake batter. Roel and me on a rock, the kids on our laps, smiling at the camera. Click. The photograph caught our happiness.

It’s is delightful when you don’t dream but just are. Are here and now. Here and now a princess and a king are playing in a tent. The princess, in a glimmering pink dress, lines up her ladies in waiting. Poppa, Pop, Nelly and Upsiedaisy. The tent is their castle. She pulls my sleeve. Hungry. She wants a sandwich with chocolate sprinkles. In an hour, I point at the clock. The king runs to the back door, wanting to see whether the beans he planted yesterday have come up yet. When spring comes, I say. Tomorrow we will see. But here and now knows no tomorrow.

Along the sofa a little creature walks, grinning. It is a year ago that she was born. The year is gone but we did not lose it. It was a rough year full of beautiful things. I put it away, in a drawer. The difficulties first, in the bottom, the better things on top to cover. The best memories I put on the wall, in a frame. There is so much to cherish and keep. Mouths dirty with apple syrup. A broad grin with only two teeth. A pondering look with which a checkers piece is moved. Two arms sticking out of a duvet demanding a nuddle. Late night, the two of us on the sofa. A skipping boy with his rug sack, on his way to nursery. A duck, clenched in little fists. Never-ending games we played. All biscuits we baked. Eggs for breakfast in the weekend. Running in the garden, around the slide and back. Filling lavender bags. Breastfeeding, on a cliff near the sea. Tijm’s garden, with it’s ice-lolly sticks. A flannel pyjama with pink roses. The fastest crawler. Muddy boots. Finding acorns in the wood. The climbing tree. Blackberries. A little body wriggling out of nappy changing.

The wall is full, overflowing. I turn my back to it and crawl into the tent to find here and now. There is cake to eat.

Hip, hip, hurray!

I remember it clearly, last year January, me and my bump. December with it’s lights and cheer was over and the only thing left to do was wait. Eleven dark days can last very long. But finally, suddenly, it happened and today we celebrate. A little party for a little girl. She is one today.

No party without cake so we debate what to make.
‘Dada,’ Jasmijn babbles.
Tijm has a think, and asks, ‘Jasmijn can’t have any milk, can she, mummy?’
I admit, he’s right. ‘And mummy can have no gluten,’ I add. Baking is no simple affair in our house.
‘Chocolate!’ Linde yells.
‘No,’ says Tijm, ‘Jasmijn can’t have chocolate either.’
‘Yes, she can,’ I respond. ‘She can have dark chocolate, without milk.’
Tijm shakes his head. ‘She wants apple pie.’
I look at the fruit bowl. ‘No, we only have two apples. Not enough.’
Tijm runs over to the kitchen and returns with a bunch of bananas. ‘Banana cake,’ he shouts. And then, before Linde objects, ‘No, I know. Banana-chocolate cake!’

And so it was decided. We made a gluten and cow’s milk free cake, with bananas and chocolate. I used my favourite brownie recipe. A very simple recipe, easily whipped together. I had never yet made it gluten free, but it was time to try. The only thing we had to do was substitute the butter with a dairy free alternative. Since there was no margarine in the house I used a mixture of cocoa butter, coconut fat and sunflower oil (50 g each). The coconut fat gave a sweet coconutty flavour to the brownies, and the mashed banana made them scrumptiously moist. Honestly, our free from version tasted better than the original!


You can easily play around with this recipe. You can make the original, by leaving out the banana and use wheat flour and butter. Alternatively, depending on what you want to leave out, substitute one or more of the ingredients. Or, even better, get creative and come up with your own version!


Banana brownies

160 g butter, margarine or alternative
160 g dark chocolate
300 g sugar
170 g flour (I use Dove’s farm gluten free)
1 dash of salt
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
4 eggs
2 mashed bananas
handful of chopped nuts (optional)

Melt the butter or substitute with the chocolate in a large saucepan. Turn off the heat. Then, one by one, add the sugar, the flour, eggs, and other ingredients in the above sequence. Stir well after each addition. Finally add the mashed banana, nut or other inclusions, and stir well. Pour the mixture into a greased baking tray and bake for around 30 minutes at 180 degrees.

The Choice

Tijm pulls his green jumper out of the wardrobe. ‘Look mummy, for my new school!’
I nod, the jumper is just like the uniform of the primary school we visited yesterday. Tijm is ready.

Now we have make a choice, the incomprehensible English school system is slowly starting to unravel. Not that there is much choice. Well, there are public schools, off course. That is, if your four year old passes the entrance exam and you manage to get together over eleven thousand pounds, per child, per year. Not a choice everyone can make. Still, there are plenty, that forego holidays, get a smaller house, just to improve their child’s chance on a good university and therefore job. Even in the twenty-first century. But still. A friend, after a tour of our local public school, highly impressed, sighed, how all reception children sat, in utter silence, working at their desks. Learning to read and write at four years old. My stunned ‘No way,’ was misunderstood. ‘Yes, isn’t it great!’ was my reply. Academically these schools are more than excellent. Yet their rigid, girl-less, environment does not seem right for my lively boy.

State schools vary from outstanding, good and satisfactory to inadequate. Even though here, as well, learning starts at four, a frightening percentage leaves school without knowing how to write. Deep fried food is served. Admission is based on distance, in meters, to the school. Which means you decide when you sign the lease for your house. Something we, as foreigners, obviously did not realise. Luckily our well-off commuters town is known for it’s excellent schools. But, due to a recent babyboom, the schools are bursting at their seams. The mothers are stressed. Who lives a meter outside the catchment area is banned to an unpopular school on the outskirts of town.

The choice of school is a Very Important Matter. The mothers talk of little else. All schools are visited, reports studied, chances weighed. Good strategy is required. Which school will be number one on your list? Which second and third?
I observe, but don’t get it. Do these mothers like their illusion of choice? Do they want to make sure they show themselves to have tried everything? I have long resigned myself to the fact that I will be allocated my neighbourhood school, regardless what I put on my list. A school that has had a bad reputation, but with a new head managed to score a ‘good’. Country wise a good score, but in our town of snobs somewhat shabby, next to the other school’s ‘outstanding.’ Though not nearly as bad as the ‘satisfactory’ of that one school, the mothers nightmare.

No, our school is fine. But it is still an English school, where four year olds need to sit still and learn, as academic achievement is what the government that gives out the ranking wants. The school is at walking distance, next to the nursery school, and has a nice atmosphere. And, Tijm can go with his friend down the road, even though his mum put another school first. We are not unhappy.

Then, all of a sudden, there is a choice. A new school. A free school. Montessori. No British sternness, standing in lines, yes sir. We visit the information meetings and are impressed by the inspiring founders. And now we have to choose. But how do you judge something that does not exist? On practical grounds? We cannot walk to this school, not even cycle over our hills without cycle lanes. It is not next to the nursery school. It does not even have a building and might start in a temporary shed. Only the first three years will start. But against that there is the Montessori philosophy, which appeals to me, especially compared to the static, old-fashioned English education system.
The choice is so little tangible. ‘Which school, then?’ asks Tijm, when I say he might not go to the school with the green uniforms. I can not explain to him. I can not feel the school, smell it’s food, hear it’s sounds. I can not see it’s children, which will hopefully run noisily through reception or, even better, it’s luscious garden.

Now I finally have a choice, I can not choose.

A real princess

Once upon a time there was a little girl. Hours she sat, flicking through pages of the toy shop catalogue. Time and time again she glanced back at that one page that glimmered and shone. There was nothing else we could have put under the Christmas tree for her. When she opened the parcel she uttered a long and resonant Ahhh. Linde’s pincess dress. Finally, a real one, pink and pearly. And a golden crown. The dress went on and never came off again. Our daughter is no longer an ordinary blonde. Linde is a princess.

With the matching attitude. Regular food, the princess does not like. Yes, peanut butter sandwiches. Warm aniseed milk. Chocolate and gingerbread. Pancakes with salmon. But baked potatoes? She shakes her pedantic little nose. Pasta bolognaise? Well, one bite, high handed, from the tip of her fork. So mama has no choice. She cooks Princess-pasta. Pink pasta, garnished with pink fish and a dash of cream. And now we hope it will gain her highness's approval.

Princess-pasta, with beetroot and salmon

4 cooked beetroot

juice of one lemon

125 ml sour cream

200 g soft goats cheese

1 teaspoon corn flour

hand of (fresh) dill

pepper and salt

smoked salmon

Cook you favourite pasta. Heat the beetroot and puree them. Stir the corn flour into the sour cream and add this mixture to the beetroot puree. Add lemon juice, pepper, and salt to your taste. The sauce should be nice and thick, so it will stick to the pasta. Stir everything together, with some finely chopped dill, hen crumble the cheese over the dish. Finish with a dash of sour cream and some dill.

A gingerbread house for all

Bells ring, lights twinkle and carols swirl gently through the room. Christmas time has arrived. Hail and wind pound the house from the outside, but as school is closed we have nowhere to go. We stay in, where it’s warm and smells of pine needles and spicy cake. The Christmas holidays last long but have a lot of things to do. Things that taste good. We will bake a gingerbread house.

Only what kind? Glutenfree, for me? Dairy free for Jasmijn? Cooking in our house is no longer easy. Can I make a solid, easy recipe for glutenfree gingerbread from which I can build a house that won’t fall apart? I like a challenge. .

But, I have promised Moodkids Magazine a recipe, with pictures, so I can take no risks. Besides, most of their readers won’t eat glutenfree. To make a long story short I ended with not one, not two, but three recipes. A simple recipe for a quick house, with gluten and butter, but no egg. A glutenfree variation that works. And finally, I baked some traditional german Lebkuchen.

Lebkuchen resembles gingerbead but is spiced with spices not so different to the Dutch speculaas spices. And, it is made with rye flour and no butter. Rye flour contains very little gluten but still builds a strong house. I used a fairly coarse rye flour, and would recommend using a finer one for a better texture.

Gingerbread (can be made glutenfree or dairyfree)

250 g cold butter, chopped *
600 g flour (wheat flour or glutenfree **)
200 g fine brown sugar
7 table spoons golden syrup
1 teaspoon dark treacle (optional)
1 egg (only when baking glutenfree)
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon cinnamon
4 teaspoons ground ginger
1 tablespoon xanthan gum (only when baking glutenfree)
1 table spoon psyllium husk (only when baking glutenfree)

* Can be replaced by a dairy free hard margarine

** I use Dove's Farm gluten free flour

We have a lot to do so I put the kids to work. First we knead the dough. In a large bowl we mix the ingredients.Together we knead all the ingredients into supple dough. If it is too wet add some extra flour, it should not be sticky. Then we let it stiffen up in the fridge for about half an hour. When it is ready we pre-heat the oven at 200 degrees.

We dust a wooden chopping board and a rolling pin with flour and roll the dough until it is about half a centimetre. Then we cut our walls and roof. If you wish you can cut out doors and windows. To make sure you get all your measurements right you can download and print the

Moodkids template

. We bake the walls and roof around 10 to 12 minutes. When they are out of the oven we leave them to cool completely before we touch them. This is especially important with the glutenfree variant, hot biscuit will break. When they are proper cold we can assemble the house. This is best done at night, with no prying toddler fingers and daddy’s helping hands. It then has plenty of time to dry before we decorate. To glue the house together we mix 250 g icing sugar with an egg white.

If necessary, add some more icing sugar or some water. It should be liquid enough to flow but when it is runny it will take very long to set. With a piping bag, which you can easily make from a small plastic bag with the tip cut off, we kit the house together from the inside. If there are any breakages you can mend these with the icing by gluing broken bits together. You can cover this up later while decorating.

When the house is assembled it is time for the best part: decorate! You can use everything you like. Biscuits, candy, marshmallows, chocolate, candy canes, coloured sprinkles. With the same icing mixture we glue all the decorations onto the house. When you work with small children, try to put your perfectionism aside. Let them mess around, it is their house, and if you wanted a perfect one you should have done it alone. Watch out for prying fingers though, especially when you use glutenfree gingerbread

It can be a good idea to let small children not decorate the house directly. From leftover dough bake some small gingerbread man, Christmas trees, stars or even simple circles. Let the children decorate those and stick them to the house later.
Does your house still look a bit worse for wear? A good snow shower of icing sugar covers up a lot. Alternatively spoon some runny icing over the roof and let it drop down.

German Lebkuchen
600 g rye flour
350 g sugar
4 eggs
80 g honey
1 table spoon baking powder
3 to 4 tea spoons spices (ginger or speculaas)

Knead the ingredients together. Let the dough rest at room temperature for a few hours or overnight. Process as described above, but bake at 165 degrees for around 20 minutes.



And so everyone can enjoy one’s house. With or without gluten, dairy, egg or wheat. We hope you will too! Merry Christmas.

Podding peas

I put down a large, green bag. And a pot.
‘Beans,’ growls Tijm. He looks angry. He does not like green beans.
‘No, peas,’ I correct him.
Tijm shakes his head. Peas are green, but little and round. Not long and thin.
He does like peas.
I show Tijm, I crack the pod and it’s treasure rolls out.
‘Peas!’ Tijm cheers.

Linde comes running as well and soon all three of us are hard at work. Four toddler hands break open the beans and peas are rolling everywhere.
‘They are supposed to go in the pot,’ I point out.
Most of them do. The pods go in the strainer.
Baby Jasmijn comes crawling. The strainer intrigues her. She pulls, shakes it, and boom, it tumbles over. Jasmijn gets covered in a wave of pods. Surprised her blue eyes look at me from under the green. She shakes her head, shakes off the pods and grabs one from her hair. Curious she eyes it and sticks it in her mouth. She nibbles and chews the pod.
‘No,’ Tijm shouts, ‘silly Jasmijn. You can’t eat the pod. Eat the pea!’
‘Et pea,’ Linde nods.
She fiddles a pea between her fingertips and puts it in Jasmijn’s mouth.
‘No,’ Tijm shouts again, ‘we need to cook them first.’
Linde agrees and gets her little pan, she fills the saucepan and Tijm rushes to get his own, a frying pan. They cook and stir and fry, all the lovely peas, while I keep podding until the bag is empty and all the pots full. Now we are really going to cook!



We make risi e bisi, a venetian recipe. It is a mild, creamy risotto, and very easy as it does not have to be continuously stirred since that would break up the peas.



Risi e bisi

1 small onion
150 g pancetta, cubed
250 g podded peas
250 g risotto rice
about a litre of stock (vegetable or chicken)
a handful of grated parmesan cheese
olive oil

Cut the onion in little pieces and fry it in a bit of oil. When it get’s transparent add the pancetta and fry a few minutes more. Add the rice and fry this as well, stirring thoroughly to coat every grain in some oil. This will protect the grains from leaking too much starch when we add the broth. Then add the peas and ladle by ladle the hot stock. Stir after every ladle. You should add some stock and stir every few minutes, until the rice is cooked. That should last about twenty minutes. The risotto can stay fairly fluid, but should not become a soup. Creamy and runny it is at it’s best. When the risi e bisi is ready add a good handful of parmesan cheese and pepper and salt to taste.