And they're off

Me & My Butter Cookie, August 30, 2007

As we settled into our seats, I went about the business of nesting with various lotions and potions and a healthy supply of herbal tea while Jen dutifully pulled out the stack of guidebooks and email suggestions she had been collecting for the past week.

With the precision of a tactical cartographer, she began strategically mapping out our weekend by cross-referencing all the places we were going to eat, what their specialties were and what important monuments were in the immediate vicinity. Away from the touristy restaurants near the Colosseum was a small local osteria with excellent pizza. The oldest gelateria in Rome was somewhere around the Trevi Fountain. A cafe at the Piazza Navona had the best tartufo in the city. A little hole-in-the-wall cafe around the corner from the Pantheon makes super-secret cappuccinos. And a restaurant offering a to-die-for dish of trofie that was purported to induce spontaneous bursts of plate-licking.

The level of preparation she invested in this gastronomical vision quest was amazing. Hell, if it were up to me, we would have just wandered into whatever cafe we happened to be passing by when we got hungry. That was the extent of my plan.

Although both approaches have their merits, in this particular case I must admit...her way turned out better.

I often muse at the fact that so many wonderful aspects of my life are a direct result of my Butter Cookie's purposeful meal planning, the most obvious being my present status as a happily married ex-pat, but not the least of which is a genuinely soulful appreciation for food.

To enjoy a good meal with someone like Jen is truly a pleasure and our three-day food fest was nothing short of a transcendent experience. Since then, food has inextricably worked its way into my fondest memories, with the tiniest inklings of certain tastes and smells spontaneously transporting me back to many magic moments in time.

For this reason, this blog is a bit of an homage to our friendship as well. A tribute to our shared passion for that plate of trofie that literally moved us to tears.

Of course, it's distinctly possible that the free-flowing vino da tavola may have exhorted some influence over those tears...

But I like to think it was the trofie.

The grand plan

Flashback: August 25, 2007

So, now that the logistics were settled we needed a plan.

"Well alrighty, Little Miss HotShot," I thought to myself, "now what? Exactly what is it that you are so bloody eager to do in this city that you simply can't do at home?"

The answer came swiftly and quietly:

absolutely nothing.

The last thing I wanted to do for 3 days was run myself ragged all over town just to stand in queues with hoards of loud, sweaty tourists. I am not sympathetic to their complaints about Roman toilets nor can I comprehend why some of them religiously adhere to the notion that one's level of comfort is directly proportionate to the relative position of a given outfit on the continuum of fashion abominations.

Seriously people (you know who you are), think about it: if Italians can walk around on cobblestone streets, steep hills and narrow stairs for their entire lives without sporting Nikes, Birkenstocks or Crocs, you can probably manage it for a few days too.

But I digress...

What I really wanted to do was simply pass the time doing whatever it is that we would have been doing over the holiday weekend at home: enjoying each other's company sitting in cafes, shopping for things we can't afford, people-watching and gossiping over cappuccino, and consuming immoderate quantities of pizza, pasta and prosecco.

Nothing terribly exciting really, but for the fact that the pizzas would have those papery-thin yet impossibly flavorful wood-fired crusts, the pastas would be perfectly al dente with gorgeous sauces clinging to every delectable bite, the cappuccinos would have just the right amount of foam, the stuff we can't afford will at least be runway-worthy, and we would be people-watching in piazzas (with pirlos in hand) where the cacaphony of Italian chatter would be music to our ears and little Italian kids crying "Mamma! Mamma! Mamma!" would sound like singing cherubs, unlike the shrieking wombats that are indigenous to our home.

Most importantly, we would be doing all of the above in Italy.

At this point in my life I thought it was the closest I would ever get to experiencing an authentic slice of life in il bel paese. To enjoy the luxury of lazing about a cafe, lingering over coffee or a glass of wine, blissfully unconcerned with tour bus schedules or any other marker of time. To admire historic monuments from afar, perhaps recording a snapshot or two but absent an obsessive need to photograph every last doorknob. To casually wander past the grand buildings, the fountains, the narrow streets dotted with gelaterias and cafes, breathing in the majesty of this beautiful city.

To sit still and be quiet, letting its essence seep into my skin and marinate in my veins rather than chasing it all over town like a rabid paparazzo.

That was my grand plan.

Having lived in several versions of paradise from California to Thailand, I had no delusions about the realities of life in a place that naturally appears idyllic to anyone who is temporarily liberated from banal concerns like paying bills, going to work or doing laundry. But all those things were waiting for me back home and since none of them would have stopped me from enjoying a care-free holiday weekend in Chicago, I could confidently say that even if I did have such things to worry about here, I could just as easily shove them aside and enjoy three lazy days with a friend.

To this day, I can't think of a better way to spend a weekend in Rome...

Once upon a time...

(August 19, 2007 to be exact)

...in a far-away land, a young urban Chicagoan had a meltdown.

Incensed that her then-current boyfriend was off visiting his family in Switzerland for the entirety of August whilst she had nothing equally fabulous on her holiday agenda, her insanely competitive ego went rogue and autonomously composed the following text:

"Anyone want to go to Paris or Rome for Labor Day?"

This S.O.S. was immediately disseminated to her gallivanting girl gang with the hopes that their fervent enthusiasm for spontaneous escapades might extend across the pond.

She didn't think for a moment that anyone would seriously consider dropping everything to pop over to Europe with ten days notice, but that was fine with her. She was used to traveling solo and of course, in her pathological bid for oneupmanship it would be much cooler (and far more mysterious) to go by herself anyway.

In the end, following many sincere expressions of interest and promises to check on flights, one person actually came through: her little Butter Cookie.

That would be Jen, the heroine of this particular tale...

Yes, that's right. My fairy tale starts with an awesome girlfriend rather than a boy. Following one of the all-time greatest and utterly bizarre first dates ever, Jen and I had been inseparable for the past 18 months. She was my rock. A co-conspirator and expert enabler whom I could always count on to say, "Yessss!"

Luckily, this trip was no exception.

Since we had both been to Paris within the last year - and because we share an insatiable obsession with all things Italian - we opted for Rome. Within 24 hours we had our flights booked and Jen scored us a wicked cool deal on a hotel.

We had to celebrate. At Quartino. With pizza.

A week later, we were on our way...

Pizza Quattro Stagioni (Four Seasons)

First of all, let me just say that real pizza is thin-crusted. I am passionately committed to this position and have, from time to time, considered starting a campaign to ban the use of the term "pizza" in relation to those crazy deep-dish pies that we make in Chicago. But at the moment my activist energy is being channeled elsewhere.

I offer up this recipe with the caveat that it is virtually impossible to reproduce in a home kitchen that which can only be borne of a brick oven. So if your kitchen-ego can handle that, go for it and have fun.

Two secrets to creating a great pizza, one with a well-crisped crust that finishes baking in the same time it takes the topping to cook, are intense heat (upwards of 800 degrees) and direct contact of the dough with the heat source.

Since most conventional ovens top out at a mere 500 degrees, the closest you can get to recreating this environment at home is to use a pizza stone by placing it in a cold oven (per the manufacturer's directions) and letting it preheat with the oven. I also recommend using a pizza peel - those wide wooden boards with the long handles that you always see hanging in pizzerias - to safely slide the pizza onto the stone.

I hope to master the art of dough-making one day, but thus far I've not made the attempt. If I were to try it, I would probably start with this recipe. In the meantime, I have pretty good luck with store-bought dough and have found the par-baked crusts from Fox and Obel to be highly successful in emergency situations.

Whatever you choose, the rest goes something like this:

1/2 cup tomato sauce or chopped canned tomatoes
3-4 marinated artichoke hearts, quartered
5-6 black olives packed in brine (you'll want the sweet variety)
1/2 cup finely sliced mushrooms
2 ounces finely sliced ham, shredded
1/4 pound shredded mozzarella
a handful or two of arugula (optional)

Spread the tomato and the mozzarella. Technically the other four toppings should each be housed in its own quarter of the pizza, but here is where I deviate from tradition as I prefer the Quartino's version with everything mixed together. Either way, drizzle with a few drops of olive oil and bake according to your dough instructions. If you like, throw some fresh arugula on top just before serving.

Best enjoyed on a summer patio with a good friend and a pirlo.

The luxury of hindsight

I should have started this blog in 2007.

But back then I had no idea that the events that were about to unfold would change my life forever. I expected it to be a fun girls' weekend in Italy, no doubt full of stories worth telling, but at the time it was just another randomly-inspired freak-out trip.

Ok, in all honesty, it wasn't really that random. But more on that later...

I was going to date my posts as they occurred chronologically, in an effort to lend some structure and context to what would otherwise be a chaotic stream of consciousness that even those with a Ph.D in crazy-talk would find challenging to follow.

But stories are organic, living things. Over time, they change, adapt and evolve as we do, distilled in hindsight as the emotionally-biased perspectives of real-time slowly separate themselves from the raw truths that come to define our history.

So I think it's important to acknowledge if and when something is being written in retrospect with the luxuries of time gone by: wounds healed, laughter shared, lessons learned. And the all-important opportunity to implement revisionist history.

I'm back in Chicago for a couple of weeks to pack more of my stuff. I'm going back to Holland soon and this time, it's for good. Really. At least until summer...

Turns out Chicago isn't the only one having trouble letting go. Which is ironic because I've been trying to leave here for years.

After living in LA for 2 years following some hare-brained idea to go to law school (even though I had no desire to be a lawyer) I moved back to Chicago and immediately started working in Florida where I commuted every week for nearly 5 years. Two years ago I was planning to move to DC until I went to visit Tanya while she was studying Spanish in Spain. A month later I started taking Italian classes and made up my mind to move to Italy. Last year all that changed and I took a detour - a big one. This year I  am a newly-wed expat sort-of living in Holland. Sheesh.

I don't really know where this story begins. In theory one could say that everything we've ever done leads us to this exact time and place in our lives. Actually, that proves itself up in practice as well. We are planning to be back in Rome for the upcoming Mille Miglia. On deck is a walk down memory lane.

With that, I invite you back to the beginning of this particular story:

Chicago, circa August 2007, and the random text that started it all.

"Anyone want to go to Paris or Rome for Labor Day?"

Thundersnow

For years I have loyally defended Chicago against those who think we are insane for putting up with its crazy weather. In return, I have been spared from having to deal with the worst of it.

But now that I technically no longer live here, the flight that was to carry me to my new home in Europe has been grounded by the worst blizzard in nearly half a century. I am housebound with no phone or internet as all the electricity in the neighborhood seems to be concentrated in the snow lightning outside.

I love you, too, Chicago. But you can't keep me here forever. I promise I'll be back. But definitely, definitely not till summer.

A deafening thunder responds in the distance as gale force winds come shrieking across the plains of suburbia, rattling the entire house like a scene from a bad horror movie and scaring the living bejezus out of me. I swear I can hear these creepy demonic whispers through the walls ...

"You can't leave. We won't let you. You belong here."

As an eerie chill creeps up my spine, it dawns on me that this storm is the physical manifestation of everything I have been feeling - or should I say, trying not to feel - in these last weeks while I have been packing up to leave. A cold, dark, black hole of separation and loss looming in the distance, as if waiting - indeed demanding - to be recognized and duly respected.

I've moved many times, but this time it's for good. In all the excitement over my new life, I have not really had the time to mourn my old one. A rich, gratifying life full of incredible people and priceless memories. Of course I expected to miss certain people, places and things, but it never occurred to me that it would be this difficult to leave.

Alas, my mother-in-law is far more intuitive than I. She knew it immediately after being here for the wedding and meeting my family and friends. I have something very special here. Something that will not, cannot be replicated anywhere else in the world.

I am thrilled about my life in Europe, my amazing husband, my wonderful new friends, and all of the grand adventures that lie ahead for us all. But as I bid my family, my friends, and my fair city adieu, I will leave behind a part of my heart.

Buried here, under a beautiful pile of snow.

The tipping point

It's 4am in Chicago. I can't sleep.
Jet lag really sucks.

It just occurred to me that in the few months we've been married I've been in Chicago almost half the time. I start to wonder if I still haven't fully comprehended the fact that I am, indeed, M-A-R-R-I-E-D. And if not, does that make me a bad wife?

I mean damn, it's a little early in the game to start racking up demerits already.

I stare out from a 23rd floor window at the black void of the lake and search for answers in the streetlights that freckle the park in braille. My eyes rest on the strong, stable skyline that has been the backbone of my existence for 40 years.

No matter how many times I've left to live or travel elsewhere, this has always been home. I could come back any time I wanted. Now, for the first time in my life, that isn't so.

Bloody hell.
What have I done?

In physics, a "tipping point" is the point at which an object is displaced from a state of stable equilibrium into a new, different state.

That could certainly describe several events of the past few years.

So I pause to identify that exact moment in time that changed everything. There is a plethora of obvious candidates: our wedding day, the day(s) we got engaged, our reunion in Milan two years after our first meeting in Rome, or perhaps the night I stood under the moon at San Galgano and I decided that I wanted to live in Italy...

Auspicious as these events may have been, I'm not sure any of them propelled me into a wholly different state. Different countries perhaps (bad pun intended), but that state of stable equilibrium - my sense of balance and order, a conscious awareness of my relative position to all things - that had followed me all over the world.

Ironically, I wasn't the least bit nervous about getting married. My husband is the most amazingly perfect partner that I could ever invent for myself. My last thought the night before the wedding was that I'll never get to sleep on my side of the bed again, but that seemed like a small price to pay for happily ever after.

But not being able to fly home whenever the hell I feel like it? Damn. That honestly never crossed my mind. Nor did it occur to me that I would find it this unsettling.

As I sit here looking down on the world below, I am overcome by a sudden attack of vertigo as I realize that for the past several months (maybe even the past several years) I've been standing on this precipice, postponing the inevitable moment when I would have to leave the nest (for good this time) and dive into the mysterious ether that is to be the next phase of my life.

Whether I'm ready or not, it's time. This is the tipping point.

No resolutions, no regrets

If you're still in the market for a new year's resolution, this is a pretty damn good one.

As 2010 drew to a close I was overwhelmed with the realization that I could spend the entirety of 2011 counting the blessings I was graced with in the past year alone. After asking myself, "What did I do to deserve all this?" and struggling to come up with a valid answer (despite the fact that it was meant to be a rhetorical question), I posed this not-so-rhetorical challenge: "What am I going to do to deserve all this?"

I immediately set about listing all the good deeds and positive actions that I intend to undertake in the coming months and by 12:05am on January 1st, the clean slate I was granted at midnight was already impossibly full.  Best of intentions notwithstanding, I can confidently forecast without a shadow of a doubt that, as in each year prior to the one that lies ahead, I will fall woefully short of my overly ambitious aspirations. But that certainly won't stop me from trying. Each day, each moment, is a new opportunity.

So this year, rather than scrapping my resolutions when they prove to be more difficult than they sounded whilst under the spell of sky lanterns, fire twirlers and far too much Prosecco, I will merely park them on a shelf for a while and focus on living up to this simple yet powerful statement:

"Do not let this universe regret you."

I was going to offer my version of what this mantra means to me, but I decided that my personal take on it is relatively unimportant to anyone but me. So I will leave it here now and let it stand on its own, to be interpreted by anyone who stumbles across this in whatever way speaks most authentically to you. If you care to share your thoughts on it, please do.

Happy New Year Everyone!

As American as apple pie

So as I was tossing apples for a pie, I started thinking about this post.

Then free-association kicked in and went something like this: Apples. Ideas. Ideas. Apples. Ideas are like apples. Apples are like ideas. Ok, not really. Apple pie. How did that jingle go? Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Cheverolet. Cheverolet? Ugh. Wait. Corvettes are Cheverolets. Cool! What's so American about apple pie anyway? It preceded us by thousands of years. Maybe apples are like ideas. Can America really be summed up by those four things? They aren't very inspiring. How are ideas inspired? Inception. Where do dreams come from? Probably not all designed by brain hackers. Good movie. It would suck not to be able to go home. Home sweet home. These apples are really sweet. Need to buy organic sugar...

Later, I attempted to make a coherent post out of this mind muck.
In summary, this is what my stream of consciousness yielded:

I'm an all-American girl.
I really, really am.

The more time I spend in Europe, the more obvious this little cliche becomes.

Europe is beyond awesome. The diversity of its history, culture, and natural beauty is truly mind-blowing. The expansive world-views of the people I come across is fascinating, enlightening, humbling. And the food...don't even get me started on the food. There isn't a morning that I don't wake up excited about my life here.

Still...

As I watch the corny airplane video on the long approach to O'Hare and see the Chicago skyline growing  larger on the horizon, I start getting a little teary-eyed. Although it's mostly boring instructions on how to successfully navigate the immigration holding pen, the closing montage of people from all walks of life saying "Welcome" like, 100 times, literally gives me goosebumps.

By the time they get to the end, every hair on the back of my neck is standing up and I have chills down to my fingertips...

"Welcome to the United States of America."

Whoa.
My heart is practically bursting out of my chest.
It gets me every time.
In fact, I'm getting all teary-eyed and goosebumpy just writing this.

Sadly, I'm told the actual customs officers aren't nearly as cordial in reality as the actors who portray them in the video. This absolutely breaks my heart.

So every time I go through Passport Control (which is a lot these days) I've started asking whether they really say that to visitors. And while they are staring through me like human neural-scanners trying to determine whether I have some illicit motivation for distracting them or am just being a smart ass, I tell them I'm asking for my friend Edi. Yes, that Edi. An awesome kid who lives on a small island in Croatia whose dream of coming to visit America very specifically includes hearing those exact words. I tell them it's important. That it's not just marketing crap. I tell them that people really do love to hear it. That I love to hear it. That it means something. And I thank them in advance for remembering, just in case Edi ever makes it over for that visit. Then I move on before I start bawling my head off.

Why am I so proud to be American?

This is a question I ask myself a lot lately, contextualized by the irony of me seeking life elsewhere. There are many reasons, but ultimately they all boil down to one thing.

Hope.

Of all the forces that make for a better world,

none is so indispensable, none so powerful, as hope.

I love this quote. And I love that no single person is credited with authoring it. It could have been said by anyone. It holds true for everyone. This is American ideolody at its core.

In the timeline of history, we are infantile in our 200+ years of existance compared to thousands. But whereas other countries are often defined by the past, I believe America is better defined by the future and the infinite potential, not only to envision and imagine, but also to chose and to change.

Endless and achievable possibilities. "Achievable" being the operative word which marks that tangible point in time and space where dreams and reality can begin to converge. The inception of hope.

Americans are famous for our belief that no matter who we are, where we came from, what we have or what we have to overcome, we are individually and collectively empowered to create and control our destinies. Of course, this means that the accountability for our lot in life pretty much lies in our own hands, thus making us responsible for our happiness rather than a government, monarchy, religious leader or some other such blame-magnet.

Personally, I'm ok with that.

Americans are also stereotypically known throughout the world to have an overdeveloped sense of ego. I'm told it is perceived to be a somewhat unsavory arrogance, this drive that propels people to have more, do more, be more. To be dissatisfied with the status quo. To question authority. To challenge the system. To defy limitations. To pursue happiness. To dream, perchance to dare.

To this I can only say, "Absofreakinlutely."

So when Dad asks me why...why, when both my parents' families worked so hard to come and build a life here, why would I turn around and go right back to a place they chose to leave? If I'm so bloody proud to be American, why am I living in Europe? Why? Why? Why?

The answer instinctively wells up from the bottom of my heart and reverberates in my soul like the echo of a thousand whispers:

Because I can.

My father's family didn't want to leave Italy. They left because they had to. My mother's family endured years of separation, parents from children, husbands from wives, as they slowly immigrated from the Philippines, saving for one plane ticket at a time. They didn't have the luxuries of frequent flyer miles, Facebook or Skype to maintain their connections to home. It is because they left everything behind that I can enjoy everything that lies ahead.

My homage to their bravery, their tenacity and their dignity is to do what they couldn't: to live a simple, peaceful, quiet life in il bel paese. Not because I don't have a choice. But because I do.

Andrea and I talk a lot about the differences between here and there. The cultures, the politics, the societal norms - they are vast and many and always provide fodder for a healthy debate. The dark side of relentlessly passionate ambition is that it's hard to know when enough is enough. When is it ok to sit back and enjoy where you are and what you have, here and now? When should you stop seeking something better and simply be happy with your life?

Admittedly my definition of happiness was severely out of whack for a quite while (I'll let my eBay store serve as further elaboration on that particular point), and I credit my time spent living and working abroad with helping me find a healthier balance between craving and contentment.

But the choice of where I fall on that continuum on any given day is mine, and mine alone. That is beyond priceless.

So for as much as I love living in Europe,
I never lose sight of the fact that what I really love is being an American living in Europe.

This is not to say that I'm not terribly embarrassed by the narrow-minded attitude of emperialistic entitlement that characterizes the "Ugly American" traveler or that I wholeheartedly (or even half-heartedly) support the actions of some of our leaders.

But America is not and cannot be defined by its leaders or even by its people. Nor is it a place that can be defined or contained by its boundaries and borders.

America is a collection of ideas, values, and dreams. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Fortunately, all of the above are portable.
And it for this reason that I can feel at home no matter where in the world I am.

I don't live in America.
America lives in me.

May I offer you a slice of pie?


Crunchy Caramel Apple Pie
This awesome recipe comes courtesy of Lenore DeMaria & the Crocodile.

9" or 10" pastry crust for a deep dish pie (someday I'll make my own, but not today)
1/2 cup sugar
3 tablespoons flour
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon salt
6 cups apples, peeled and thinly sliced (I use Fuji, but dying to try HoneyCrisp)
crumb topping (recipe below)
1/2 cup chopped pecans (or candied walnuts for a super sweet treat)
1/4 cup caramel topping

Crumb Topping
1 cup packed brown sugar
1/2 cup flour
1/2 cup quick-cooking rolled oats
1/2 cup butter

First, the topping: Stir together the brown sugar, flour and oats. Cut in the butter until you have a bowl of coarse crumbs. Set aside - ideally out of reach if you share my tendency to taste-test the entire batch.

Then, the pie: Pre-heat oven to 375. In a large bowl stir together the sugar, flour, cinnamon and salt. Add the apple slices and gently toss until coated. (Free-association is optional, but pleasantly cathartic.)Transfer the apple mixture into the pie shell and sprinkle crumb topping on top.

Put the pie on a cookie sheet so the drippings don't jack up your oven. Cover the edges with aluminum foil and bake at 375 for 25 minutes. Your kitchen should be smelling like Heaven right about now. Ditch the foil and bake for another 25-30 minutes.

Remove pie from oven, sprinkle with chopped nuts and drizzle with caramel. Cool on a rack and enjoy this gooey bunch of deliciousness warm or at room temperature.

Don't forget to count your blessings.

Note: Unless you are a baking wizzard (or I am just a moron) you may find yourself with a hot mess that lacks the consistency you seek. It took me seven years. But don't stress. It's still delicious. Just serve it in a bowl instead of on a plate and be thankful that this is the worst thing that happened to you today.

For those who keep sweaters in their ovens

In a mad fit of domestic bliss, I felt like making brownies today. Yay!

But we don't have an oven.

Boo.

Unless you think this counts...

Technically this makes me no more handicapped than people like my friend Stacey who keeps sweaters in her oven.

I find it ironic that the one and only commonality she shares with Carrie Bradshaw is the quintessentially definitive trait of a character who, if she existed on any level of reality, would in all certainty be her nemesis. Well, that and I'm pretty sure that if ever either of them were ever afflicted with a rabid craving for brownies, they would satisfy theirs at the nearest overpriced coffee shop.

Sadly, this is not an option for me.

I've recently discovered (at at most inopportune moment of Stage One Chai Withdrawl) that the only two, TWO, Starbucks that exist in all of Holland are at the airport and Nike headquarters. And God only knows what's in a brownie at a Dutch "coffee shop".

Actually, I'm pretty sure Stace knows as well.

In my despair, I turned to Jennfier at Sweet on Veg.  Her adorable website always puts me in a good mood and I desperately needed a good shot of bliss. As if by divine intervention, I spotted a yummalicious recipe for Katrine Volynsky's raw vegan brownies which, Hallelujah and Aaaay-men, don't need baking.

Behold! Salvation is close at hand.

No-Bake Vegan Brownies (a.k.a. bRAWnies)
Makes 4-6 servings*
Time: 30 minutes

1 cup walnuts
3/4 cup plump raisins (make sure they're fresh - if they're dry they won't stick)
1 tablespoon maple syrup
1/8 teaspoon alcohol free vanilla extract
1/3 cup raw chocolate powder or finally ground cacao beans
1/2 teaspoon coconut butter*
1 teaspoon grated raw cacao butter*
* if you don't have these handy, Nutella or any nut butter (peanut, almond, etc) will work fabulously

Guilt-Free Lemon Date Frosting
1/2 cup lemon juice (I use 2-3 fresh lemons but the bottled stuff works in a pinch)
1/2 cup soaked dates

*FYI - these quantities will not yield Starbucks-super-sized squares so if that's what you're looking for, you might want to double the batch. In a glass baking pan of 18x26cm (7x10in) they end up being about 2cm (1in) thick, which is actually fine because they're really dense.

Anyway, moving on...

Soak the dates for at least 30 minutes. For those of us who aren't accustomed to raw food preps, that means stick 'em in a bowl of water.

Next, process walnuts, raisins, chocolate powder, and raw cacao butter (or Nutella) in a food processor. This will yield a gravel-like crumble of nutty chocolate bliss. Resist the urge to start taste-testing.

Now, add the add vanilla, maple syrup, and coconut butter and blend until batter forms into a ball. The first time I made these I ended up with a big bunch of nutty chocolate gravel that bore no resemblance whatsoever to a ball. Turns out the raisins were too dry. If this happens to you as well, you can try adding a little more maple syrup to bind it all together. Or add more Nutella. Nutella fixes everything.

Either way, spread the batter into a glass pan about 1 inch high. If you end up with a pan full of gravel like I did, just spread it evenly and start at one end to mash it down into an even layer until it looks solid and somewhat cuttable.

Place in freezer for at least 15 minutes.

Once the dates are gorgeously mushy, blend them with the lemon juice until it's all smooth and creamy.

I swear this is the yummiest icing I've ever tasted and it's only got two ingredients - both of which are fruit. Crazy good and good for you. Super score.

Supposedly these guys will keep in refrigerator for up to 3 days. This I cannot attest to. They barely lasted 5 minutes in our house.

Update 6.16.11
If you'd like to see what these are supposed to look like, you can take a peek here.

It's snowing leaves

It's absolutely beautiful here at this time of year, kind of what I'd imagine Vermont or Maine to be like right now. As I write this, it's "snowing leaves" as my friend Sarah would say.

I love the smell of wet leaves.

Lovely.

In my determination to embrace Dutch culture (or at least attempt to blend in), I was stuck by a temporary bout of psychosis and decided to try making something uber-Dutch: those groovy little flavor bombs known as bitterballen.

On the way home from IKEA (which I still can't quite get used to pronouncing as "ee-KAY-ah") where we ran into the FranKats preparing for their housewarming party tonight, we ran into Marnix outside the supermarket.

I'm starting to feel very much at home here. If not a little Stepfordized.

He laughed when we told him I wanted to make the bitterballen. Apparently it's far more "Dutch" to just buy them frozen. Classic.

Oh well. I'm far past the point of being dissuaded now.

The awesome thing about bitterballen is their versatility. They can be as simple or complex as you endeavor to make them and you can even give them their own personalities depending on the fillings and the condiments you serve them with. They are far from healthy, but perfect for those rare occasions when you just must get your Freaky-Deaky-Dutch on.

I'm happy to say that these yummy little suckers turned out great with relatively little effort. Much heartier than your average pub fare or (I'm guessing) the frozen ones, seriously delicious. So good, in fact, that I served them up with a couple of Dutch beers for aperitivi one night.

It felt a bit blasphemous, but damn they were tasty.

Classic Dutch Bitterballen
Makes 30-36 groovy little flavor bombs

This recipe is adapted from a few that I've found from various sources. The gooey deliciousness inside is a roux that I'd say is akin to sausage gravy (except I opt for veal over pork), but they can easily be "vegetized" with potatoes, portabella mushrooms or cheese.

The traditional accompaniment is a basic yellow mustard, but feel free to mix it up with your own personal flavor by serving them with other dips, chutneys, or even barbeque sauces. I opted to try a pureed version of this persimmon relish and it was quite good.

Ok, here we go...

4 tablespoons butter
1/2 lb ground beef or veal (I used 1/4 pound of each)
1/4 cup carrot, finely diced
1/2 cup onion, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, crushed or pressed
salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
A grating of fresh nutmeg
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons flat parsley, finely chopped
5 tablespoons flour
1 cup beef broth or milk
1 egg, beaten with 1 tsp. water
1/2 cup dry bread crumbs
Oil for deep frying

Heat one tablespoon of the butter in a large skillet over moderate heat and cook the meat, carrots, garlic and onion until the meat is browned and the carrots are tender. Drain the meat and place in a mixing bowl. Add the salt, pepper, nutmeg, lemon juice, and parsley and stir to combine. Set aside.

Heat the remaining 3 tablespoons of butter in a saucepan over moderate heat. Then stir in the flour to make a roux. Cook this for 2 to 3 minutes, then add the broth or milk. Continue heating, stirring constantly, until the sauce boils and thickens. Combine the sauce with the meat mixture, stirring to combine them thoroughly, and chill this mixture for at least two hours in the refrigerator.

When the mixture has solidified, roll it into 1-inch balls. Roll the balls in the bread crumbs, then in the egg and water mixture, then in the bread crumbs again.

If you happen to own a deep-fryer, you're way ahead of me. If not, fill a pot with about 2 inches of frying oil and heat it to 375 degrees. Test the oil for "doneness" by dropping in a small piece of bread - when the oil is ready, the bread will crisp up immediately. You want to make sure the oil is hot enough or the little buggers will just soak up the oil like little sponges, which is neither good for your palate nor your thighs.

Fry a few at a time until golden, about 2 to 3 minutes. Drain on paper towels and prepare yourself for some awesomeness.

In the Netherlands these are eaten as snack or appetizer, or as the main course with apple sauce and french fries - might as well get as much use out of that fryer as possible, right? Whichever you choose, be sure to serve them immediately, accompanied by the dipping goo of your choice and a hearty Dutch brew.

Be mindful: the insides are crazy hot (think "liquid magma") so pierce them and let them cool off a bit before popping them in your mouth or the molten explosion will totally fry your taste buds!