Strawberries, cherries, and an angel's kiss in spring

"It's snowing in the Black Forest," Swissy Pie announced yesterday afternoon.

"What? No kidding!"

My surprise wasn't for the snow, precisely. Outside the apartment, a cold, heavy rain was intermittently pelting our courtyard. Though it had warmed up since morning, temperatures were still hovering around 14°C, and I knew from unfortunate personal experience how much colder mountain peaks could be than valleys. Given our weather in Basel, I had no problems believing that it was snowing on top of Blauen.

What was so disorienting was that two short days ago, snow was the last thing I'd have expected to see. At the time, we were being oppressed by a heavy, humid air mass that left us sticky with sweat. On Friday our thermometer registered 31°C (nearly 90°F); Saturday was little better. So, my mind was already in summer mode. A little early, given it's only May, but still, snow simply didn't fit into the picture.

We had to see for ourselves. Piling into our car, we set off for Germany.

I can't remember the last time we drove just to drive - back when Swissy Pie was still trying to sell me on moving to Europe, perhaps. But our adventure soon took on a life of its own. Without a particular destination in mind (though I had a vague idea we'd head for Blauen), Swissy Pie was free to take impromptu detours and make spur-of-the-moment decisions to check out off-the-beaten-track places such as the tiny town of Vogelbach, and a cemetery for local soldiers who'd fallen during the World Wars.

On the first such detour, we discovered Ötlingen, a charming town with fantastic views over Basel, the Alsace, and Germany. Somewhere between there and Kandern, we came across a roadside farm stand that was doing a brisk business for locals and foreigners alike. Several cars were pulled into the make-shift gravel parking lot. Part of the draw was that it was Pfingsten Montag, so almost all stores and many restaurants were closed. But really, these roadside stands are the best places to buy produce that's fresh, local, and delicious.

"What do they have?" Swissy Pie asked as we zoomed past.

"Um, I just saw strawberries."

"Just strawberries? That can't be."

I'm not certain what made him turn the car around, the prospect of proving me wrong, or the prospect of strawberries with quark for dessert. (In his defense, he never seems to tire of strawberries and quark.) Whatever the case, a minute later, we were crunching into the lot, right behind a Dutch car.

The stand sold strawberries, alright - cardboard boxes filled with giant, fragrant berries. But Swissy Pie was right. There were lots of other goods, from apples and potatoes, to fresh bread, to apple juice and milk. But real treasure was right next to the strawberries: plastic containers mounded high with the first local cherries we'd seen this season. Like the asparagus, they were early - but nontheless very welcome.

We grabbed a box each of the strawberries and cherries, as well as six enormous eggs (laid by free-range chickens, of course), and continued on our way. By now we were entirely distracted from the snow. We were too busy snacking on our cherries. So when I saw a sign for someplace called Schloss Bürgeln, I didn't hesitate to express an interest in seeing it. (Schloss is the German word for castle.)

Swissy Pie duly drove us up the narrow, thickly forested approach. Aside from being beautiful, it had the added advantage of giving me cover to toss a handful of stems and pits out the window. (I didn't feel bad - they're biodegradable, after all. And I figured cherry trees would be a nice addition to the land.)

At the end of the road, we came to a small parking lot, a trailhead for at least ten different walking paths, and a single paved path leading directly up to the Schloss. We opted for one of the more scenic routes through the forest, which was densely populated with stands of beech and fir trees; black, orange, and brown slugs; mice (or at least their holes); and buzzards. Near the castle, the woods gave way to fields of chamomile, nettle, and yarrow, trampled down and glistening with rain. We had to detour to avoid the occasional wild rose bush and Weinbergschnecken, large edible snails that are considered a delicacy in France (though Swissy Pie seemed to have little interest in adding them to our dinner menu).

The Schloss itself was a surprise. Though I could tell from the signs below that it was still in good condition - it boasted a restaurant, after all - I'd expected something similar to Burg Baden, only better maintained. But instead of a towering stone edifice, we saw a gracious estate mansion that wouldn't be out of place in a Jane Austen novel. A tangle of rose gardens, half-wild, half-manicured, surrounded the house. Wild strawberries peeked through the ivy encircling its walls. And the menu for both the restaurant and the terrace cafe looked quite appealing. Too bad nothing was open for the holiday - this is yet another place we're putting on our To Revisit list. (Note: Tuesdays are Ruhetage - in other words, it's closed.)

By the time we got back to the car, it was getting late, so after a short stop for me to pick wildflowers, we headed home. We never did make it to Blauen to verify the snow report. But at least we had a blast not going!

Don't stay out of the rhubarb

I admit it: until recently, I was terrified of rhubarb.

No, I didn't think it was one of the monsters who lived under my bed, nor did I fear it would jump out of the refrigerator and attack me in the middle of the night. I was just worried it would kill me.

Where did this unreasonable phobia develop? As best as I can guess, during high school biology class, when I learned that the leaves of the rhubarb plant are filled with the poison oxalic acid. For some reason, that left a very strong impression on me - perhaps because we also learned that as little as 2 tablespoons of antifreeze can kill an adult. (And why is antifreeze so toxic? Because the body metabolizes it into oxalic acid. You see the theme of the lesson.)

In my mind, "a little bit of antifreeze" soon morphed into "a little bit of rhubarb," and I began treating the plant the way I treated pufferfish: as a high-risk edible. I did indulge in the occasional slice of strawberry-rhubarb pie (as well as the occasional slice of pufferfish), but still, I figured the handling was best left to professionals.

Until last week. Buoyed by Swissy Pie's declaration that he loved rhubarb, I decided that really, I was well-educated enough to distinguish the leaves of the friggin' plant from the rest of it, dammit. So when we went to Fünfschilling, a farm/restaurant in Germany that sells its own top-notch produce, I picked out a few stalks (which had already been stripped of their leaves, anyway), plopped them down alongside the strawberries and apples, and took them home.

We were so busy with stuffing ourselves with strawberries and quark that it took a few days for me to get around to the rhubarb. OK, so maybe I was procrastinating, just a little. Besides, I didn't know what to make. At first I was leaning toward a classic pie, but I'd just made an apple and pear tarte tatin to use up some rapidly ripening Alexanders in my fruit basket, as well as a tomato tart for similar reasons. So I decided to stick with the basics and make a compote, which we could have with quark or vanilla ice cream.

No more than 20 minutes could have elapsed between when I took the rhubarb from the refrigerator to when I stuck the finished compote back it. It's really that easy. And it's pretty yummy, too.

So for anyone else out there who's afraid of rhubarb, don't be. I just had some with a scoop of ice cream, and I'm not dead yet. (And if that doesn't convince you, it turns out there's oxalic acid in many other foods too, including spinach, black pepper, most berries, cocoa, and chocolate. Bet you've been eating oxalic acid all your life!)

Basic Rhubarb Compote

• 500 g rhubarb (about 5 stalks)
• 200 g sugar (about 3/4 cups)
• 2 Tbsp water

For best flavor, choose firm, bright red stalks that aren't too thick. (Thicker stalks are stringier.)

Lop off the tops just where they pinch in (before the leaves begin), and trim the bottoms where the stalks were cut. Slice the rhubarb into 1 cm (1/2 inch) pieces.

In a saucepan over medium heat, combine the rhubarb, sugar, and water. Stir occasionally. When the sugar is dissolved and the liquid is simmering, cover the pot and cook until the rhubarb is tender, 5-10 minutes depending on the size of the rhubarb.

Cool and store in the refrigerator until needed.

Spice Girls

The ginger cookies that my sister makes are out of this world. Last Christmas, she whipped up a batch, and I swear the cookie jar was empty again within 24 hours. Or was it 12? In any case, it was fast. Especially when they're warm, they're amazing: soft, not too sweet, and hauntingly spicy.

Even though I've stolen the recipe from her, I've never made them myself, not even after I had Swissy Pie track down a jar of molasses for me at Migros. Part of it is that I'm lazy. I only have one baking sheet here, a cheap black thing that came with our oven, and I just don't want to spend half the day in the kitchen waiting for it to cool down so I can stick another dozen in. The other part is pride: I don't want to end up with cookies that aren't as good as my sister's. (No, I'm not competitive. What gave you that idea?!)

But the other day, I came across a recipe for molasses cake that sounded super-easy and very appealing. Since I also had a bit of fresh ginger that I wanted to use up, I couldn't resist grating some into the batter. The result was moist, tender, and perfectly ginger-y. Dare I say it? This cake might even be better than my sister's cookies. (But only because it's a lot less of a hassle to make.)

Fresh Ginger and Molasses Cake

• 2 1/4 C. flour
• 1 C. sugar
• 1/4 tsp. salt
• 1/4 C. fresh ginger, grated
• 1/2 C. butter, melted
• 1/2 C. molasses
• 1 tsp. baking soda
• 1/2 C. boiling water

Preheat oven to 350 F (175 C, or with a convection oven, 160 C).

Cut out a round of parchment paper to line the bottom of a 9-inch cake pan.

In a mixing bowl, stir together flour, sugar, salt, ginger, and butter. The mixture will gather into crumbs; using a whisk helps keep the crumbs fine. Take out a scant 1/4 C. of the crumb mixture and set aside for topping.

In another bowl, mix the molasses, baking soda, and hot water. The soda will fizz a little when dissolved.

Slowly whisk the liquid into the dry ingredients, and stir until smooth. Any lumps that remaining should be ginger.

Scrape the batter into the prepared cake pan. Scatter reserved crumbs on top.

Bake for 45 minutes (35 if using a convection oven), or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.

Cool, run a knife along the outside of the pan to loosen the cake, and turn out onto a serving plate.

Deliver the puddings or the blog gets it...

I was quietly catching up with blog reading this morning when the latest recipe at Once Upon a Tart jumped off the screen, dove straight for my stomach, and took it hostage. At least, that's what I assumed happened, because after that, said stomach started to send out distress signals, and nothing would satisfy it except a batch of the mouthwatering Yorkshire puddings that Myriam had just posted about.

Fortunately, the puddings were phenomenally easy to make, requiring nothing but a bit of flour, milk, eggs, and salt. The only thing about the instructions that made me pause: Myriam specifies that the batter should rest for an hour. I briefly considered following the instructions to the letter, but the hostage squealed in alarm. On went the oven. In went the custard cups I was using in lieu of muffin tins. Ten minutes later, out came a lovely, buttery-warm aroma. Gorgeous golden puffs followed in short order.


As soon as they were cool enough to handle, I ripped into one. It was a revelation: crisp outside (though the rest softened by the time I got to them), and soft and tender inside. Though Yorkshire puddings are traditionally eaten with gravy and the Sunday roast, I made a pretty good lunch out of them and the wonderful bauern ham we get at our favorite butcher.

They were so good that I couldn't stop thinking about them all afternoon. My stomach kept sending out hopeful queries: is it dinner yet? What about now? No? Then can we make a snack?

So on the spur of the moment, I decided to introduce Swissy Pie to the joys of British cuisine. But I wanted to play with the recipe a bit. I happened to have two egg whites left over from making Hollandaise sauce - more on that in another post - so I subsituted them for an egg. And because the Yorkshire puddings reminded me of gougeres, I chopped up a bit of Gorgonzola and mixed that in, too. (Yes, I probably should've used a good English Stilton or something like that, but Gorgonzola was what I had in the refrigerator.)

Wow. WOW. WOW.

After the first bite, Swissy Pie asked, "What's this again? It's really good."

That's high praise from him. Usually, to indicate his approval, he says, "Not too bad."

Yes, I cheated a bit. I know he's a sucker for anything with blue cheese in it. But still, it really was scrumptious.

What was that? Oh. Just my stomach, informing me that very soon, we'll again be making some version of Yorkshire pudding.

Yorkshire Puddings with Gorgonzola

• 100 ml milk
• 40 g flour
  
• 2 egg whites
• 2 Tbsp Gorgonzola cheese, finely diced
• oil for ramekins, custard cups, or muffin tins
  

In a bowl, mix together eggs and milk. Add flour, and whisk until the batter is smooth and there are no lumps left. Stir in Gorgonzola, making sure the pieces don't stick together. Set aside.

Take 3 ramekins, custard cups, or muffin tins. Pour approximately 1 Tbsp oil into each container. (The bottom should be covered with oil.) Place the ramekins on a rack in the middle of the oven.

Turn on the oven and preheat it to 220 C. Once the oven is at the desired temperature, carefully pour in 1/3 of the batter into each ramekin. Be careful, as the oil will be hot.

Immediately close the door and bake until the puddings are puffed and golden, 10-15 minutes. (This will take longer in non-convection ovens, and if the recipe is doubled or tripled.) Do not open the door prematurely, or the puddings will fall.

Yield: 3

And don't miss Myriam's recipe over at Once Upon a Tart!

I don't know how he does it

After five days off, we had a really tough time getting up this morning. Part of the problem was that we'd gotten used to sleeping in, until after 10. (At least!) But the bigger problem was that my legs didn't want to move. Actually, never mind the legs. My whole body aches, and unlike Swissy Pie, I didn't even get on my bike every day. (Though 4 out of 5 ain't shabby, if you ask me.)

Not that we spent the whole weekend cycling. With the longer days - at the moment, the sun doesn't set until 8 pm - we have the luxury of running errands and/or exploring the region before saddling up. Friday, for example, Swissy Pie hurried me through breakfast so we could get to the Basel Zoo.

We weren't the only ones there: the whole city had apparently decided to visit the animals. (I guess it was one of the few attractions open on Good Friday.) Although we weren't spared the typical family dramas (dropped ice cream cones, lost toys, etc.), Swiss efficiency was very much in evidence. So, despite the long lines, we obtained our tickets and got past the gate quite quickly.

Though a few of the particularly cold-sensitive creatures were still indoors, most were outside basking in the sunlight, like these hippos:


I also liked the monkeys, especially the guys pulling on each others' tails...


...and the baby giraffe...


...and the wild birds infiltrating the zoo (a grey heron and storks)...




Oh, honestly. I liked all the animals!





Afterward we headed to the Black Forest for Day 2 of Swissy Pie's Great Adventure. Since we'd gone up to Sallneck Thursday afternoon, I needed a "recovery ride." Swissy Pie went back to Sallneck, but I took a more leisurely spin up past the town of Wies. Going out, it was a slow, steady climb, which made the downhill return really fun. The turns were broad and sweeping, so even someone like me, who's notoriously afraid of descending, only had to tap the brakes a few times!

On Day 3, Saturday, we attacked Hochblauen via Marzell. Swissy Pie had first taken me up there last autumn, by car. Even back then, the long and frequently steep climb made me wince. (12%+?! Oh, my knees!) But on the bike, it looked even more daunting. I really didn't think I would make it all the way up, but somehow, I put my head down, and inched my way up.

The reward? This (somewhat hazy) view. The glittering band on the horizon is the Rhine River. In the foreground, a few patches of snow are visible. (It was cold up there!)


I was so thrilled to have conquered Blauen that I didn't even feel particularly tired that evening. (Usually, after a tough ride, I'm a zombie.) The full effects didn't hit me until the middle of the night, when I woke up with so many aches that I thought I should move to a retirement home!

Fortunately, I figured I was pretty safe from further pain: I knew we had plans to visit Swissy Pie's family in Bern for Easter. Plus, I had to finish baking this Easter Bread. So I guessed that neither of us would do much cycling on Sunday.


But while I was waiting for my dough to finish rising, Swissy Pie shimmied into his cycling gear, stuffed a change of clothes into a backpack, and stuffed the car keys into my hand.

"Can you drop me off in Liestal?" he said. "I'm going to ride toward Bern. Call me when you head out - you can pick me up along the way."

I was in shock. Alright, so it was sunny and gorgeous outside, but it was also windy. I should also point out that about 100 km, and a nice mountain range called the Juras, separates the two cities... And did I mention that we'd been cycling the past three days? Yet, he nearly beat me there: I ended up meeting him about 5 minutes from his parents' house. Unbelievable.

Yesterday, needless to say, we were both back on the bike again. This time we went to Freiburg, a lovely university town in Germany (which is not to be confused with Fribourg/Freiburg, another lovely university town near Bern).



I quickly discovered my body was still in krank mode, so partway up the mountain Swissy Pie wanted to climb, I turned around. Good thing, too. He told me that after that, the going got really ugly: a 14% incline for the last 8 km that I didn't even attempt. So while he labored up, I sunned myself down in the charming little town of Oberreid.



Even after all that abuse, he was still bouncing around last night, full of energy and looking for the next mountain to conquer. Preferably today.

Fortunately for me, I've got other plans for this evening.

Gluttony - it's my favorite sin

I have unduly fond memories of Devil's Advocate, the 1997 movie about a small town lawyer (Keanu Reeves) who's got a preternatural ability to get his clients off the hook. After successfully defending an obviously guilty man, he's invited to join the big leagues in Manhattan. Life's good... until he discovers that he's quite literally sold his soul to one of the partners at his new firm: John Milton (Al Pacino), the devil in disguise. (John Milton, get it? Snicker, snicker.)

The plot sounds completely silly, and Keanu Reeve's role as the lead isn't exactly a confidence booster, either. But the script is witty, and Keanu's clueless demeanor actually works well in this film, much as it later would in The Matrix. Even if it didn't, though, Al Pacino's show-stopping performance would more than compensate. As Lucifer, it's his job to exploit people's weaknesses, and he does it with a zest that's downright enthralling.

So how does he trap poor, bewildered Keanu?

"Vanity," Pacino informs us with a smirk. "It's my favorite sin."

He wouldn't have too a hard time snagging my soul with that one, as vanity is certainly one of my vices. But he probably wouldn't bother with it. Of the seven deadly sins, the easiest way - by far! - to get to me is gluttony. And on an overcast Saturday like today, this particular sin gets indulged. A lot.

It started this morning with buttermilk pancakes. Earlier this week, I'd made oven-fried chicken (which though tasty, is encountering some technical difficulties... I don't translate very well into convection oven-ese), so I had enough buttermilk left over for a special weekend treat. We haven't made pancakes since we were in New York, and I was really looking forward to having them.


Then I opened my old reliable Joy of Cooking, which reminded me that the acid in buttermilk needs to be offset with baking soda. And that reminded me that I hadn't been able to find soda last week, when I wanted to make biscuits to go with the fried chicken.

Scheisse, I thought. Oh well, I guess we'll be having regular pancakes then.

I opened the refrigerator again, only to discover that we were out of milk, too.

In short order, Swissy Pie was dispatched to search for baking soda, which he discovered is called Natron in German. But did that help? Nope, at least not at Migros or Coop. No Natron on the shelves, only Backpulver (baking powder). But on the way home, he realized that since it's plain sodium bicarbonate, the friendly neighborhood apothecary would certainly carry it. (He never did explain why the pharmacist has sodium bicarbonate.) So we were able to have our buttermilk pancakes after all!

After breakfast, we headed off for our weekly smuggling session. Today we headed straight for Germany, as there was a bike shop there we needed to visit. Swissy Pie has grand plans for a 137 km, 6 pass bike ride through the Vosges tomorrow, and since I'm a wimp, we needed to purchase a cassette with bigger (easier) gears, to reduce the likelihood of me having to walk up the mountains. While we were there, we also stopped by a charming little Italian store, where we got some wine and some truly excellent olives, as well as an amazing butcher's shop, where we stocked up on meat, reh-pastete, and liverwurst. For lunch, I tried fleischkäse for the first time.

Fleischkäse, for the uninitiated, sounds repulsive. (It doesn't look all that great, either.) Who wants to eat something called "meat cheese"? It sounds like a cold cut gone horribly, terribly wrong. But the name's misleading. There's no cheese in fleischkäse: it's only finely ground meat that's been formed into a loaf and baked. For serving, it's sliced into finger-thick portions, and (in our case at least) wedged in a crusty roll. The end result has the texture and consistency of a hot dog, but it's got a much heartier, meatier flavor. And yes, it's actually quite tasty!

We ran a few more errands before heading back home for dinner, where a couple of nice salmon filets were waiting. Initially I was just going to glaze them with some honey, rice wine vinegar, and sesame oil, but by the time we finished unloading the car, I'd decided that I wanted to show off with something spontaneous and spectacular. (Oops, what did I say about vanity earlier?)

So after some digging around the refrigerator, I pulled together some ingredients that were just screaming to be made into a salsa: oranges, onions, parsley, and some red chilis from the freezer. (A good trick for hot peppers, ginger, and many other spices you can't use right away: chop it finely, freeze it in ice cube trays, and pop them out into Ziploc baggies. Later, pull out as many cubes as you need.)

At the last minute, I remembered that I had a basket of physalis lying around, so I cut up a few and threw them in, too. Physalis are tiny orange fruits that come beautifully encased in parchment-like sepals. At their best, they're quite sweet; when I tried them once, in some fancy restaurant back in the States, they'd been delectable. Unfortunately, the ones I got here weren't as tasty as I would've liked, but at least their firm texture worked really well in the salsa.

The salmon itself I marinated in a mixture of sweet chili sauce, orange juice, mustard, and garlic. After roasting it, I nestled it in a bed of white wine and lemon risotto, and spooned the salsa over. The result was heavenly, if I do say so myself. Unfortunately I was so eager to taste the experiment that I forgot to take photographs!

Yes, gluttony is certainly my favorite sin. But at least we put something on a diet today: our energy usage. Yep, we've sprung for a bunch of those energy-saving lightbulbs and installed them all over our apartment. So tonight, at least, I can go to bed feeling virtuous.

Border crossings

Now that we've got a car, we've joined the masses sneaking into France and Germany for groceries on weekends. It's astounding how much less expensive food in the E.U. is, particularly meat. Everywhere we've been, at least half the cars have had Swiss plates. Several shops advertise that they accept payment in Swiss francs. As far as I can tell, customs officials are resigned to the rampant smuggling. Aside from the major crossing points, most of the customs checks are unmanned, and even at the big ones, they don't seem particularly interested in stopping anyone.

This is fortunate, because last weekend, we tried out a couple of hypermarchés in Alsace, where our purchases of Riesling, scotch, and gin exceeded our duty-free allowance by several multiples. We lugged back a tank of laundry detergent that comes up to my knees. Oh, yes, and we got some food, too. We shopped as if we were stocking up in advance of a famine. I can't tell how much more it would've been in Basel, because with some of the more extravagant purchases (Swissy Pie snuck in some foie gras into the cart when he thought I wasn't looking), our bill was a lot higher than usual. So much for saving money.

This weekend, after going to our local Coop for more wine (never mind what happened to the bottles we got last week), we headed over to Germany, "just for a peek." We should've predicted the outcome. Once again, we bought so much food we were hard-pressed to make space in our refrigerator for it.

Part of the problem: we came across Jever, Swissy Pie's favorite beer. The poor dear's been deprived ever since he left New York, where I'm quite certain he was single-handedly responsible for 90% of its consumption because no one else will touch the stuff. Naturally he had to get a few bottles, but they ended up occupying half a shelf in the refrigerator. By the way, we've only got 4 shelves.

But mostly, the problem is us. We're so used to prices in Switzerland that everything in the E.U. looks like a bargain by comparison. Plus, the French and German stores are so much bigger that they can offer a lot more variety. The cheese departments are much more interesting, for example. And instead of the one type of strawberry that Coop carries (which is from Spain, at that), in France you can pick from three different breeds. And have I mentioned that I saw my first European bagel? Of course I got a package, even though there's no shortage of bread in our home at the moment.

But as much fun as I had shopping across the border, I couldn't help but notice that I'm turning into a Swiss snob. "Oh no," I heard myself saying. "That spinach doesn't look very good. I'll get some at Migros next week." Or, "This beef looks disgusting. I'd rather pay more for the stuff at Coop."

Now, I'm not sure if there was really anything wrong with the food, and certainly I've picked up sub-standard food in Swiss shops. (Don't even ask about the last cucumber I bought. When I cut it open... Yech!) But because prices were lower (and in France at least, the stores looked dodgier), I became a lot more critical. You gets what you pays for, right? At least if you're not careful, and I have no desire to be the chump here.

Here's another point where I prefer the Swiss to their European neighbors: acceptance of credit cards. On our way home Saturday, we stopped by Dehner, a German chain of garden stores. I wanted to get some house plants, but at the moment there's no space for them in our living room, so we agreed to come back later. However, I picked out some herbs for the kitchen, as well as a couple of adorable little glazed pots for about 1 euro each. The grand total for my purchases: something on the order of 6 euros.

But when I went to pay with my credit card (why would I carry euros around when I live in Switzerland?) the cashier was very upset.

"For so little?" she said, grimacing in dismay. "It takes us 30 days to get the money."

"Sorry," I said, somewhat taken aback. (If that were the reason, wouldn't she be crankier if the bill were actually larger?) "I don't have any cash."

In the US, because of the fees they're charged, many small businesses request a minimum purchase before using credit cards, but I've never seen a big chain store do so. (In part because it's illegal.) In Switzerland, I've never encountered a minimum, either. I've charged 9 CHF at Nespresso, 4 CHF at Migros, both of which were less than this purchase. Not once have the cashiers stared (the official sign of Swiss disapproval). But this German woman, who works for a giant retailer, actually cared?

Swissy Pie volunteered, rather unhelpfully, "She's American, it's common there."

The woman replied irritably, "She's in Haltingen, not America."

Really? I hadn't noticed. I must have taken the wrong turn off of I-95!

After some more pouting and lecturing, which I pretended not to understand, she ended up running my credit card. "Just this once," she said sternly. I nodded and thanked her and tried to look as clueless as possible.

It's good to be foreign, sometimes.


Despite these little issues, we'll be back to smuggle our groceries. As the weather gets nicer, I'll probably start riding over on my bike during the week - it's only a few kilometers away, after all. And some day, we may even stop shopping like it's going out of style. But I doubt that will happen any time soon.

All that you can't leave behind

After nearly two months of floating along in my comfortable little world here, this week I was powerfully jolted back to reality. Several incidents served to remind me that I'm quite far from my homeland, and taken together, left me feeling quite vulnerable. I've been stricken by another bout of homesickness, and as usual, it came completely out of the blue.

Although I'd been a little down all week, I didn't recognize the symptoms until Friday night, when Swissy Pie and I met up for drinks with a friend from New York, who happened to be in town for a meeting. We had a wonderful evening catching up, but as we emerged from the close, cigarette-fueled haze, I remarked, "Boy, that's one thing I miss - smoke-free bars."

In that moment of alcohol-induced clarity, I realized that I miss a lot more than the carcinogen-free air. I miss knowing what to do in an emergency. (Kids, 911 doesn't work here.) I miss having a bank account. (Damn you, Citibank, for charging me inordinately high "foreign fees"!) As much as I like rösti and fondue, I miss real ethnic food. (Sorry honey, that's why you've been coming home to kebabs, tandoori chicken, ma po tofu and Japanese curry.) I miss bagels. (My favorite splurge: an everything bagel, toasted, with cream cheese, tomato, and lox.) I even miss American-style potato chips, which I never ate back home. (Yes, they have chips here, but they just taste different. Less salt, less oil... they're just off.)

So - perhaps unconsciously - this past week I've been trying to make our apartment feel more like home. Helped along by miserable weather - the high winds keep me from venturing out more than the snow and the cold - I've resumed unpacking with a vengeance. I've reorganized the cabinets, planned and plotted how to squeeze the remaining boxes of clothes into the meager space remaining. I've filled the closet that Swissy Pie helpfully assembled one night. I've spent hours browsing through the garden center at Obi, trying to decide what kind of plants I'd like to have in our living room. (Swissy Pie is singularly unhelpful on this front. His allergies to flowers helps narrow things down, but otherwise, he just says, "Get whatever you want.")

To complete my good little hausfrau image, I've even been ironing. Now, the last time I turned on my iron was probably at least five years ago, but I schlepped the thing all the way from New York, and I'm determined to use it. (The absurd dry cleaning fees here are also a good motivation - 10 Swiss francs per item!) So one day I stuffed all of Swissy Pie's dirty dress shirts into the washing machine, dragged them upstairs while they were still damp, and set to work. It took me all afternoon, but at last I managed to wrestle the pile of tangled cloth into something approaching unwrinkled shirts on hangers.

But ultimately, the most therapeutic thing I can do is indulge myself with comfort food. One day, for example, I craved Japanese curry. Now, most people associate curry with India, or perhaps Malaysia, but anyone who's been to Tokyo will recognize it as a national dish: it's a cheap, nutritious meal that can be purchased anywhere for a mere 400 or 500 yen. Nevertheless, it's alleged to be the Emperor of Japan's favorite food, and the average Japanese family eats it 2 or 3 times a week. Japanese grocery stores - as well as those in New York - carry kits that make throwing a curry together quick and easy.

I haven't come across any of the kits in the Asian markets here, so instead, I cobbled together a makeshift recipe. It turned out pretty well. It's not fancy, or even subtle, the way most Japanese dishes are. But it definitely keeps winter at bay!

Japanese Curry

1 lb ground beef
4 medium potatoes, diced
3 carrots, diced
1 onion, diced
2 cloves garlic
4 C water
2 chicken or beef boullion cubes
5 Tbsp vegetable oil
1/4 C flour
4 Tbsp curry powder
1 tsp chili powder (optional)
2 Tsp salt (or to taste)

2 C short grain rice
4 C water

In a large pot, heat 2 Tbsp of vegetable oil. Saute onion and garlic until softened. Add the ground beef and cook until it is no longer pink. Add the carrots and potatoes, stir a few times, and then add the water and boullion. Bring to a boil, and simmer for 15-20 minutes.

While the meat is cooking, make a roux out of the remaining 3 Tbsp oil and the flour: heat oil in a medium skillet until shimmering. Over low-medium heat, add flour and stir, cooking until the flour is blended and takes on a pale golden hue. Add curry powder and chili powder, using the back of the spatula to blend it into the roux. The mixture will be powdery and dry.

Take 1/2 C of the hot liquid from the meat pot and slowly add it to the curry-roux mixture, stiring constantly to form a smooth paste. By spoonfuls, add the curry paste back to the beef mixture, stirring to dissolve. Add salt. Simmer the curry for 20-30 minutes, until the sauce has thickened and the beef and vegetables are tender.

While curry is finishing up, bring rice and water to a boil in a pot, immediately reduce heat to low, cover the pot with its lid, and cook for 20 minutes.

Serve curry with rice in shallow bowls. There should be approximately twice as much curry as rice in the bowl.

Yield: 4 servings

Notes:
1) Curry mixes vary in ingredients and intensity, so adjust the spices accordingly.
2) Like a stew, there should be a lot of sauce, so if the curry is too dry, add more water.

Have and have not

Since I've spent a few posts complaining about the things that Switzerland doesn't have, it only seems fair to devote a post to something that can be found here, but not in the US: the mangosteen.

The mangosteen is a small, round, purple fruit from Southeast Asia known as the "Queen of Fruits." I first read about them a long time ago, but an impression of their fabled flavor - not to mention their elusiveness - has stayed with me ever since. Legend has it that Queen Victoria offered a reward to anyone who could send them to her. Today, in the United States at least, they're still nearly impossible to find: because their flesh may harbor Asian fruit flies, the US doesn't allow fresh ones to be imported. So I'd never managed to sample the ambrosial fruit.

Apparently Switzerland has no such qualms, perhaps because customs officials know the fruit flies will never manage to fill out the appropriate visa applications in triplicate. Still, they're by no means common here. I haven't seen any at the Asian markets, though admittedly I haven't been looking. But while I was browsing through Globus today, I happened upon a handful of what looked like baby eggplants, nestled among other brilliant clusters of exotic fruits.

In case your wallet's never been ambushed by Globus, consider yourself fortunate: it's the Swiss version of Barney's, with one major improvement. Like most European department stores, it has a food shop in its basement, and appropriately enough, the one at Globus is like Dean and Deluca, only about a thousand times better. It carries a staggeringly glorious assortment of proscuittos, fresh pasta, prepared salads, wines, cheeses... In short, if you're searching for something rare, extraordinary, and/or expensive, it's the best place in the city to go.

Needless to say, it's a very dangerous place for me to venture, so usually I stay away. But since I was in the neighborhood on Friday morning, I drifted in, resolved to "just look." Then I saw the Malaysian mangosteens peeking out at me, and I knew I had to get a couple to try.

With a great deal of willpower, I made it out of Globus without further damage to my bank account, and coddled my little treasures all the way home. It took even more willpower not to succumb to curiosity and taste one right away. But I decided to make an Asian themed dinner, and to serve the fruit afterward for dessert.

As it turns out, my careful handling was unnecessary: mangosteens have a thick protective layer that start to harden after picking. Though the ones I got were still relatively soft (as is ideal), there was more than enough padding to cushion the fruit inside. Indeed, getting at the edible bit required a bit of careful sawing: once around the equator with a serrated bread knife, a little twist, and at last the shell fell open to reveal a perfectly white globe segmented - somewhat like an orange - into seven slippery sections. It was gone in less than thirty seconds.

The texture and flavor was reminiscent of a mango, though much brighter and far less sweet. (Is that how it got its name?) It had a lovely floral aroma that lingered on the tongue long after the tiny bits of fruit were gone. Without a question, it was delicious. But I suspect the biggest reason it's legendary is its relative rarity, and how much effort it takes to get at a tiny bit of fruit!

Given how much Globus charges, I won't be stocking my fruit bowl with them. But now I can cross off one more item off my personal "things to do before I die" list, and dream of having a mangosteen tree in my back yard.

Painting the town red (or at least a pale shade of pink)

Last night, Swissy Pie and I went to a charming wine bar called Rosario's Lo Spuntino, a cozy, casual little place on the Spalenberg, where we met one of his friends (and former boss). The seating consisted of a handful of tall oak barrel-topped tables and comfortable stools. An animated waitress with steely, close-cropped hair reigned over the bar, dispensing wine with a precise but generous hand. In the back, a small blackboard described two daily specials.

The menu was short and simple. The front page listed wines that could be had by the glass; the reverse side described cheese and/or meat cold platters that could be nibbled alongside. Everything was written in the type of oversized font I used to use back in college, when I was trying to get my papers up to the required minimum page count.

In New York, there would've been nothing particularly noteworthy about the place. Though the Italian Merlot on the menu was excellent, the Dolcetto was not. The mixed plate we got was good, but anyone can throw together a decadent plate of charcuterie. What's more, most of the patrons were smoking, which I'm not used to any longer.

Yet being there was like wearing a favorite sweater, comfortable and familiar. Part of it was the wine and food; part of it was the thrill of experiencing a new city. But mostly, I think it was the good company. Swissy Pie's friend reminded me of some of my own friends in New York, and it was unbelievably comforting to bask in the warmth of their laughter and their jokes. I felt welcomed and accepted. And for a brief time, I could pretend that I've always been here.

Let me eat cake!

Today, as everyone in the press has been pointing out, is the coldest on record in two years. Including the wind chill, this morning it clocked in well below 0 degrees Fahrenheit. This comes after weeks of unseasonable warmth: at the beginning of the month, I was able to go for a bike ride in shorts and a short-sleeved jersey! So, even though winter is my favorite season, right now I'm happy to remain ensconced in my apartment, organizing my papers and consuming the last of the amazing chocolate mousse cake that my sister dropped off Monday night for my birthday. For someone who can't eat wheat, she can sure pick 'em.

I spent much of the day on the phone, changing my address of record to Switzerland. People's reactions were quite varied. The Indian operators couldn't have cared less. What's more, they were easily confused. "What?" one asked. "The street number comes after the street name?" The German tendency to mash a bunch of normal words into one gigantic superword didn't help: a second representative was panting by the time she spelled my address back to me. (I have no idea why she didn't take a breath in between letters.)

But another lady with a lilting Southern accent was genuinely thrilled for me. She'd spent time in Italy when she was fifteen, she told me, and dreamed of going back. We compared notes on our respective countries. Talking with her was almost like chatting with a friend, and it made me positively cheerful about the imminent move.

Until I got off the phone and surveyed my apartment again, and that now-familiar lump of dread settled back into the pit of my stomach. I've been walking back and forth from the living room to the bedroom, touching favorite things and mentally preparing myself for the possibility that I'll never see any of it again. Shipping overseas does have risks, as the recent windstorm that lashed Europe proved. At least one container ship, I read, was wrecked in the English Channel, where beachcombers had a field day picking up bottles of perfume and engine parts. Yes, that's what insurance is for, but when it costs 2.5% of declared value, I simply can't cover everything. Which is why I've only listed the most valuable and breakable stuff: furniture, artwork, wine glasses and dishes, etc. If my ship really does go down, I'm not going to be happy.

Funny, isn't it? I never considered myself materialistic, and yet I'm so attached to my belongings! Filling out the insurance valuation form was another reality check. If you saw the way I dress, you'd never guess how much money I've spent over the years on clothes and shoes. Note to self: Un-Swiss Miss if you're going to spend like that, you might as well stop looking like a slob.

The good news is, I'm almost done cleaning out my pantry. I've even had to go grocery shopping! For lunch I made a delicious pasta out of ingredients I had lying around. (A triumph, since I thought I had nothing meal-worthy in the house.) It was quite simple:

Cappellini with Mushrooms, Spinach, and Mozzarella

2 cloves garlic, finely minced
4 oz mushrooms, sliced
1/2 cup frozen spinach
2 oz whole-milk mozzarella, cut into 1/2 inch cubes
1/8 package of angel's hair pasta
1/2 tsp red pepper flakes
1 tsp balsamic vinegar
olive oil
salt and pepper to taste

Put a pot of water on the stove to boil.

In the meantime, sauté garlic in olive oil over medium heat until fragrant, but not yet golden. Add mushrooms and cook until softened, sprinkling a few spoonfuls of water over, as necessary, to keep the mushrooms from sticking to the pan. Toss in spinach, balsamic vinegar, and red pepper flakes. Salt and pepper to taste. Turn heat to low and set aside.

Cook pasta in boiling salted water and drain. Toss pasta with spinach-mushroom mixture and mozzarella cubes. Adjust salt and pepper as necessary, drizzle with good-quality olive oil, and serve.

Makes enough for 1 hungry Un-Swiss Miss or 2 normal people.

Yes, it's filled with garlicky goodness, but trust me: I'm not kissing anyone tonight.

It's not fondue, but...

I've always said I'll try anything once. So this evening, with Swissy Pie egging me on over the phone, I gave the recipe for raw chocolate pudding a whirl - literally. The jujubes I'd planned to use turned out to have gone bad, so I skipped that ingredient, as well as the optional nut butter.

Making the recipe took little more than five minutes; blending was the most time-consuming part. In the end I had a couple of cups of thick, glossy stuff.

Was it disgusting? No, the results definitely exceeded my expectations, and over the course of a few hours, I confess I ate the whole batch. (Not a great idea, incidentally, because of the high fiber content.) Still, I have no regrets about making it.

But did it taste like chocolate pudding? Er... Kind of. The cocoa conjured up vague intimations of dark chocolate, and the pudding had a nice silky texture. But I couldn't quite ignore the figgy overtones, and the pudding lacked the depth and richness of a true chocolate pudding.

Including nut butter probably would have helped with the richness, but I really doubt that dates would've neutralized the sour-sweet flavor of the figs. I may experiment with using raisins, instead, to see if that gives a more muted flavor. If not, no problem - grapes go quite well with chocolate, in any case.

So would I recommend this to a friend? Sure, under certain conditions. It's a good substitute for someone who's lactose intolerant, or who loves chocolate covered figs. It's great for using up dried fruit in a novel way. It's a perfect dessert for entertaining friends who are raw vegans. And it would be fun as part of a creative meal constructed in the spirit of Ferran Adria or Wylie Dufresne.

But for anyone looking for a big bowl of comfort food, my advice is to look elsewhere.

How would you like your chocolate cooked?

It can be a lot of fun to search for recipes by ingredient; one comes across the strangest stuff. For example, under "dried figs" I found this concotion on Epicurious:

Raw Chocolate Pudding

10 fresh dates, pitted and cut in quarters
10 dried figs, stems removed, cut in quarters
2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder
2 tablespoons raw nut butter (optional)
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 1/2 - 2 cups filtered water

Place the dates, figs, cocoa, nut butter (if using), vanilla, and 1 cup of water in a blender and pulse several times until the fruits begin to break down.

Blend until smooth and creamy, slowly adding water as needed for desired consistency.

Makes 2 1/2 cups.

Dare I make it? It sounds disgusting, but there's a single (suspiciously) glowing review. Even if the review is real, I'm going to be omitting nut butter and substituting jujubes for the dates, so this pudding might turn out disgusting anyway. Stay tuned for the decision...

Three down... a gazillion to go

Heather's comment to my last post reminded me of a cookie recipe that I found on Epicurious a long time ago, when my sister was first diagnosed with her wheat allergy. With peanut butter and chocolate chip as the main ingredients, I suppose it's hard to go wrong. They're so tasty and easy that I used to make them just for myself.

Here's the recipe as originally written. Since my peanut butter's pretty sweet on its own, I usually cut the sugar in half.

Flourless Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip Cookies
1 cup super chunky peanut butter
1 cup (packed) golden brown sugar
1 large egg
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup miniature semisweet chocolate chips (about 6 ounces)

Preheat oven to 350°F. Mix first 5 ingredients in medium bowl. Mix in chocolate chips. Using moistened hands, form generous 1 tablespoon dough for each cookie into ball. Arrange on 2 ungreased baking sheets, spacing 2 inches apart. Bake cookies until puffed, golden on bottom and still soft to touch in center, about 12 minutes. Cool on sheets 5 minutes. Transfer to racks; cool completely.

Makes about 24 cookies.

Incidentally, I think I'll be taking over a bottle of vanilla extract in my suitcase. When I was there last, I had trouble finding it in the grocery stores. I came across imitation vanilla, vanilla sugar, and vanilla beans, but no pure extract.

Get out of the kitchen

With my imminent move, I’m starting to clear out my pantry. It’s like clearing out the refrigerator before going on vacation. In the case of vacation, the goal is to use up food that will spoil. In the case of the move, it’s to use up as much food as possible, period.

Some things will be easy to get rid of. I can think of hundreds of recipes involving basic supplies like chicken broth, dried pasta, canned salmon, and frozen peas. Others will be more difficult. What do I do with a pound of rice flour or two bags of dried jujubes? Still others are downright impossible. There’s no way I’m going to eat two jars of peanut butter, for example. And how will I use up red bean paste when I can’t stand the stuff?

Then there's the packrat part of me that resists using up the exotic ingredients, because God only knows whether I'll be able to find them again in Switzerland.

Well, I’ll give it my best shot. I’m including the list of supplies below, in the hopes that someone will share recipe ideas, particularly for the more esoteric stuff.

Basics in excessive quantities

• peanut butter
• basalmic vinegar
• semi-sweet chocolate
• honey
• at least 5 types of tea
• bread crumbs
• raw wheat germ
• barley
• golden raisins
• crystallized ginger
• dried figs
• cocoa powder
• sunflower seeds
• corn syrup
• Dijon mustard
• Miracle whip
• anchovies
• artichoke hearts
• vanilla protein powder
• various alcohols (vodka, gin, rum, port, and wine)

Other basics

• canned salmon
• canned tomatoes
• canned mango
• farfalle
• capellini
• maple syrup
• all-purpose flour
• confectioners sugar
• brown sugar (hardened into a lump)
• dried chickpeas
• frozen peas
• frozen scallions
• frozen bananas
• polenta
• active dry yeast
• chicken broth
• espresso
• homemade spicy bourbon barbecue sauce

Ethnic ingredients

• s’chüg (a spicy Middle Eastern paste similar to harissa)

• nori (seaweed)
• red miso
• tofu
• rice vinegar
• red bean paste
• rice flour
• dried adzuki beans
• dried jujubes (Chinese red dates)
• Chinese dried noodles
• Thai garlic-chili sauce
• coconut milk
• mango chutney
• cilantro chutney
• yellow lentils

• guava paste
• masa harina

Thanks-goodness

It's only 9 am, but already in the hallways of my apartment building I can catch the distinctive whiff of charred meat. Hello, isn't it a bit too early to be burning your turkey?

New York is a city where no one seems to cook. Look around, and it's not difficult to understand why. In my immediate neighborhood the choices are almost mind-boggling. Would you like French, Chinese, Indian, Japanese, Korean, Italian, Thai, Vietnamese, Ethiopian, Peruvian, Cuban, Argentinian, or Mexican tonight? No? Then perhaps southern comfort food, steak, or "new American" would fit the bill better. And would you like to eat in, or take out, or get it delivered? For the overworked, harried professionals who inhabit this little island, restaurants are an irresistible convenience.

But the holidays roll around, and then suddenly everyone - even the socialite who's converted her kitchen into a giant shoe closet - turns domestic. Half of them can't find the way to their oven. The other half end up cutting themselves while peeling potatoes. And I putter around under a cloud of carbonized meat, assembling the side dishes I'm taking over to my sister's apartment.

News of the weird

In case you haven't got a time-honored stuffing recipe passed down from grandma, White Castle wants you to know that they've got your Thanksgiving covered. You can make stuffing from their hamburgers!

Just make sure you don't order pickles in these Slyders. (Seriously, it's in the directions.) I guess no ketchup or mustard, either.

Thank goodness. I couldn't go another year eating homemade.

Tis the season for... kale?

It's almost midnight, and I have the strangest craving right now: I want kale. And the funny thing is, I'd never cooked it before today.

Kale first got on my brain during my book club's discussion of The Omnivore's Dilemma last night. We were talking about CSA, community supported agriculture, which allows individuals to pre-buy one season's worth of a local farm's crop. Then, once a month during the growing season, the farmer delivers the produce (or meat, or eggs, or whatever else they've got) to a central location, and the "shareholders" come and pick it up.

Farmers like it because it gets them money earlier, to cover their production costs. Consumers like it because it's usually a lot less expensive than buying organic at the supermarket. However, the selection is dependent on whatever that particular farm produces; it is also obviously quite seasonal, which is both good and bad. One girl mentioned that a friend of hers had signed up with a CSA. In summer, she loved it, but when winter rolled around, all she got was boxes of kale - acres of kale, month after month after month.

We laughed. What could you possibly do with all that kale? Kale soup, kale salad, kale chutney, kale ice cream... We were starting to sound like Forrest Gump.

But in the midst of that recitation, I realized that I didn't really know how to cook kale. I'd never bought it myself, never prepared it, never paid attention to any recipes. I'd seen it in the greens section, but with its stiff, crinkly leaves I considered it somewhat scary looking, especially next to its tamer cousin spinach.

I must have considered the gauntlet thrown, because on my way home, I stopped by Fairway for a bunch of locally-grown kale. This morning, I began to brainstorm ways to cook it. Breakfast was clearly on my mind, because what did I come up with?

Kale pancakes.

It's not as crazy as it first seems: we've got potato pancakes and zucchini pancakes. Why not kale?

So, I assembled:

• a generous handful of kale, stems included as long as they look fresh
  
• 2 eggs
• 2 tablespoons flour, more as needed
  
• salt to taste
• Tabasco, Red Devil, or some other vinegary hot sauce
  

I sliced the greens about 1/4 inch wide. It made for approximately 5 cups of loosely packed kale, which was then mixed with the eggs, flour, and salt. (In case the quantities are confusing, I was aiming for very little batter - just enough to coat most of the leaves, no more.)

Then, I scraped the whole thing into a 9-inch crepe pan, tamped it down, covered it, and cooked it over medium heat, about 5 minutes on one side and 2 minutes on the other, until the eggs were fully cooked.

I turned the pancake out onto my plate and sat down with a bottle of Trapper's Red Devil. Prep time: 5 minutes. Cook time: sub 10 minutes. So far, kale ranked high on the convenience scale. But how did it taste?

Pretty good, actually. To my surprise, the pancake had an almost meaty texture, similar to the soft-but-not-quite-spongy mouthfeel of portabella mushrooms. The bits of stem I encountered were crisp, bright, and slightly sweet, like a flash-cooked green bean, only sharper. Even on its own, it was a satisfying dinner.

Kale was delicious. How could I have ignored it for so long?

Well, no more. Tomorrow I'm going to make my oven-"fried" chicken and braise some kale to go alongside. For Thanksgiving, I'll try this potato and kale galette. And on Friday...

Well, on Friday, I'll be on a plane. But I'm sure I can find kale in Switzerland, too.