The to-do list

While in past summers, it was safe to say I was pretty much married to my to-do list, this summer had been different. It's not that I don't have a to do list, because I do. I have an entire spiral notebook dedicated to my to-do lists, with separate sections for daily and long-term to-do lists. It has checkboxes, different shapes and colors mini-post-its, a place to keep my pen, and is basically a geek walhalla in between two covers. 

But even though it's full of things I decided I must do before heading back to work (paint Ozziez's room! Sort through pictures! Clean out attic!), I have not touched it since I came back from Ireland, three weeks ago. I've carried it around with me, and it's currently sitting on the coffeetable, staring at me in reproach, but I have simply refused to open it and look at all the things I should have done, should be doing right now, and need to do in the next three weeks. 

This has created an interesting situation. For one thing, I keep forgetting to do things. Like run to the bank to get my hard drives from our lock box, schedule the pool guys to come and paint our deck, and cleaning out the fridge. It also means that when I get around to doing things that I remember from my to-do list, such as sorting through my pictures from Christmas, I do it when I feel like it, and quit when that feeling goes away. I feel like the main character from Office Space, when he's just come out of a hypnosis, doesn't go into work for four days, and when he does, and his boss tells him he's been missing a lot work, he replies with, "Well, I haven't actually been missing it."  Yes, I am definitely less organized (for instance, because I have yet to finish moving certain teaching materials to another computer, on account of I quit when I didn't feel like doing it anymore, my desk is covered in a jumbled combination of used and empty CDs), but I also find that I just don't care. Whatever I'm forgetting is, and this is a shocking revelation to me, really not that important. The fridge, for one, is just not disgusting enough for me to get worked up about it. And if something is important enough (such as scheduling our termite inspection), I am more than capable of remembering. Even over a long weekend. 

So yeah, I'm not sure what to make of this new situation yet. You see, it really means I, like the guy from Office Space, only do what I feel like, unencumbered by to-do lists. So I haven't checked my email as regularly as I should have, not responded to emails from dear friends, not updated my Facebook page in weeks, and we all know how much my blogging skills have fallen to the wayside. Yet I know that those are things I usually like to do. Apparently just not right now. 

However, in line with my current laissez-faire attitude I'm going to cut myself some slack. The 2012-2013 academic year was quite the doozy, with promotion and tenure, a grant, conferences, publications, and it would seem that I just need a break. Between you and me, I honestly kind of like the relaxed me. And I'm sure that once August 5 rolls around, I will be wound tighter than a slinky on espresso. So for now, if I don't respond to your emails, phone calls, or messages, it's not because I don't want to. I just don't right now.

Driemaal..

..is scheesprecht.

Na het verrassende succes van de gevulde koeken van vorige maand was ik overtuigd dat alle Nederlandse lekkernijen vanaf nu binnen handbereik waren. Brinta, roze koeken, spekkoek, erwtensoep, de Amerikaanse recepten zijn allemaal te vinden The Dutch Table, en dus was het een kwestie van tijd maken en de juiste ingedrienten kopen, voordat al die versnaperingen ook in mijn pantry te vinden waren. 

Mijn eerste, of nou ja tweede, success story zou eierkoeken worden. Hoe moeilijk kon een koek die voornamelijk uit eieren bestaat nou zijn? 

Nou, erg moeilijk. 

Het begon met het recept van The Dutch Table. De eierkoeken, die tot mijn grote verbazing corn starch bevatten ( een middel waarmee je sauzen dikker maakt), waren groot en dik, mooi goudkleurig, maar ook hard en redelijk smakeloos. Manlief en de jongens vonden ze heerlijk met jam of honing, maar laten we wel wezen, een eierkoek behoort men met honing noch met jam te eten. 

En dus werd het tijd voor het zwaarder geschut: mijn oom Jan (die voor de verandering ook eens echt Jan heet). Jan is namelijk professioneel brood en banketbakker. Zo iemand die om middernacht naar zijn werk gaat zodat wij allemaal vers tijgerbrood, sesambolletjes, en slagroompunten kunnen kopen. Die na bijna veertig jaar dienst de favoriete patient van zijn tandarts is, en niet omdat hij zoveel snoept, maar omdat suiker in een bakkerij letterlijk in de lucht zit, en hij dat decennia lang al aan het inademen is.  Iemand wiens baan een duidelijk nuttige bijdrage aan de samenleving levert (terwijl dat bij mijn baan nog maar te zien valt). Na een recept dat maar liefst 75 eierkoeken zou produceren afgewezen te hebben als ietwat onrealistisch, kwam Jan met een simpel, klein recept aan. Eieren, bloem ('dat is flour voor jou'), suiker, citroenschil en bakpoeder ('en dat is baking soda voor jou'). Het leek reuze makkelijk. En dat was het ook. En de koeken zagen er prachtig uit. Alleen smaakten ze werkelijk voor geen meter. Niet zoet genoeg, en met een vreemde vissige bijsmaak. 

U begrijpt, dit was het. Het teken dat opegeven geen optie was. It was on. Challenge accepted. In it to win it. 

En zo ging ik op zoek naar een Amerikaans recept. Van een Amerikaanse kok. En kwam na veel wikken en wegen bij een recept uit dat wel wat leek. Zo was er geen corn starch nodig. Maar wel baking soda. En baking powder. En als semi-wannabe-bakker weet ik dat je die combinatie nodig hebt als je enige fluffiness wil krijgen. Wel moest er corn syrup aangeschaft worden, en de oven op een onfatsoenlijke temperatuur voorverwarmd worden, maar mensen, dan heb je ook wat. Want deze derde keer zijn ze dus mooi gelukt. Perfect, goudbruine, luchtige, plakkerige eierkoeken. Van Amerikaans mega-formaat, maar dat nemen we voor lief. 

En ik heb maar meteen besloten dat mijn volgende poging boterkoek gaat worden...en dan? De moeder van alle banket: spekkoek.

Queen of tarts

Many people have asked me about my favorite part of my recent trip to Ireland. Because I live in the Bible belt, where, to borrow from Ms. Austen, sensibilities are many and sense is hard to come by, I have yet to share the absolute best part of the trip with anyone. Instead, I talk about other parts of my trip, such as seeing the Book of Kells, touring Dublin with Mary, exploring County Wicklow, or the inspirational nature of the conference, or perhaps even the success of my presentation. All truly exciting and wonderful experiences, but none can hold a candle to the high tea Mary and I shared on my first day in the country. A first day that was marked by rains, winds, and temperatures in the high 40s. A day so full of new impressions and freezing ankles that when Mary suggested finding a tea place she had read about on TripAdvisor that was known for its pies, cakes, scones, and tarts, saying yes was the only logical thing to do. So, using her ever-useful city app, Mary guided us across Temple bar, through crooked streest, past bars, boutiques, and lots of Carroll's tourist shops. And just when we were about to guve up, we both looked up, and saw the bright red sign with the infamous name 'Queen of Tarts'. Yes, Queen of Tarts. And now you know why I have yet to share this with anyone down here. In a part of the world where talking about armpit hair by innocent first graders at summer camp is seen as the worst kind of inappropriate (yes, this did indeed happen. Back in 2008 in fact), just  mentioning the name of this particular establishment is enough to give most people a fit of the vapors. So I have refrained from sharing this particular tidbit. (And that expression would be a no-no as well..just so you know). 

But I digress. 

The Queen of Tarts was easiest the smallest eatery in all of Dublin: six tables were squeezed together in front of the most scrumptuous display of tarts, pies, and pastries, and patrons had to watch their elbows and knees lest one of them ended up in their neighbor's scone or pot of tea. The decorations in the shape of lots of red hearts, and references to various species of womanhood one might describe as 'tarts', did an amazing job walking the fine line between cute and camp, and gave the place an uncanny resemblance to Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shoppe in the Harry Potter series. In one word, it was awesome. 

In spite of the rain, cold, and the fact that it was Sunday at tea time, one small table next to the display case was empty. Mary and I quickly made it our own, and proceeded to have a very warm, delicious, and much-appreciated tea. 

And seriously, can anything trump sharing a pot of tea, a slice of pound cake with an old friend on a cold day in a teashop called Queen of Tarts?

No, I didn't think so either...