little feet, big sky

Awesome BBQ yesterday! We had something like thirty people out on our tiny little patio. It was baking hot at first, but was much more comfortable once the temperature dropped a bit. My mother was over for the weekend and took charge of the kitchen and the stuff to grill was flavored Southeast Asian by her. Whole spicy ginger pomfrey, coconut calamari, a shrimp & veggie platter, some pre-fab chicken & beef from Trader Joe’s, and lots of really good stuff brought by our guests, like cajun trout, portabella mushroom burgers, and a strawberry trifle to die for.

It turned out to be a really great mix of people, but I was so busy running between the kitchen, the grill and the baby that I didn’t get to chat with everyone as much as I’d have liked. There were some guests that I barely got their names down by the time they left, but the spouse-unit got in more socializing and everyone seemed to go home stuffed and happy, so overall, the afternoon was a hit.

Can’t wait to do the next one!

How I hate this country. Alright, maybe hate is a strong word – how’s despise? Dislike? Yes. Strongly, strongly dislike.

It’s not the cold weather; being a knitterly person, the cold is such the perfect excuse for knitting and crocheting that I have seven open projects going and can’t even decide which one to work on. No, the cold is a fun, welcome change from sunny California. I find it fascinating watching the rain, the people bundled up, the wind howling through our bedroom since the window doesn’t shut all the way..

It’s not the food, though at first I thought it might be the food. I’ve never been a fan of dark bread, but here, bread is dark bread and no other, served in thin rectangles reminiscent of damp cardboard. Thankfully, there are delectable things to heap on it, like cucumbers, eggs, honey, Tartex, and Danish cheese strong enough to rival durian on Fear Factor. The cultural philosophy of smørrebrød amounts to piling as many goodies on in order to virtually eliminate notice of anything bread-like underneath. This is strange considering how attached the Danes are to the bread itself.
Here’s a good time to point out that the spouse’s parents are vegetarian. Mind you, I have nothing against vegetarians, since the spouse is one and I’m halfway there myself. But it seems that there is no greater Hell on earth than to be a Northern European and become vegetarian. And perhaps, of an older and less-adventurous generation. His mother prefers no salt and his father has something against garlic.. and other flavors, I’d imagine. My family would call it pap, or baby food, things so bland and textureless as you would feed invalids with. *shudder*

I’m sure there’s real food elsewhere in this country. The last time we were here and away from his family, we ate out at a few places and the food was excellent. There was some amazing smoked fish and shrimp from somewhere, too. (You can tell just how familiar I am with the country by the detailed place names like “somewhere”.) I love the cheeses and sometimes when we’re out and about, I smell the most amazing aromas wafting out of restaurants and around street vendors.
No, it’s partly that I’m sick, having been struck down with a nasty flu the day after getting here. I’ve been spiking a fever every day since and haven’t even had the energy to knit. And it’s that I didn’t want to come here. I wanted this to be my vacation, uninterrupted bliss in Birmingham with my family for six glorious weeks. His mother thought it would be a great idea to hop over and visit for a week and I almost cried at the thought. It’s not that I don’t like her, but I just wanted to get away. Sadly, this is no longer an option when there are grandchildren involved. If they wanted to ruin my holiday, then we’d come to Denmark for 5 days, I told the spouse. (Somehow he’s dragged it out to eight days. Joy.)

Typically, the main reason I’m having such a miserable time here is the spouse himself. Since our first trip here three years ago, he repeatedly makes the same mistake over and over: lack of communication. Two months ago, when we talked about coming here to his father’s house now, the plan was that his mother would come stay for a couple of days. Then a few weeks later, he mentioned that his aunt would come over the weekend. Other than that, the idea was to meet up with a few friends of his during the week. A few days ago, he tells me that his cousin (plus hubby & kids) is coming. This morning he mentions another aunt and uncle and that his father needs his help “getting things ready”. As I press him for details, it turns out they are having a party at the house this afternoon. Fascinating. The other night it was staying out in the near-freezing cold (me with a fever, to boot) for six hours when we had agreed we’d only be out for three hours. It took two hours huddled in bed to get a little warm and then I lost track of things as my fever hit 102.

*sigh*
*sniffle*

I wish I could be a bigger person than this. I feel so small and petty right now, but I’m sick, tired, and starving. I know I should be grateful for having food to eat at all, but I would kill for a bowl of curry laksa.

There is one thing I’m certain of – I’m so not coming here again. Seriously. Once Spice is a little older and moves on to solid foods, the spouse is welcome to bring her here on his own.

This morning, I had fried eggs. They were lightly pan-fried and were served warm and alone on a small plate. Two were had with freshly ground sea salt and black pepper, and two were lightly dusted with Parmesan. I quietly ate them standing by the kitchen sink, looking out the window, in part to avoid the dog’s longing glances and the not-so-subtle licking of her lips.

I love eggs. I hated them as a child, but lately I can’t seem to get enough of them. The average egg has 5.5g of protein and is quick and easy to make in a variety of ways, no matter how much you hate eggs. As an old-world custom, my mother used to break a raw egg in a mug of warm milk and make me drink it to “fatten” me up. Sunday breakfasts always included eggs, so my choice at the time was scrambled and with a few drops of Tabasco and soy sauce on top. (For some reason, eggs with soy sauce always tastes like bacon.) Recently, I’ve found gently hardboiled eggs to be a treat – easy to cook in the morning and quickly snack on through the day. When I have more time, I prefer my eggs soft-cooked, as in liquid whites and runny yolks, served with freshly ground salt, pepper, and buttered toast ’soldiers’ to dip in. If you’re at all curious about the wonderful world of cooking eggs, I highly recommend Michel Roux’s Eggs.The recipes are to-die-for, even if a little floofy French gourmet.

Which brings me to another one-food-topic book that I love: Oysters by Rebecca Stott. For the oyster-lover, this is a must-read. Enough said.

Then, there are those of you who are fond of neither eggs nor oysters. A pity really, but I even have a food book recommendation for you. Salt: A History is a fascinating read into that humble staple that graces just about every kitchen table. If you don’t like salt, well then.. good luck with that. :-)