If You're Happy, and You Know It . . . .

Me and My Coconut Tusk Hat

Brussels Sprouts and Spaghetti

Cook spaghetti in boiling water until al dente, and leave in the cooking water to keep warm.
Trim and wash Brussels sprouts and then thinly slice.
In a dry frying pan toast freshly cracked and chopped walnuts until slightly browned.
Set aside and wipe the pan.
Drizzle in olive oil and fry the sprouts together with pressed garlic and chopped red pepper, stems and seeds removed. Stir constantly over high heat until cooked, yet firm.
Season with salt and pepper and toss in the walnuts and the drained spaghetti.
You may decide to loosen it a bit with crème fraîche.
Serve with grated old cheese, parmesan or a local one.

Absolutely delicious!

Building Blocks

Tomato Coulis

We had some left-over broccoli tart, but not enough, so I made tomato coulis to go with it.

Slice a red onion and sauté in olive oil until brown and limp.
Stir in chopped tomatoes and cook for a long time on a low heat.
About half way through add a slosh of balsemic vinegar.
Taste and add seasoning.
You may mini-mash it and pass through a sieve to remove the pips. This will allow you to serve it with a fancy swirl on the plate.
We had it rustic, as it came, which tasted just as good!

De Docent de Oorlog Verklaard

De VVD-er Ton Elias heeft de oorlog verklaard aan de slechte leraar.

Zo dat is een verklaring die staat! 10 tot 30 % van de leraren op een school voldoen niet, dus, hupsakee, weg ermee! Daar zal het onderwijs flink van opknappen. De juffrouw die dit jaar de titel “docent van het jaar” draagt, was het gloeiend met deze inschatting eens. Geen wonder: zij is voorlopig buiten schot.
Als docent in ruste kan ik dit soort schoten met losse flodders niet aanhoren, dus ik heb het kolderpraatprogramma met al die betweters maar uitgezet, en ben er eens over gaan denken.
Wie van de leraren op de school waar ik vele jaren les heb gegeven kwam nu in aanmerking voor deze schop onder zijn/haar derrière?
Ja, ik weet het: de beginnend docent, die overweldigd werd door ordeproblemen, het invullen van het lesprogramma, vergaderingen, het moeten onthouden van alle leerlingen en hun prestaties in zijn vak. En de zij-instromer, die het lerarengebrek moet ledigen, en die met dezelfde beginnersproblemen kampt. In de praktijk blijkt dat zij, die écht niet voldoen, na een jaar vertrekken. In totaal was dat een enkeling op het hele docentencorps.
Als een leraar niet voldoet, ligt dat niet aan het feit dat hij niet ontslagen kan worden. Dan ligt dat aan de gebrekkige begeleiding van de beginnend docent, en de weinige voortgangsgesprekken van de ervaren docent. Niet de leraar blijft vaak in gebreke, maar de schoolleiding. En ook de politiek blijft achter met goede sturing.
Het is een wonder dat er nog zoveel docenten kiezen voor deze slecht betaalde hondenbaan, die de talenten vergt van een duizendpoot: vakkennis, structuur, in staat zijn met jonge mensen om te gaan, het juiste evenwicht tussen strengheid en warmte, snel kunnen schakelen van de ene rol naar de andere.
In plaats van ze in het beklaagdenbankje te zetten, moeten we deze helden koesteren!

School Assembly

Mijn Nieuwe Vaderland

Wie neerlands bloed in d’aders vloeit
van vreemde smetten vrij
wiens hart voor volk en orde gloeit
verhef uw zang als wij.
Vandaag zien wij weer één van zin
de vlaggen afgestoft.
Vandaag zet ik mijn feestlied in
voor vaderland en schoft.

Ik eer de leiders van mijn land.
Hun vlekkeloos parcours
leert mij wat macht vóór al verlangt:
’t geweten van een hoer.
Ik eer mijn leiders hemelhoog
en ’t hoogst zit een fascist
die u en mij zolang gedoogt –
zolang als hij beslist.

Beschermt gij, leiders, onze grond
waar vreemde adem gaat
gij die zo rein zijt, kerngezond
en zuiver op de graat.
Wij smeken om een harde hand
in aangewreven haat.
Behoud voor 't lieve vaderland
de blanke natiestaat.

Braakt uit, gij vrienden, vrij van zin
uw krop, uw kreet, uw gal.
Niets is taboe en niets te min
uw bagger minst van al.
Verneder dus wat u niet zint
sla stuk wat niet bevalt
laat zien hoe u dit land bemint
omhels het op zijn smalst.

Hoe klopt ons hart, hoe zwelt ons bloed
bij 't rijzen van dees’ toon.
Klonk ooit een zuiverder gemoed
een leger hart zo schoon?
Waar hoorde men die koekoekszang
voor volk en vaderland?
Dat was toen in het landsbelang
een heel volk werd verbrand.

Dood nu wat afwijkt van uw bloed
en van uw onderbuik.
Bewaar het niet, verdelg het goed
zodat dit land ontluikt.
Wie hier nog onze mildheid zoekt:
los op in brandend veen.
Waar elk verschil werd opgedoekt
zijn staat en burger één.

Wie neerlands bloed in d’aders vloeit
van vreemde smetten vrij
die fabel staat weer eens in bloei
in dwazen zoals wij.
Veel liever word ik door een volk
van hunnen aangerand
dan mee te gaan in deze kolk
van schoft en vaderland.

Ramsey Nasr, Dichter des Vaderlands

Writing Columns

Wrting columns is fun. All you need is a subject, and off you go!
But there you have its main difficulty, too. Because finding a good subject is easier said than done. The trick is to find a topic that has the potential of producing a few hundred words of serious thought, in a light tone; or a humorous event; or even just a simple occurrence that may be turned into an interesting story.
Once that problem is out of the way all you need is to obey the rules of story telling and to make sure it has a beginning, a middle and an end.
So, go on! Take to the streets and look for all the topics that lie about: people in the park, an unusual performance in the theatre or concert hall, a train ride.
And there you have it. Job done!

Staatsbosbeheer

De luttele stukjes “natuur” die Nederland rijk is worden met verve beheerd. Jawel, beheerd. Die worden niet zomaar aan de elementen – lees gebruikers – overgelaten: nee, die worden netjes bijgehouden, onderhouden, kort gehouden, en zo voort.
In het Haagse Bos, dat nog stamt uit de Middeleeuwen, toen de graven van Holland daar raasden over hun jachtgronden, is dat beheer duidelijk zichtbaar. Het is vergeven van de bordjes die de argeloze wandelaar duiden waar hij fietsen mag, maar niet de hond los laten lopen; waar hij lopen mag, maar niet fietsen. Welke paden paden zijn.
Daarnaast zijn het afgelopen jaar met veel geweld en kabaal honderden bomen gekapt. Waarom? Dat las ik later in de krant: Staatsbosbeheer heeft hiermee open plekken gecreëerd waardoor er meer licht invalt, en er andere natuur kan ontstaan. Wat daar dan natuurlijk aan is begrijp ik niet.
Het meest pietluttige bleek het beheer te zijn van het minibosje dat in een hoekje van het Malieveld ligt, een driehoekje van enkele vierkanten meters. Er heeft zich een natuurlijk pad gevormd door de wandelaars die van de stoplichten naar het wandelpad met bankjes langs het veld gingen. Dit was de beheerders blijkbaar een doorn in het oog, want ze hebben wat takken op het pad gelegd. Niet dat het hielp, want alras liep het paadje nu niet linksom, maar rechtsom de boom.
Niet getreurd, want een maand of wat later kwam Het Beheer met groter geschut: het bosje werd helemaal volgestouwd met takken en boomstammen, en langs het fietspad, dat er dwars langsloopt, werd een soort talud geschapen met flinke hopen zand.
Ik moet zeggen, dat ik er wat door overdonderd was. De eerste keer heb ik mij er op mijn wandeling met Kibo nog heen gevochten, maar dat gaf ik snel op. Andere gebruikers van deze route waren echter minder lafhartig. Ze hebben de takken opzij geschoven, en het talud enigszins geslecht.
En dus lopen we weer over het slingerpaadje door ons bosje – als vanouds!
Voor zolang als het duurt.

Village Gathering 2

Village Gathering

Moeders Rokken

Recipe Readers

Roughly, there are two kinds of amateur cooks.
The first group dutifully follows a recipe. I have heard of a woman who searched high and low for purple basil, and was very upset when she couldn’t find it.
The other group boasts never to follow the instructions of a cookbook, but always to experiment along the way. I don’t quite believe them, unless they belong to the class of people who claim always to know better. But I see their point. I do it myself: making do with the ingredients I have, and adjusting what doesn’t sound right.
Like A. I now buy an organic vegetable bag regularly, which forces me to try new dishes. Last night I was searching for a recipe using celery, and I find one in Leith’s Vegetarian Bible, a wonderful resource of culinary knowledge. But I improvised.
As instructed I fried an onion in olive oil (Leith said butter) until translucent and slightly browned. I then added chopped celery sticks, potato and carrots (provided in the bag, though the recipe prescribed celeriac).
I let the vegetable stew for about 15 minutes, and added seasoning, a grated apple (in stead of apple juice) and chopped sage leaves. More stewing. A good dollop of crème fraîche and a final touch of freshly grated nutmeg.
In the meantime I had mixed 50 grams of flour with 30 grams of (melted) butter. I added 50 grams of chopped walnuts (100 grams of mixed nuts, but that seemed rather a lot to me), and grated cheese. I forget how much, but at least more than the recipe´s optional 30 grams. I thought cheese would be a must.
I then turned the vegetable mixture into a ovenproof dish, spread the crumble on top and baked it in a 190 degree oven for about half an hour, until browned.

Verdict: delicious!
I would do it again, but probably leave out the celery sticks, and use any combination of root vegetables: celeriac, indeed! parsnips, carrots, etc.

Verlegen Interviewer

Deze keer lukte het voor het eerst te kijken naar een aflevering van de serie Zomergasten van de VPRO. Eerdere jaren verbleven we de hele zomer in Frankrijk, alwaar geen TV. En dus waren we aangewezen op boeken voor ons intellectueel verpozen.

Zomergasten: aardige formule, leuke gast, goede televisie. Jelle Brandt Corstius in gesprek met Erwin Olaf, fotograaf.

Wat me echter het meeste trof was dat hier twee behoorlijk verlegen mensen een behoorlijk publiek gesprek voerden. En hoe dat de aard van het gesprek beïnvloedde.

Brandt Corstius is overigens niet de enige verlegen journalist op de Nederlandse televisie. Joris Luyendijk is het ook. Alleen werd ik pas nu aan het denken gezet wat het doet met het interview.

Verlegen mensen zijn kwetsbaar, althans in hun verlegen momenten. Dat maakt dat het lijkt of de interviewer het kille harnas van zijn vak al heeft afgelegd. Niet de journalist stelt de vragen, maar de mens die achter het masker vandaan is gekomen. En die mens lijkt telkens weer iets te moeten overwinnen om de redelijk intieme zaken, die hij aan de orde wil stellen, te uiten. En als hij dat dan toch gedaan heeft, lijkt hij soms wat te schrikken van de reactie die dat teweegbrengt. Een enkele keer lijkt het of hij zijn daad wil herstellen, maar hij doet het niet. Hij doet zijn werk.

De gast, de verlegen fotograaf Erwin Olaf, lijkt door de gêne van Brandt Corstius zelf ook wat verward te worden. Maar hij wil hem ter wille zijn. Dat zie je. Hij doet dus erg zijn best zo goed mogelijk te antwoorden. Dat kost energie, maar anderzijds is het niet zo erg dat hij met de billen bloot moet. Althans, dat denk ik als kijker. Want de billen van de journalist zijn ook een beetje bloot.

Dit is zo anders dan de gelikte Angelsaksische televisie interviews, die interessant kunnen zijn, maar weinig emotie oproepen. Hier wel. Hier zit je een beetje op het puntje van je stoel je af te vragen of deze twee mensen het einde van het gesprek wel heelhuids gaan bereiken. Telkens hou je even je adem in, om zo te zeggen, en blaas je weer opgelucht uit, als er bijvoorbeeld weer gelachen wordt.

Dat maakt zo’n interview zo hartverwarmend.

Bernard's Bounty

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Last year B. came to us with a crate full of goodies from his garden three days before we left. Leeks, plums, onions, carrots. tomatoes and more that I don't remember. Wondelfull, but really much too much for us to eat in just a few days. I spent a morning poring over cookbooks, coffee at my side, and turned out a few chutneys, more jams, and a canned tomato sauce.
The carrot chutney looked a bit funny when I spooned it into its jars, but never mind.
Tonight we had it as a starter: lettuce leaves, a good slice of artisan paté, carrot chutney and brown bread.
An absolute winner!

Journey through Paris

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Kibo knows all about our journey through Paris.
Outside Gard du Nord P. kisses me farewell. No worry about his staying behind. No looking back and dragging along. This is the way it goes.
She follows me, sniffing the walls of the apartment buildings where interesting males have left their mark. She is too ladylike to do the same. This is the big city, and it needs to be treated with due respect.
After our half hour walk she is not surprised at all to find P. sipping his cofffee expresse at a sidewalk café just off Gare St. Lazare. Of course he will be there. Isn't he always?
This is when we all board the other train, to be met a little later by that kind man, who will drive all of us to the house in the country.
For Kibo all is well. Although she does need to express her elation by running up and down the garden once she has arrived.
We wish we could do the same.

Make-Over Lives

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Idling across the TV channels one encounters numerous make-over programs. Anything can be made-over: bodies, wardrobes, financial businesses, houses, lives. The makers of the programs scout for the most pitiful buggers, who are ugly, or whose children suffer from fatal diseases, or who have lost their jobs. Preferably all three. Then they descend upon them, send them away for 2 weeks, and hey, presto! New persons, new happiness.
It is not philanthropy that sends TV makers to improve the lives of these victims. It is entertainment. It is all for the sake of poor sods like us, the audience, who take the viewing rate to a higher level. We want to see this. We want to believe that the fairy godmother may knock on our door and change our pumpkin into a carriage.
So what do we see when houses are made over? We see people living in dire circumstances, derelict houses, that desperately need repairs. In America the TV saviours take the whole house down and build a new one; in Europe they would need planning permission for that, so the renovations are less drastic. Yet, here too, they go all out. Plumbing, insulation, bathrooms, furniture, knick-knacks, toys for the children, nothing is neglected.
Result: a perfect, perfectly boring house. Everything matching, everything according to a plan or a theme. Mum likes Buddha? Buddhas hang on the wall and sit in the garden. But Grandma’s sofa and her embroidered cushion have gone. And so has the old swing set in the backyard. All life has been sucked out of the house.
Never mind. The inhabitants of the lifeless house are happy. Balled over. Ecstatic.
Rather them than me.

DEVELOPMENT IN AFRICA, a personal impression

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I came to Mozambique with the eyes of a curious child. Zimbabwe woke the questioning adolescent in me.
During our eight-day trip we sat behind many tables, shaded by canopies of palm leaves; we listened to prayers, and to poems recited by children, but written by adults; we listened to many speeches by officials. We watched numerous gatherings of village people where the women and children danced, sang, clapped their hands, and ululated. We received presents of cassava, pineapple, bananas, ground nuts, and even a chicken. Although they thought better of a live offering in the end! And we talked, and looked and listened.
Villagers in Mozambique still live in the Iron Age: huts, made of palm leaves, cooking on a wood fire in the open air, no electricity, and water needs to be fetched from afar. Carrying is done by the women. Almost all wear capulanas, the African multi purpose cloth: serving as a skirt, a headdress, a sling to carry a child on the chest or the back, a sheet for bedding. In spite of their ultra primitive circumstances they dance and they sing and they smile. But underneath that smile lies the suffering. Of the women who are in a subservient position, and the children, who are beaten at school and abused at home.

The local development workers, both in Mozambique and in Zimbabwe are incredibly dedicated and resourceful. They all understand the organisation’s message: it may help, but it is the community who owns the project. The people themselves will decide what they need and how they need it.
In spite of this message we have heard many eulogies, poems of gratitude, songs of praise. We have heard requests for more help. “Thank you for what you gave us, but we would like some more.” The needs are overwhelming.
Most of the projects we saw in Mozambique involved schools, livelihood, and safety for girls in schools. At one secondary school Plan was building dormitories for girls. Many students live too far away from school to be able to walk there every day, so they live in squalid shelters around it. Girls are susceptible to rape and other abuse. Though I also wonder about the boys. Another program tries to raise awareness about physical and sexual abuse in schools. Teachers discipline children with corporal punishments. Girls are urged by their parents to offer their bodies to teachers in exchange for higher marks.
I saw a disciplined society. The roads are in a dismal state, full of potholes. Left hand driving was more theory than practice, as the drivers wove their way around the ruts and bumps. Alongside the roads people walked: women carrying water or firewood or basins of laundry, children, sometimes very young, walked to school or were also carrying water. Sometimes we passed a man on a bicycle. Never did any of these travellers stray onto the tarmac. Even the smallest of the children, walking alone, stayed on route. One evening when we had penetrated into the hinterland to visit a project, we saw the little children stride home in the darkness along the sandy paths. They knew their way as kittens in an immense garden!
Where Mozambique charmed me and made me marvel, Zimbabwe drew out the questions: the hunger, AIDS — not just the illness, but also the ostracising —, girls and women abused in any possible way.
To what extent were the projects a drop in the ocean? And again: how sincere were all these orchestrated profusions of gratitude? What pleasure, for instance, do students derive from sitting quietly in benches, waiting for the honoured guests, whom they can hardly see from afar? To hear endless speeches about how important these guests are? Bla-bla-bla.


While I escaped the official business and scouted for some students to talk to I met a boy who kept saying: “Bye, bye!” in a squeaky voice, in answer to my questions. At first I saw him as a bully (which he still might well be!), but later I realised that he obviously resented our visit, and resented this white lady’s interference. Could I blame him? What business do we have to receive honour and gratitude, especially in view of the history of Zimbabwe?
E., who was travelling with us, pointed out that it is a society that has undergone much difficulty and remains in transition. He thinks one of the challenges that exists is that of helping that society find a balance somewhere they have not had before. And this is not going to be easy. Peace and security will have to become more common features before anything else settles.
So Africa desperately needs our help. That much is clear. But how? Not in the way of the old missionaries: we will tell you what is good for you.
It would be nice if official visits to recipient countries could do away with the protocol, but I understand that in part it has to do with the local culture: protocol is a way to establish ranks. How could you avoid the orchestrated eulogies? I have no idea. Do away with the separating tables, spend some time with the people themselves and hear them. A squeaky voiced Bye, bye, or a spontaneous embrace have told me more than the speeches.
We did it once. Instead of asking our questions from behind the table we went down on our knees to talk to the boys and girls of a “girl child” awareness group about menstruation.


We may have heard the exact same answers, but it made it easier for me to look the students straight into their eyes and to praise the initiative. To tell them that they do something that we in Europe could learn from. As indeed we can!
The projects that impressed me most were the ones that involved hardly any money, but a transfer of knowledge: the coconut oil extraction by village women in Mozambique and the micro finance scheme in Zimbabwe. Here women were given tools to generate an income.
For if there is one thing that became abundantly clear during this trip, it was that empowering the women is the best way to developing a future for Africa!

Inside a Kraal Hut

We were invited to view the interior of an African Kraal hut. These women sat down for us where the women usually sit. Men sit on a bench along the left that is not visible. Notice the chairs that had quickly been brought in to seat the visitors!
At the back you can see "the kitchen", the women's domain. There is no chimney. The smoke seeps through the thatched roof.
You can imagine what the atmosphere could be like!

School Lunch

Preparation



the canteen

Giving Aids a Voice

The Age of Africa

Capulanas

Eco Coconut Oil

Chop away the shell of a coconut with a machete:


Pull the strands from the inner husk:


Give a few good wacks with the back of a machete around the middle of the nut, so it will crack open.
Drink the water.
Scrape the white coconut fruit out of the shell:


Mix the yield of 30 coconuts with 5 liters of water:


Squeeze out the milk and strain.
Cover the container with cocnut milk with a white cloth and leave in the sun for 2 days.
Strain the oil that has come to the top:


Pour the oil into bottles:


Feed the residue to the pigs. Or better still: sell as animal fodder.
The oil can be used as vegetable oil for frying, or to soften your skin.

Mozambiquans Know How to Party!

the children


the young women


the older women

Getting Ready

Checklist:
* shots,
* light dresses,
* insect repellent,
* camera,
* Because I am a Girl presents,
* malaria pills and other medication,
* passports and shot books,
* etc.,
* etc.,
* etc.

Fried Cheese Sticks

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This is a recipe that my mother often made. She wasn't too keen on meat, and she didn't like fish. She should have been a vegetarian, the way she felt about meat, but that was considered weird in her circles: excentric, maybe even leftist.

Anyway, not being much of a cook, it was also quick and easy. This is a slightly different version: crispier, less soggy.

Cut some hard cheese into thick sticks, or thick slices, if you prefer. Aged cheese is fine, even if it crumbles a bit! Roll them first in beaten egg, then in flour, back in beaten egg, and lastly in breadcrumbs.

Fry in hot oil until golden and crisp. Serve immediately.

We had them with a potatoes-and-fresh-greens mash.

Delish!!!

Bag That DO exist

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A. has launched a website to share her enthousiasm about the bags she has made.

She absolutely deserves our admiration, and should be duly proud!

Art Class: Marg

Alea iacta est

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Schiedam 1823. Een getrouwde man ontdekt zijn homoseksualiteit. Wellust en angst leiden tot huichelarij en chantage.

Wie wil mijn poging commercieel te gaan sponsoren?

Lees ook een interview!

Met dank!

Waiting for the Bus

Creamy Potatoes

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Wash and slice firm potatoes. Peel and slice onion.
Lay them in an ovenproof dish, in layers or scattered, whatever.
Add salt and pepper.
Pour a mixture of milk and cream (and sueezed garlic) over it.
You may top it with crated cheese, but you needn't.
Bake covered in an 180 C. oven until almost done. Then some 10 minutes more uncovered for the golden finish.

Serve with a crispy green salad.

Winterland