Spinach & Artichoke Dip
The majority of the members of my bookclub in Leiden were vegetarians and I brought this dish to one of our first meetings. The girls were so impressed. “Oh my, did you boil the artichokes yourself and use fresh spinach?” the hostess asked. I laughed, flattered that she thought I’d go to so much effort, and I had to admit – “Uh, no. . . I used frozen spinach and canned artichokes,” and in between mouthfuls she nodded. “Well, it tastes fantastic,” and we agreed. This recipe is so easy, but tastes like a million bucks. Preppin’ 1 package (8
Red-Stemmed Goblets
“I saw those red stemmed goblets one day when I came into work at Hemphill Wells and I just had a fit over them!” (“Had a fit,” is Southern Belle slang for “I absolutely adored them, Dahling!”) My Belgian living room is cast in a soft glow from stained glass lamps. Frank Sinatra croons from our Pandora radio. With my phone tucked into my ear, I lean forward and grasp a heavy red goblet, swirl the French wine, and take a sip. I continue to jot down notes. “Did you ever actually, use the glasses, Grandma?” I cock my head
Campin’
Trees as thin and packed as matchsticks line the one-lane gravel road. Shafts of silver light pierce the forest. The GPS arrow hovers above a green blob on the map, and the indicator on the dash says “offroad”. A crooked tiny sign points to the left and our small caravan follows. The rocks and potholes challenge my Skoda sedan, but determined, it climbs toward the invisible destination – De Kluis, (Dutch for “The Safe”). A comforting name for a campsite. “Places in Belgium are hard to find, period,” my husband admitted a week earlier, “I can’t imagine trying to find
Peach Crisp
There’s nothing that says summer like peaches. My roommate from college had a peach tree in her yard in Big Spring. The tiny tree branches hung to the ground, heavy with gorgeous, juicy peaches. I helped harvest them one Memorial Day weekend years ago, and her aunt turned them into a luscious peach cobbler. This weekend my Belgian friend hosted a BBQ – and asked everyone to bring something. With the sun shining, temperatures warm, and promises of spending an afternoon outside just chilling and grilling, I knew a peach. . . something would be the only thing that would
Baker’s Rack
You find out you’re moving to Europe – the dreams of touring famous museums, sipping wine along canals, stepping through streets lined by ancient architecture or (insert postcard perfect dream here) – are quickly pushed aside (at least after a few days of the approval) and the front-runner of your mind becomes. . . the mountain of administrational tasks before you. FBI background checks, medical exams, reissued birth certificates (as if anything had changed since the original documents were issued?) – I could go on, but I won’t in order to prevent an anxiety attack, except to say that the
Jalapeno Ranch Dip
Shannon is an old friend from college who’s lived in the U.K. for what seems like forever. She visits Texas often and last summer I hosted her and a two of our close college girlfriends for dinner. After popping champagne to celebrate the momentous occasion of the four of us actually being in the same country at the same time, the conversation turned to her ‘must dos’ in Texas. “Oh, I have to go to Chuy’s,” she exclaimed. I cocked my head. “Really? Chuy’s is your Tex-Mex of choice? I’m more of a fan of Pappasito’s, Mi Cocina, or rather
Homemade Tortillas
“Oh my, these tortillas are fantastic – man, I miss good, flour tortillas so much!” and I gobble another one. One of Nikki’s cousins eyes me suspiciously. He’s 13 and in that curious and not-too-cool-to-talk-to-adults-phase. “Why don’t you just go to your local grocery store and buy them?” he asks, in between mouthfuls of his own. “Jacob, I live in Belgium, not San Antonio. You can’t get homemade tortillas in Belgium, okay?” I explain. He blinks, then frowns. “Yeah, I guess not. That sucks,” he deadpans. “Yeah, it really does,” I tell him. I decided then and there that
The Full Story
Southern Belle: Derived from the French word for ‘beautiful’ a woman characterized by her love of Southern hospitality, cultivation of beauty, and charm. Years ago, I found myself hosting the monthly book club in my home in the Netherlands. An array of homemade appetizers and desserts decorated my kitchen counters. Glittering tea light candles illuminated bouquets of fresh tulips on my wooden dining tables. TSF Jazz station out of Paris articulated the background music. Slices of fruit bobbed in a glass container filled with sparkling punch. Stemmed glasses accessorized by wine charms waited to be filled. My guests – from
Expats Again
“So. . . what do you think? Do you think I should apply?” My husband, V and I are sitting in our air-conditioned living room in Plano, Texas. It’s been hot. It’s October 2015. But of course it’s hot. It’s Texas. All three kids are asleep, for now. It’s only a matter of hours (or minutes) until Baby B awakes, wanting a bottle. Our four-year-old, Holden, has been put back to bed for the seventeenth time. Cosette, our five-year-old is like a princess in peaceful slumber. V has his computer open on his lap. A job opportunity with his company
Waag
When I lived in the Netherlands, the Leiden Weigh house (De Waag), rich with history, stood vacant at the convergence of the Mare, Nieuwe and Oude Rijn canals. The building was originally opened in 1659, replacing the wooden structure that had stood on the site since 1455. Goods from cities around the Netherlands (think: cheese from Alkmaar or tulips from Lisse) were transported via the canals, and large cranes would unload the goods. The goods were then weighed and traded inside the building. The building itself was created in the Dutch Classicism style, which is similar to the town hall
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