The Knödelist
September 1, 2007
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Son of a bakerman, keeping up the family tradition
I am blessed with a goodly many friends who, feeling my temporary loss of Heim, have been inviting me over to dinner nearly every night of the week. Dear Friends, please pace yourselves but keep up the good work and continue to rock the kitchen. Only 3-4 months to go! Or 5!
The Friends are under the accurate impression that if they don’t feed me at cheery dinner parties larded with charming guests and delicious homestyle cuisine, I’ll spend depressing evenings in my lonesome slumped on the couch like a glue-sniffer, a wet spring onion in one hand, slurping silken tofu right out of the baggie. This entrée will be followed with store-bought kim-chi in a jar and a bottle of cultured buttermilk clenched between my ankles. No table, ceramics or cutlery will be involved in the feeding. Glamourous!
It’s true, I’m having some trubs adapting to the temporary micro-digs and life without a dishwasher. Upside is, the Friends, once fearful of cooking for me (I shall never understand this) are now bustin’-out the fancy moves. I’m thrilled with the exotic harvest.
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Kasknudel, don’t you just want to snuggle on up?
Son of a baker and home-smoked-trout maker, Knödel adept Heimo has been spending quite some attention on mastering his father’s recipes. Young Grasshopper excels, sometimes self-admittedly exceeding the Master in his lofty greatness!
Debunking the myth that healthy friendships can’t be made at yoga class, Heimo, upon hearing of my compromised domestic situation, invited me to a Knödel-rich evening and sparkly conversation with girlfriend Moko and friends Vivian and Taku. Heimo expertly produced 3 delicious and nuanced courses of Knödel, and next time he’s going to attempt a 4th, a dessert Knödel. What’s the big? Like many traditional foods originally intended to use up leftovers and pieces of stale bread, these dumplings are labour intensive to make and serve.
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Fast as in fasting, as in counter-reformation, ritualised proto-vegetarian Lenten cuisine, a carefully pasted page from the family’s Knödel cookbook.
Knödel is a portmanteau for all dumpling typologies, both savoury and sweet. The term in no way communicates the diverse manifestations which resemble everything from wontons, to ravioli, to bapao, to bitterballs and even to matzah balls. Knödel belong to the Austro-Bavarian-Czech cuisine famous for embracing not-so-complex carbohydrates and a limited colour palet. But there’s an inside and an outside to these balls and their success rests in differentiation. When it comes to the texture and flavour of Knödel, Heimo is unblinded by the beiges and has got his hetero all over his homo. B-ravo.
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Mushroom semmel Knödel, precision testing is next to gawdliness
debra at 13:28 | Comments (1) | post to del.icio.us
In memoriam
Yariv Alter Fin
August 31, 2007
‘I’ an image poem by Yariv Alter Fin
b. 1968 – d. 2007
Yariv died on Tuesday in Tel Aviv. My deepest sympathies to his family and friends.
We are devastated.
Yariv was a brilliant artist and designer who never ceased to inspire and wonder why and ‘i’ and why.
He enjoyed copious amounts of parsley in his chicken soup. More than anyone else. It was kind of ridiculous.
You are missed, Yarivele.
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‘Travelling is necessary, living is not’ by Yariv Alter Fin, image used most unfortunately without permission
debra at 10:45 | Comments (50) | post to del.icio.us
The gentlemen farmers’ summer party
August 27, 2007
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Dancing with wines, dahlia fetishist, celebrity hayseed, gentle farmer-man en silhouette
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All natural, all gentleman, slash Friesian agro-history adept, organic farmer-man Guus yuks it up with Lisette.
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Then gives us a reed-obscured all-natural history lesson
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moving Madeleine and Hans to silent contemplation.
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A poet’s arrival through now knee-high nasturtiums, weedy weeds ‘n beans and amaranthus plumes.
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Deep in the midst of dahlias, illustrious guests sip wine,
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whilst Netherlands’ finest grapple a gifted pear.
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And a glam diva ham guards a skewered pesce spada, BBQ’d au plein air.
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Oh my!
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The sous Artur (r), the chef Maher (l), the succulent filet,
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Resulting in diner au champs, finger lick, enjoyed au grand commité.
debra at 19:21 | Comments (2) | post to del.icio.us
