Fleur-de-MemoryLane

I’ve always been a collector of papers. They just pile up around me. Newspapers. Magazines. To-do lists. Didn’t-do lists. Books-to-read lists.  Recipes-to-try lists. You get the picture. 

When I started a family, this was going to change. I was going to get organized. I had, and still have, the old-fashioned 3×5 recipe box—except that it doesn’t close due to the stack of recipes “filed” on the flipped-open lid. Anyway, I went to The Country Sampler (my mom’s kitchen shop in Boalsburg) and bought a three-ring Collected Recipes Cookbook binder.

I religiously clipped recipes and peeled open the pages to insert each one in the appropriate section. Then, I ran out of pages.  The book became a file-album for all of the precious recipes, notes or ideas that didn’t fit.  The recipe notebook and associated papers spilled into a plastic bin stashed under my bed. 

Now I’m starting a new life in a new house and it is time to declutter.  What better time to start than the days after Thanksgiving.  A trip down memory lane.

When I was growing up in Central PA, Black Friday didn’t exist.  It was called Deer Lonely Days, because all of the menfolk escaped to camps and cabins for the start of hunting season.  The “lonely” ladies were supposed to head downtown and spend money in State College stores. (Oh brother!)  Early on, my mother had her five dears around her and couldn’t spring free. Then, when she opened her shop in 1969, I was head babysitter while she tended The Sampler.

So, with no little sisters or children to watch over, I’m spending this long weekend reminiscing and shedding. 

The recipes encased in plastic sleeves will stay. The Internet has zillions of recipes just a few finger taps away but there is something to say for handwritten (or typed) notes from family and friends that technology can’t reproduce.  At least that’s my rationale.  As I sort, with a paper-recycling bag at my side, I try to winnow the harvest.

Here are the keepers:

My mother’s handwritten recipe card (oversized, so it doesn’t fit in my recipe box) for Blueberry French Toast Cobbler.

Recipes for low-fat sauces, vegetarian paté, summer’s end vegetable sauce and low-fat carrot cake from Jaye, chef-consultant known as The Queen of Hearts, who taught classes at The Sampler.  She was a good friend who left this world too soon.

Slatington Master Gardener Charlotte’s herbal vinegar recipes from 1992 and 1993, and a non-MG but personal recipe she handwrote for me—Rosemary Wine.

A copy of my first Fleur-de-Lys e-newsletter (May 12, 2005) with a recipe for a spring tonic—Sorrel Soup.

Undated menu with recipes when my parents hosted their dinner club Friendship Summer Harvest supper.

Recipe for Brazilian Rice and Beans from the mother of our Brazilian exchange student, Celso. Notecard from Kutztown Rotary wishing us a good spring with Celso. (It was.)

In my handwriting: If you want breakfast in bed, sleep in the kitchen.  Followed by a recipe for Warm Rhubarb Crumble.

Postcard of Amaryllis drawn by Fleur-de-Lys customer Milton in 2007 with a sweet note. Will frame this. 

Instructions for forcing chicons (Belgian endive) accompanied by a recipe for Chicons au Gratin. Brings back memories of forcing the vegetables in the basement of our Hottenstein Road house to keep my across-the-pond daughter close, at least in spirit.

Notecard from Aunt Mary (who in her career days worked for the Good Housekeeping Institute) with a recipe for Scalloped Tomatoes and Artichoke Hearts from “The Williamsburg Cook Book” that she served at a family Christmas party.

The Cottage Cheese-Dill Bread recipe neighbor Lisa made for the 2007 Local YOLK*EL Benefit Brunch.

Richard’s Best Sandwich Ever school project: “My dad and I created this sandwich one night while watching Monday Night Football.”

Zucchini Pie recipe from Limerock Garden zucchini-grower extraordinaire, Janet. 

Taste of India Butternut Soup, handwritten notes (by me) during a Gujarati cooking class my mom and I took when I moved back to State College in 2011. 

Cranberry Chutney and Yoga Cookies recipes from my sister Lee Ann.

Handwritten recipe for mulled wine—not signed but pretty sure it’s from my brother-in-law Tim. (Clue: 2 750-ml bottles dry red wine and 1 cup dark rum.)

Cheers!  Laurie Lynch

Turkey-Less Thanksgiving:  When Marina moved to Belgium she started celebrating a European Thanksgiving with her friends and family, usually the Saturday after our Thursday holiday.  This past Friday morning she arrived at the butcher shop to find out that the “turkey wasn’t ready.”  She, and the rest of the gang, made due with chicken.

Fleur-de-4Threes

Re-reading my recent travel journal, I noticed a trend.  Threes. 

I think it was my grandmother Nene who always said bad luck comes in threes. We are a family of worriers.  Or maybe it was good luck comes in threes.  Nene was always cheerful and ready to please with something good from the kitchen. Anyway, “threes” often pop into my life.

Here are the three prayers that showed up in my journal, as well as a question, “Third prayer.  Who is counting … and why???” 

I’m not sure of the answer.

The first prayer came from a book Marina gave me for my visit, “The Gardener Says—Quotes, Quips and Words of Wisdom.”  I’ve read a lot of Emily Dickinson but never recall coming across this—or it would have made it onto one of my slates. 

“In the name of the Bee—

And the Butterfly—

And of the Breeze—Amen.” 

 –Emily Dickinson

Later, while strolling in lovely downtown Gent, I saw this prayer painted on the window of De Alchemist shop.  I immediately snapped a photo and sent it to my gin-friend Jo.

Forgive

ME

Father

For 

I Have

Ginned

Then, after taking a few nature journaling/watercolor classes at the Art Alliance of Central PA earlier in the year, I borrowed a watercolor set while visiting Marina. 

I went through my usual negative dialogue: “My sister Lisa is the artist in the family. I can’t draw or paint.”  Wise Marina handed me a book from her shelf: “The Doodle Revolution” by Sunni Brown. 

As I read the book, I gained a little more self-confidence and artistic guts, and found prayer No. 3. 

“Forgive me, Father, for I know not how to draw.”

Moral of the book, everyone can doodle to get their point across.  Enough said. 

The three photos I missed.

Yes, I took more than 700 photos on my month-long trip, but in my journal, I mention three I regret not taking.  

The first was when I thought I saw a pond of purple lily pads while we were searching for Marina’s friend’s house in The Netherlands.  Cataracts acting up?  It turns out it was a patch of purple cabbages tucked along the road.  

The other, again, somewhere in The Netherlands, was a road sign warning of a wild rooster.  Looked it up and it’s the Dutch traffic alert for a cattle grate across the road.

The third, also in The Netherlands, was a herd of Dutch Belted Cattle grazing along the highway.  The dairy cows are brown or black, but each is wrapped in a wide white belt from its back to its belly and up to its back again.

I guess with Floriade and the Kröller-Müller Museum (so many van Goghs), my photo finger got tired. So, with Sunni Brown’s determination, I doodled and painted instead.

My next Three listing may be a bit of a stretch, but I don’t think so. After all, it is my blog.  I call it Three Cheers for Luxembourg!

1. I had never been to Luxembourg and when Marina asked if I wanted to ride along (she had a presentation to give at the Court of Justice), I took her up on the offer. It was a Three-hour drive from Gent.
2. Luxembourg is filled with storybook architecture and secret gardens. 

Ville Haute (the old town) is where I spent most of my time. It is the rocky plateau of Luxembourg city filed with shops, restaurants, museums, parks, the Grand Ducal Palace, and was manageable while on feet and cane. It also has plenty of benches where I could rest and breathe in the views of the Alzette river and gardens.  I did find a mini-tourist tram and visited the Grund, or lower part of the city, with no stress or strain.

The Steps Not Taken

A special note on Luxembourg street names.  There are plenty of French “rues” of this or that, but the most remarkable for me were the Boulevard General Patton, the Boulevard F.D. Roosevelt, and the Avenue J.F. Kennedy.

3. Musée National D’Histoire et D’Art Luxembourg (National Museum of History and Art).  Free admission, restrooms, elevators, and 120 rooms filled with displays and artwork.  Exhibits spanned the early years of man, when a meal was cooked over a fire of kindling in a cave, to Medieval religious icons to a collection of works by Maxim Kantor entitled The Rape of Europe, Putins’s Russia 1992-2022. 

Magpie’s-Eye View of a Kitchen Garden

I was so taken with this museum that I went back a second time.  After leaving for lunch, I realized I missed the section of the museum on Edward Steichen, a Luxembourgish American photographer and former director of photography at the Museum of Modern Art, NYC.  I grew up with his book, The Family of Man, on our living room coffee table. I had to go back to learn more about Steichen, see his photographs of Greta Garbo and Myrna Loy, and yes, use the public restroom.

One last Three. I am already saving Three dates in 202Three for Three weddings of Three of my parents’ grandchildren: Lia (Luke), Ansley (Adam) and Wille (Natali). Santé!  Laurie Lynch

Alzette River Garden

Fleur-de-Translate

Koen is Marina’s gent in Gent. That’s how the city is spelled in Flanders.  In the French-speaking Wallonia region of Belgium, it is spelled Gand. And here in the US, I’m supposed to spell it Ghent.  

Words matter. And if I don’t understand the words, I’m thrown off-kilter. 

During my month-long visit to see Marina and Koen, naturally there were days when they had to work. I explored the city alone on my rental bike and tried to make myself useful by preparing meals, picking up fresh bread, or running errands.

But sometimes I felt like I was walking (or biking) in circles, unable to find the café we had visited the night before or a shop I wanted to check out.  Marina showed me a map of their Brugse Poort neighborhood. I thought if I could translate nearby street names I’d feel more comfortable.

Straat is the Flemish (or Dutch) word for street, I get that.  And I know their street, Olijfstraat, translates to Olive Street. I could figure out Lobelia, Zinnia, Tulip, Acacia and even Bellefleur straats myself. But the others? 

One evening Marina and Koen helped me take the mystery out of the tough straats: 

Kastanjestraat (Chestnut Street), Notellaarstraat (Walnut Street), Sparrestraat (Fir Street), Hulstboomstraat (Holly Tree Street), Peerstraat (Pear Street), Meibloemstraat (Mayflower Street), Zonnebloemstraat (Sunflower Street) and, get this, Ooievaarstraat (Stork Street).

That simple exercise helped me relax on my daily solo explorations to find a favorite bakery, butcher or grocer, or discover a new café. 

And speaking of bakkerijen … none are open seven days a week.  I get that. But Okoro is closed Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Van Hecke is closed Thursdays, and they are on opposite ends of the neighborhood, so it pays to scribble that info on the map as well.   

If it’s Tuesday, this must be Belgium (a favorite film from 1969), and I was off to Bakkerji Van Hecke. I found it and it was open.  Success.  I could pick up a loaf of fresh brood. (When in Gent, use those Flemish words.) 

I walked in.  Fresh, crusty, flour-dusted loaves of brood were lined up on shelves, some in wicker baskets, marching around the shop. Each group was labeled—MeergranenTijgerbroodGrofrosijntjeBenkenroggeNotenbroodPlatienMayabroodVollerkoren SesambroodMelkbroodRozijenbroodBoerenbroodGekiemdegranen—a Flemish blur.

I wasn’t going to brood over which brood to choose. And I wasn’t going to pull out my Italian hand signals and point to this or that loaf.  Instead, I reached into the Marie Fedon pocketbook of magical tricks.  Looking straight into the eyes of the handsome young man behind the counter, I asked, “Which is your favorite?”

“Mine?”  He paused, got a little pink in the face, and then said something that probably ended in brood.

“I’ll try that,” I answered with a big Marie smile.

I’m here to report the mystery loaf made fine sandwiches.  I don’t know its official name, but I call it the Blushing Gent.

Speaking of blushing, another stop I made in Marina’s neighborhood was for my appointment at Rozie’s, where Marina gets her hair cut.  Right off the bat, I must say the motto of Rozie’s kapsalon (hair salon) is “Cutting the crap since 2017”. 

Rozie asked what I wanted.

“Take about an inch off.”  

Not one to mince words or measurements, she replied. “I don’t know what ‘an inch’ is.

I held up my thumb and index finger and showed her. 

We spent 15 minutes discussing the metric system and the United States’ stubbornness to go it alone with inches and feet, cups and pounds, designations that make little sense. I looked it up later. Imperial System of Measurement.  Blame it on the Brits.

Ah, yes.  And while I was abroad Queen Elizabeth II died. The Flemish radio news reports were filled with a gargling of unknown words punctuated with “Queen Elizabeth”—the only ones I understood. And the local paper, headlines of the passing of the longest reigning monarch. Truly, Europe was in mourning.  

One evening I heard Marina ripping a page from the paper with delight in her voice. “Ah, Sudoku.” 

“What?  You do Sudoku in Dutch?”

Joke was on me. 

“Sudoku is all NUMBERS,“ my mostly patient translator Marina explained. Now how do you say “Whoops!” in Flemish?  Laurie Lynch