Vanilla is non-existent in the Netherlands. Ask any ex-pat what they get friends and family to bring them from home, and the answer is inevitably 'vanilla'. I've mentioned this to Dutch friends, and they're always confused. "Well, it's right there in the supermarket", they say. "Perhaps you're not looking hard enough." To be fair, I've found small bottles of that nasty 'essence of vanilla' stuff, but the real thing has yet to appear to me. Thus, I've been toying with the idea of making my own vanilla. Of course, I've still got loads left from the family express. For fun, though, I've been looking into the exact 'how' of it, and low and behold, I came across something called 'vanilla sugar'. Turns out, it's vanilla infused sugar - you substitute a bit for regular sugar in place of liquid to liquid vanilla to same effect. And, sure enough, it's right there in the baking aisle of the grocery store. Huh.
Still, I've got an itch to make my own now. Today I went out and bought a mason jar, a vanilla pod, threw it all together and placed it in a dark cupboard I'm trying very hard not to peak.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Choices, Choices
After months of weighing our options, we've settled on a destination. Really, when it comes down to it, there's not all that much of a choice. With Jason working 2 1/2 hours away from Amsterdam, commuting was out of the question. We toyed, off and on, with the idea of moving to Dwingeloo, a village of under 3000, half an hour away from the nearest train station but within biking distance of Jason's work. If there's one thing I'm certain of though is that I'm not a country-livin' girl, so however picturesque Dwingeloo might be, it had to be veto-d.
This left two towns of any stature left within reasonable traveling distance, Groningen to the North, and Zwolle to the South. Of the two, Groningen is certainly more appealing. With a major university, the city is the only major center in the North of the country, making it one of the more youthful, active cities in the country. Zwolle, by contrast, is an unremarkable, smaller city an hour and a half North of Amsterdam.
Our first instinct was immediately Groningen. However, thinking a bit more critically, it became less clear that this was the obvious choice. While certainly a happening city, it's by no means got all that the South has to offer. Two and a half hours away from the international airport can make a huge difference when you've already spent 15+ hours on a plane, and this goes for both us as well as any visitors we hope to tempt into visiting us. The issue of visitors applies too to simply visiting the Netherlands. While I'd like to think that family and friends making the trip over here are here simply for us, the majority of the major tourist destinations are in the South, which would require them to stay in a hotel away from us, commute five hours a day, or simply forgo the pleasures that Delft, Gouda, Amsterdam et al have to offer.
Furthermore, even family relations within the Netherlands would likely suffer. Jason has a large and close-knit extended family here and like most Amsterdammers, anything half an hour or more away is simply unimaginably far. Which is fair, in the case anyway, as I certainly wouldn't be too pleased to be making a five hour round-trip for a three hour dinner.
And then, there's the question of work. While I have a contract in Amsterdam that will go until the 1st of January, I'm crossing my fingers that it'll be renewed. Even if it isn't though, I've started to create a small but growing network of contacts down here that would be less effective in the North. All in all, while Groningen sounds like a great place to live, it doesn't seem to fit our particular needs.
And so, by process of elimination, we've arrived at Zwolle.
This left two towns of any stature left within reasonable traveling distance, Groningen to the North, and Zwolle to the South. Of the two, Groningen is certainly more appealing. With a major university, the city is the only major center in the North of the country, making it one of the more youthful, active cities in the country. Zwolle, by contrast, is an unremarkable, smaller city an hour and a half North of Amsterdam.
Our first instinct was immediately Groningen. However, thinking a bit more critically, it became less clear that this was the obvious choice. While certainly a happening city, it's by no means got all that the South has to offer. Two and a half hours away from the international airport can make a huge difference when you've already spent 15+ hours on a plane, and this goes for both us as well as any visitors we hope to tempt into visiting us. The issue of visitors applies too to simply visiting the Netherlands. While I'd like to think that family and friends making the trip over here are here simply for us, the majority of the major tourist destinations are in the South, which would require them to stay in a hotel away from us, commute five hours a day, or simply forgo the pleasures that Delft, Gouda, Amsterdam et al have to offer.
Furthermore, even family relations within the Netherlands would likely suffer. Jason has a large and close-knit extended family here and like most Amsterdammers, anything half an hour or more away is simply unimaginably far. Which is fair, in the case anyway, as I certainly wouldn't be too pleased to be making a five hour round-trip for a three hour dinner.
And then, there's the question of work. While I have a contract in Amsterdam that will go until the 1st of January, I'm crossing my fingers that it'll be renewed. Even if it isn't though, I've started to create a small but growing network of contacts down here that would be less effective in the North. All in all, while Groningen sounds like a great place to live, it doesn't seem to fit our particular needs.
And so, by process of elimination, we've arrived at Zwolle.
Monday, November 3, 2008
My favorite Dutch word
I started intensive Dutch lessons yesterday, putting on hold the job search for the next month. I've been in the Netherlands for a little under two months now and have managed to pick up a few essentials but they tend to be a hodgepodge of nouns with very few conjunctions, verbs or adjectives. Basically, I can point and name vegetables, fruits and beers.
The next month will find me in class from 9.30 to noon everyday and studying at home from 12.30 until the wee hours, cramming in over three thousand words. It sounds impressive and I can already attest to the amount of work involved, but this weekend, Jason stole their thunder. He taught me the greatest Dutch word in existence.
We were at an outdoor field hockey match on a rainy cold Sunday when I learned it. I was wet and chilled and as we walked past a french fry stand, the smell of warm, greasy potatoes wafted over, filling the air with one of life's sweetest smells. And, you gotta love them, the Dutch have a word for it -- pataatlucht, or 'sweet potato air'.
The next month will find me in class from 9.30 to noon everyday and studying at home from 12.30 until the wee hours, cramming in over three thousand words. It sounds impressive and I can already attest to the amount of work involved, but this weekend, Jason stole their thunder. He taught me the greatest Dutch word in existence.
We were at an outdoor field hockey match on a rainy cold Sunday when I learned it. I was wet and chilled and as we walked past a french fry stand, the smell of warm, greasy potatoes wafted over, filling the air with one of life's sweetest smells. And, you gotta love them, the Dutch have a word for it -- pataatlucht, or 'sweet potato air'.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Flat as a pancake
One of the most amazing things about the Netherlands is how incredibly flat it is. A natural biker, I'm not. I get lost easily in the labyrinth streets, I'm skittish about the traffic (and this is in a country with dedicated bike paths), I'm even more skittish about the pedestrians (re: tourists) who inadvertently wander in front of me, seemingly out of nowhere, and I'm embarrassed to say that I still occasionally have to spend a few minutes locating my bike out of the myriad indistinguishable rusty old bikes parked in the same vicinity as mine. What I've found I do like about biking, at least in Amsterdam, is that it's easy.
Settled on land reclaimed from the sea, the builders of Amsterdam had the foresight to make it flat. As in very very very flat. As in, the very slight slope on a street a few blocks over is worthy of remark. It always catches my eye.
Just how level Amsterdam is was brought home to me when Jason and I made a day trip out to Zuid-Kennemerland National Park yesterday. We, and our bikes, took a quick train out to Haarlem and then headed west on our bikes. The park is notable for it's large sand dunes and I'll admit that before we got there, I wasn't entirely sure how we were going to bike this with our aging one speed bikes. For some reason, perhaps it was the word dune, in my imagination I had pictured hill after hill of sand leading us down to the sea; camel optional. To my surprise, we didn't end up in the Sahara.
Rather, Dutch sand dunes are covered in some of the most beautiful and unique trees and brush that I've ever seen. Very hilly, the landscape is covered in low flora in a range of muted greens, silvers and greys with a few low flowery patches, although I expect that more flowers will appear as the sun becomes stronger. It's the roots of these plants that help protect the sand lying just under the surface, clearly visible on horse trails that appear from time to time. To protect the delicate ecosystem, some areas of which are protected areas set away from the public, the Dutch have built biking and walking paths through the dunes. Even here, wandering through the hills, are the bike paths impressively flat, or so I thought. As a novice biker, it appears that I have landed in the right town. After a day spent biking inclines almost negligible to the human eyes, the ache in my legs was a testament to Amsterdam's impressive uniform flatness.
Settled on land reclaimed from the sea, the builders of Amsterdam had the foresight to make it flat. As in very very very flat. As in, the very slight slope on a street a few blocks over is worthy of remark. It always catches my eye.
Just how level Amsterdam is was brought home to me when Jason and I made a day trip out to Zuid-Kennemerland National Park yesterday. We, and our bikes, took a quick train out to Haarlem and then headed west on our bikes. The park is notable for it's large sand dunes and I'll admit that before we got there, I wasn't entirely sure how we were going to bike this with our aging one speed bikes. For some reason, perhaps it was the word dune, in my imagination I had pictured hill after hill of sand leading us down to the sea; camel optional. To my surprise, we didn't end up in the Sahara.
Rather, Dutch sand dunes are covered in some of the most beautiful and unique trees and brush that I've ever seen. Very hilly, the landscape is covered in low flora in a range of muted greens, silvers and greys with a few low flowery patches, although I expect that more flowers will appear as the sun becomes stronger. It's the roots of these plants that help protect the sand lying just under the surface, clearly visible on horse trails that appear from time to time. To protect the delicate ecosystem, some areas of which are protected areas set away from the public, the Dutch have built biking and walking paths through the dunes. Even here, wandering through the hills, are the bike paths impressively flat, or so I thought. As a novice biker, it appears that I have landed in the right town. After a day spent biking inclines almost negligible to the human eyes, the ache in my legs was a testament to Amsterdam's impressive uniform flatness.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Better than Christmas?
I'd been told that every April 30th on Koninginnedag, or Queen's Day, the Netherlands holds the party to end all parties, a spectacle like no other, the day when the country turns orange and floods the streets with celebrations.
It's a bit of a cliche to say that the Dutch are a reserved people, but cliches do come from somewhere, right? When I woke up yesterday, I was expecting a good day, but didn't quite believe the hype. Wow, was I wrong! I'm a total convert.
A bit of background; Koninginnedag is generally celebrated by the wearing of the colour orange, a nod to the Royal family and the House of Orange. It is the one day of the year where a license is not needed for sales, and consequently the entire country becomes one massive yard sale. As the day progresses, the sales give way to a more adult version of 'anything goes' as the streets become packed with drunken celebrations.
Jason and I started our day early. We were out of the house by 10am and I was shocked to see that the major streets near our house were already lined with what can only be described as old crap and bargain-hunters desperate to find those few items that weren't; essentially a typical yard sale, except that this one could be measured in kilometers. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised; chalk outlines had appeared two days earlier, marking out reserved spaces for those on their game. We had a good wander through, looking at the old dvd's, books, clothes, batteries and dodgy looking appliances before heading east of the Linnaeusstraat into an area more populated with young families.
By the end of the morning, I was convinced that if I had grown up as a Dutch child, I would have looked forward to Koninginnedag more than Christmas. Within a few small blocks was contained more family fun than I may have experienced in my entire life. Faces were being painted with flags, orange crowns and less traditional but perhaps more child-friendly subjects like dragons and princesses. Under orange construction paper hats was hair spray-painted to match. Lining the sides of the streets were all types of children's rides. There were small steam engine trains, carousels, and miniature carnival swing rides. In keeping with the free market, also, were all types of services. Everywhere were booths selling all manner of services. There were orange cupcakes and orange juice, natch. There was a booth set up for children to hammer away at indescribable creations. Children banged away at drums, violins and guitars every half block or so. There were water balloon booths, and one child was selling glances into a mysterious box. The streets were congested with families. Parents pushed baby carriages and small children rode on their father's shoulders or clung to their parents' hands and through all of this occasionally would wander groups of adults that define labels. The one that stands out most were a group of 7 men dressed in black, carrying very large inner tubes on their heads. By the time we headed home for lunch, I was convinced that Koninginnedag is the greatest day ever.
After a quick break, we headed back out but this time towards the center of the city. One of the most fascinating aspects of the day is the slow transition from full-on market place, to family friendly festival to adult debauchery. By 1pm, the streets of the Utrechtsestraat were already cluttered with empty beer cans, broken wine bottles, dancers, the occasional passed-out inebriated merrymaker and more shades and manner of orange outfit than I could have ever imagined. Jason didn't look even a little bit out of place in his orange Pippi Longstocking wig, and my orange feather boa was embarrassingly tame. As we wandered around the city, the streets became more and more crowded and more and more noisy. Almost at the corner of every street was an impromptu party complete with dj and speaker system peaking just as we neared the free outdoor concert at the Museumplein, when it took almost twenty minutes to work our way down one block. The congestion extended to the waterways as well, where the canals were so packed with party boats that we were able to watch for awhile as revelers jumped from boat to boat and then walk ahead, leaving them behind to try and work their way along the canals.
By the time I dragged my poor, long-suffering feet home, the sun was setting but the festivities were going strong, the garbage was continuing to pile high, and I was a complete convert.
It's a bit of a cliche to say that the Dutch are a reserved people, but cliches do come from somewhere, right? When I woke up yesterday, I was expecting a good day, but didn't quite believe the hype. Wow, was I wrong! I'm a total convert.
A bit of background; Koninginnedag is generally celebrated by the wearing of the colour orange, a nod to the Royal family and the House of Orange. It is the one day of the year where a license is not needed for sales, and consequently the entire country becomes one massive yard sale. As the day progresses, the sales give way to a more adult version of 'anything goes' as the streets become packed with drunken celebrations.
Jason and I started our day early. We were out of the house by 10am and I was shocked to see that the major streets near our house were already lined with what can only be described as old crap and bargain-hunters desperate to find those few items that weren't; essentially a typical yard sale, except that this one could be measured in kilometers. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised; chalk outlines had appeared two days earlier, marking out reserved spaces for those on their game. We had a good wander through, looking at the old dvd's, books, clothes, batteries and dodgy looking appliances before heading east of the Linnaeusstraat into an area more populated with young families.
By the end of the morning, I was convinced that if I had grown up as a Dutch child, I would have looked forward to Koninginnedag more than Christmas. Within a few small blocks was contained more family fun than I may have experienced in my entire life. Faces were being painted with flags, orange crowns and less traditional but perhaps more child-friendly subjects like dragons and princesses. Under orange construction paper hats was hair spray-painted to match. Lining the sides of the streets were all types of children's rides. There were small steam engine trains, carousels, and miniature carnival swing rides. In keeping with the free market, also, were all types of services. Everywhere were booths selling all manner of services. There were orange cupcakes and orange juice, natch. There was a booth set up for children to hammer away at indescribable creations. Children banged away at drums, violins and guitars every half block or so. There were water balloon booths, and one child was selling glances into a mysterious box. The streets were congested with families. Parents pushed baby carriages and small children rode on their father's shoulders or clung to their parents' hands and through all of this occasionally would wander groups of adults that define labels. The one that stands out most were a group of 7 men dressed in black, carrying very large inner tubes on their heads. By the time we headed home for lunch, I was convinced that Koninginnedag is the greatest day ever.
After a quick break, we headed back out but this time towards the center of the city. One of the most fascinating aspects of the day is the slow transition from full-on market place, to family friendly festival to adult debauchery. By 1pm, the streets of the Utrechtsestraat were already cluttered with empty beer cans, broken wine bottles, dancers, the occasional passed-out inebriated merrymaker and more shades and manner of orange outfit than I could have ever imagined. Jason didn't look even a little bit out of place in his orange Pippi Longstocking wig, and my orange feather boa was embarrassingly tame. As we wandered around the city, the streets became more and more crowded and more and more noisy. Almost at the corner of every street was an impromptu party complete with dj and speaker system peaking just as we neared the free outdoor concert at the Museumplein, when it took almost twenty minutes to work our way down one block. The congestion extended to the waterways as well, where the canals were so packed with party boats that we were able to watch for awhile as revelers jumped from boat to boat and then walk ahead, leaving them behind to try and work their way along the canals.
By the time I dragged my poor, long-suffering feet home, the sun was setting but the festivities were going strong, the garbage was continuing to pile high, and I was a complete convert.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Rock me all night long
One of the great things about living in Amsterdam is that we get to go to a lot of concerts. We've been going to quite a few lately, and we have a pretty heavy schedule coming up as well.
This weekend, I was lucky enough to go to two shows, both at the Melkweg which I hadn't been to until now. On Saturday, we went to see Devotchka. If you've seen the movie Little Miss Sunshine, you're familiar with their music. It's, pulling adjectives from Allmusic, 'gypsy-tinged', 'circus rock' and makes use of instruments such as the tuba and accordion. I'd heard good things about their live show and wasn't disappointed. The music was incredible, the band were entertaining, and we had a great, comfortable view right at the front of the stage. It was a great night.
Surprisingly, though, the highlight for me was the band we saw on Sunday night. Hayseed Dixie are a band that Jason had heard of and a passing familiarity of a cover song they do. With such criteria do we decide which concerts to go to. Neither of us knew what to expect other than that they were a bluegrass band.
Turns out, they are a bluegrass band. They're an bluegrass AC/DC tribute band. Now, both of us came of age in Edmonton in the late 80s and early 90s, so you know we're more than a little familiar with AC/DC, but I have to say that I have never heard anything like Hayseed Dixie. Oddly, though, it worked. The band alone would have made it a great evening for me. The audience, though, took it to another level.
In retrospect, I've been going to a lot of concerts lately that can best be described as hipster. The music is critically acclaimed, technically tight, and innovative, if not worthy of lasting through the ages. The audiences reflect this. They are well-heeled, trendy and politely 'into it'. They bob up and down in place, getting down without really bothering their neighbors. In contrast, the Hayseed Dixie fans in attendance are a sub-sect of society one rarely sees during the day. Several were very clearly hopped up on....something, many men had tattoos covering the majority of their torsos (and perhaps the women did as well although they refrained from removing their shirts, so it's hard to tell), judging from the scents that frequently wafted past me, I'd guess that several people don't believe in deodorant, and there was a full-fledged mosh pit; something I thought had died out in the late 90s.
In short, it was dirty, smelly, noisy and physical; exactly like a rock show should be. It felt good. If you get the chance, I recommend seeing them, with one caveat. Wear something that already needs a good laundering because if you don't spill beer on yourself, someone else will do it for you.
This weekend, I was lucky enough to go to two shows, both at the Melkweg which I hadn't been to until now. On Saturday, we went to see Devotchka. If you've seen the movie Little Miss Sunshine, you're familiar with their music. It's, pulling adjectives from Allmusic, 'gypsy-tinged', 'circus rock' and makes use of instruments such as the tuba and accordion. I'd heard good things about their live show and wasn't disappointed. The music was incredible, the band were entertaining, and we had a great, comfortable view right at the front of the stage. It was a great night.
Surprisingly, though, the highlight for me was the band we saw on Sunday night. Hayseed Dixie are a band that Jason had heard of and a passing familiarity of a cover song they do. With such criteria do we decide which concerts to go to. Neither of us knew what to expect other than that they were a bluegrass band.
Turns out, they are a bluegrass band. They're an bluegrass AC/DC tribute band. Now, both of us came of age in Edmonton in the late 80s and early 90s, so you know we're more than a little familiar with AC/DC, but I have to say that I have never heard anything like Hayseed Dixie. Oddly, though, it worked. The band alone would have made it a great evening for me. The audience, though, took it to another level.
In retrospect, I've been going to a lot of concerts lately that can best be described as hipster. The music is critically acclaimed, technically tight, and innovative, if not worthy of lasting through the ages. The audiences reflect this. They are well-heeled, trendy and politely 'into it'. They bob up and down in place, getting down without really bothering their neighbors. In contrast, the Hayseed Dixie fans in attendance are a sub-sect of society one rarely sees during the day. Several were very clearly hopped up on....something, many men had tattoos covering the majority of their torsos (and perhaps the women did as well although they refrained from removing their shirts, so it's hard to tell), judging from the scents that frequently wafted past me, I'd guess that several people don't believe in deodorant, and there was a full-fledged mosh pit; something I thought had died out in the late 90s.
In short, it was dirty, smelly, noisy and physical; exactly like a rock show should be. It felt good. If you get the chance, I recommend seeing them, with one caveat. Wear something that already needs a good laundering because if you don't spill beer on yourself, someone else will do it for you.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
City bird, country bird
The weather in Amsterdam has been getting warmer and warmer over the last week or so, and I feel fairly comfortable saying that Spring is here. Flowers are blooming, the breeze feels a little warmer, there's a pleasant smell of new growth on the air and everywhere previously grey spaces are becoming green.
To make the most of this, Jason and I have started going for walks in the evening, exploring the twists, turns and small neighborhood squares in our area. In accordance with Spring, the sounds of birds are everywhere although this unfortunately can take the sound of pigeons. Last night, though, we came across a sight that was entirely new to me.
I'd heard, of course, stories of how wild parakeets and parrots are major inhabitants of most major cities, but had always thought it was an urban myth. I'd never imagined that in addition to escaped pet birds, though, that there could be a community of escaped chickens and roosters out and about. And yet, on our way home, there they were; a tree full of chickens, and a few roosters wandering around on the ground.
City girl that I am, I'm inclined to think it's cooler than the wild parakeets. Parakeets I've seen, but I can probably count on one hand the times I've seen a rooster up close and personal.
To make the most of this, Jason and I have started going for walks in the evening, exploring the twists, turns and small neighborhood squares in our area. In accordance with Spring, the sounds of birds are everywhere although this unfortunately can take the sound of pigeons. Last night, though, we came across a sight that was entirely new to me.
I'd heard, of course, stories of how wild parakeets and parrots are major inhabitants of most major cities, but had always thought it was an urban myth. I'd never imagined that in addition to escaped pet birds, though, that there could be a community of escaped chickens and roosters out and about. And yet, on our way home, there they were; a tree full of chickens, and a few roosters wandering around on the ground.
City girl that I am, I'm inclined to think it's cooler than the wild parakeets. Parakeets I've seen, but I can probably count on one hand the times I've seen a rooster up close and personal.
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