Six Days in Austin, Six Different Flans

I can’t take credit for this blog post, since this was completely Lea’s idea. Our first night in Austin Charlotte took us to Guero’s Taco Bar on South Congress St. and after a delicious meal and multiple margaritas the three of us decided to split a flan for dessert. The flan was the perfect sweet ending to a satisfying meal and it got Lea and I even more excited to explore Austin’s gastronomic offerings. Already in the midst of a deep and passionate food romance with each other, Lea came up with the flan idea the next night during dinner.
“Let’s try a different flan every day and rate them for your blog,” she said. “It could be called six days in Austin, six different flans.”
Charlotte, our gracious host, announced that flan was in fact one of her all time favorite desserts, so finding a different one to eat everyday would be a mission she could get behind.
We decided we would base our assessments of each flan by rating their texture, flavor, syrup, and overall deliciousness. With the plan conceptualized and our objectives clear, we committed ourselves to the “flan project” for the remainder of our trip with extreme and unwavering diligence.
But what you may ask is exactly flan? According to wisegeeks.com “flan is baked custard quite similar to crème caramel, typically made with eggs, cream or milk, gelatin and vanilla. Often flan is synonymous with crème caramel because it includes a layer of burnt or caramelized sugar on the bottom.”
Flan is most popular in Latin America and the Philippines.

I also learned Sunday night that flans can be savory, made for example, with spinach.
Shockingly however, some people who we described this project to were less than enthusiastic.
“I hate flan,” one of Charlotte’s friends announced during a brief camping trip. “It’s so creamy.”
Pause.
*crickets*
Exactly.
And some Texans we encountered (even those who were employed at well respected eateries) didn’t even know what it was we were inquiring about.
“What’s that?” one girl behind a bakery counter in Fredericksburg asked. “Yeah, no, we don’t make that.”
But we never let these comments deter us, and aside from Saturday when we were camping at Inks Lake, we managed to find a flan every day. Here they are, in chronological order.
Tuesday
Guero’s Taco Bar. This was our first flan, and since we ate it before the project officially commenced, it really served as the initial inspiration. After eating enchiladas, chalupas, tacos, bean and cheese tamales, chips and salsa, guacamole, and drinks (all served by our very handsome and attentive waiter) we still found room for this. The flan was thick with a slightly grainier consistency than most flan because, we realized after a few more bites, Guero’s uses coconut in the custard. This changed the consistency but also added a subtle dimension to the traditional caramel flavor of most flans which was lovely. It was also served with plenty of sugary syrup, making it delightfully moist and sweet. Amazingly, after this meal we managed to stumble over to the Continental Club to witness some of the Fat Tuesday celebrations. Exhausted and sated, we collapsed back at Charlotte’s apartment and slept heavily.
Wednesday
Trudy’s. Charlotte had to get up and spend the day on campus, so Lea and I were left to our own devices for most of the day. We had a wonderful time leisurely strolling down Guadalupe St. and admittedly it turned into a little bit of an unexpected shopping spree. Having stretched our budget for the day from ahem, some impulsive spending, and with the awareness that Charlotte had had a taxing day in the competitive and cut throat world of academia, we decided to make dinner for Charlotte at home. It was over a delicious pasta dish Lea whipped up that the flan project was really born, and so it became essential that after digesting dinner we journey out to find another flan. We ended up at Trudy’s and indulged ourselves in Palomas, a delicious drink made with lime juice, tequila, and Fresca, and two orders of flan. This flan paled in comparison to Guero’s, but did have a silky smooth texture which made each bite soft and light. The flavor lacked depth, although the top was dusted with some cinnamon which warmed it up and made it a little more interesting. We also decided it would have been nice to have a little more of the caramel syrup- unlike other flans there was no leftover syrup to spoon up at the end. On our drive home we speculated if Trudy’s flan was in fact, made from a box. (Photo #4)
Thursday
Central Market. Charlotte suggested that we should try a flan from Central Market which is an upscale grocery store nearby. We had to buy groceries for our camping trip that weekend anyway, so this seemed like the logical choice. When the three of us scanned the bakery case however, there was not a flan in sight. When we asked the woman behind the counter if they had any, say tucked away in the back, she said no, they did not.
“Do you ever have it,” one of us asked. “Like, maybe sometimes?”
“No, never.”
Disappointed, we were considering our options when it occurred to me that occasionally there are pre made flans in the pudding section of many grocery stores. The pudding section at Central Market came through for us and we walked out with two flans to taste; Kozy Shack flan, and a “Spanish Flan,” in a small round container. When we got home we flipped them onto plates, passed out the spoons, and I readied myself with a notebook and pen, ready to take notes. The “Spanish Flan” (photo #3) was surprising thick and creamy, with an amazingly smooth texture. The flavor was also very strong, which made sense after we read that the fourth ingredient was rum. The Kozy Shack flan (photo #2)was much lighter with less flavor than the Spanish flan, and reminded me more of a caramel Jell-O. Good but not great.

We then spent the night salsa dancing...
Friday
Mamacitas Mexican Restaurant. Friday we packed up the rental car and headed out of Austin to Fredericksburg, a funny German town about an hour and a half away, in the middle of Texas “wine country” (I know, who knew). We hiked Enchanted Rock that afternoon, and then feasted on authentic German cuisine at Der Linderbaum restaurant. Noting the fact that Fredericksburg was a predominantly German town, we realized that finding a flan may be more challenging here than in Austin. But we found one not far from downtown, at Mamacitas. This flan was made in one big dish, and sliced into wedges, as oppose to the individual flans we had been tasting that came in individual ramekins. Mamacitas’ flan was luxuriously creamy, with lots of caramel flavor and lots of syrup. Out of all the flans we tasted, Mamacitas’ was the most old school, traditional, caramel flan.
Saturday
Saturday we drove to Inks Lake to camp with several of Charlotte’s friends from UT. No flan, although we did eat delicious mushroom risotto made on the Coleman stove, grilled vegetables, sausages, s’mores, whisky, wine purchased from our previous day in “wine country,” and lots and lots of snacks.
Sunday
La Condesa. Sunday was our final night in Austin, and after taking the afternoon to recuperate from 1). hiking, 2). driving, and 3). the consumption of multiple tacos from Tacodeli, we decided to hit the town for drinks, flan, and some two-stepping. La Condesa is a newly opened restaurant in downtown Austin that Charlotte had been wanting to try, and they did have an intriguing "flan de camote," or sweet potato flan. The restaurant itself has a wonderful atmosphere (excellent place to take a date, Charlotte noted), and an impressive menu (although we limited ourselves to chips and guacamole, and a pitcher of margaritas). The flan de camote was delicious but was not the traditional flan that we had been searching for to rate. The consistency and flavor was much more like pumpkin pie and while I love pumpkin pie, Lea and I just didn’t feel comfortable calling this flan, flan. The papitas and candied sweet potatoes that garnished the flan were wonderful too, but again, not authentic. (Photo #1)
The Official Results of the Flan Project:
#1 Guero’s
#2 Mamacitas
#3Spanish Flan
#4 Trudy’s
#5 La Condesa
#6 Kozy Shack
I am now back home and enjoying the residual glow of a truly wonderful vacation, which was full of wonderful friends, good food, and worthwhile adventures. This week I also want to make a flan of my own from scratch, the results which I will assess and add to the line up (unbiased of course.)

Good Morning, Sweet Valentine!

Firstly, I want to make it clear that this is in no way an anti Valentine’s Day post, or rant, or therapy session, that oh, poor me, I’m single on Valentine’s Day. It’s not going to be like that at all. Because I actually think Valentine’s Day is a very sweet thing and is a day when you have an excuse to give your sweetie a little extra love and to say “hey, I like having you around.”
And if you don’t have a Valentine this year you can always do what I did this weekend, which includes going out to dinner with your Dad (thanks Dad!) and bringing your 97 year old grandmother roses and chocolate. This morning I also decided to make myself a special Valentine’s Day breakfast, which included milky coffee in my favorite Italian teacup, and baked oatmeal with peaches. I also got up to speed on the last three Savage Love podcasts, which ended up being another perfect idea because dang, relationships have problems.
In other non Valentine’s Day related news: That previously mentioned lesson I had to give this week in front of the principal for that job I want? It was not my most glorious teaching moment. I was nervous and I had to teach grammar, so I’ll let you envision how that played out in your own minds. Yes, it got a little hairy- and because of this they want me to come back and teach another lesson.
It’s not great news, but it’s also not bad news. But it does feel strange because Friday morning going into it I had mentally prepared myself for either a “yes” or a “no.” So when they said “come back and try again,” I couldn’t help but think “whaaaaaa???”
It’s been a weird thing to process the last couple of days, and it has reminded me of when I was in elementary school and someone would screw something up and instead of accepting the mistake or failure they would yell “do over!” and then be allowed to try it again.
A “do over” could be declared over anything, anytime. It could be after muddling up your lines while rehearsing for the class play, or during a game of kickball at recess after you unexpectedly give the ball a particularly wimpy kick. “Do over!” someone would yell, “DOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OVVVEEEEEEEEEER!”
There was also nothing shameful about calling for a do over. On the contrary, do overs were demanded with authority and force, and often were non-negotiable.
I suppose this is the attitude I have adopted for the next couple weeks. But first I get to relax a little and enjoy a short trip to Texas, where I will spend several days hanging in Austin with two good friends, and then hiking in the hills of Western Texas, like a cowgirl.

Whirlwind

This last week has been a big one for me. The kind of week when the great changes and shifts in life are palpable and present, and when the choices that are made are with the awareness that, gulp, they are choices that will effect at least the next several years of my life. Traditionally when I have stood at a crossroads like this it has been in a puddle of soggy tears, feeling that the responsibility of my own fate is just too much to handle. I have always been baffled and jealous of friends who would handle decisions like this with joy and excitement. I know, I need to lighten up and learn to embrace change. Thankfully, there have been no tears this week, and while I have been feeling lots of excitement it has also been coupled with a lot of stress and the occasional and unavoidable “I just don’t know what to do!”
After three days at a job fair in Cambridge where there was a lot of preoccupation with resumes, and first impressions, selling yourself, and "professional attire", I was so relieved and happy to visit with a few friends in Cambridge Saturday afternoon. I met my friend Nick in Harvard Square for lunch, and then my friend Myles swooped in and picked me up at The Coop. We went and had some delicious espresso and then Myles suggested we visit the Institute of Contemporary Art, which is also close to the train station.
“I thought it might help you decompress after a stressful few days,” he said.
It was a thoughtful gesture and come to find out, to visit something beautiful, walk inside, gaze, and be quiet was exactly the right way to end my visit and take a break from thinking so much about myself and the future.
Myles also told me about the delicious homemade ravioli he and his girlfriend have been making, and his description of the butternut squash filling and rosemary infused butter sauce had my mouth watering as we rode in the taxi back to South Station. I have never made homemade pasta but it’s been on the list for a while. When I woke up yesterday morning in my own bed and began to figure out how I wanted to spend the day, making these ravioli as well as visiting with some good friends were the only things I was willing to put on my agenda.
The ravioli dough was really the most challenging part. I just experimented and ended up using three eggs for three cups of flour, but once I got into it I realized this was really too much flour. The internet told me to put the flour on a clean counter, make a well, and then put the eggs in the well, beat them and then incorporate the flour from the edges as you go. This method worked for me. I then had to roll out the dough since I don’t have a pasta machine, and I had a hard time getting the sheets as thin as I think they should be. Because some of the sheets ended up thick, some of the pasta was a little tough after they were cooked. However, the later batches were thinner and came out perfectly tender and supple.
Myles suggested making the sauce with rosemary and pecans, but I opted for sage and toasted walnuts (since this is what I had in the cupboard). Tossing the ravioli in the sage infused butter, with the crunch of the toasted walnuts was absolutely delectable, along with a crush of black pepper and some more Parmesan cheese.
The filling with the squash and pears was extremely warm and comforting and I think would also make a great filling for butternut squash lasagna with a bechamel sauce. Lea was over and also sautéed up some tasty kale with garlic and olive oil, which was a perfect, healthy side dish.

With everything still very much up in the air, this week is also likely to be an intense one. I made it to the second round of interviews for a teaching position at a neighboring public high school, and Wednesday I have to teach a 90 minute lesson to 25 9th graders I have never met before, while the classroom teacher and principal observe.

Pass the wine please!
Butternut Squash and Pear Ravioli
For the filling:
I medium butternut squash, peeled and cut into chunks
2 pears, peeled and diced (I used Bartlett)
2 cloves garlic
A pinch of nutmeg
½ - ¾ cup grated Parmesan cheese
Salt and pepper to taste
Boil the squash and garlic until tender, and add the pears for the last few minutes (just to get nice and soft). Drain out water and then puree in the food processor or with an immersion blender until nice and smooth. Add cheese and seasonings, set aside. (Come to think of it, roasting the butternut squash would also be delicious- try it and let me know!)
For the Dough:
Maybe 2 cups of flour
Pinch of salt
3 eggs
A little water if dough seems dry
I realize this is vague. I probably shouldn’t even be including instructions for making the pasta dough since I really don’t know how to do it myself! Anyway, what I did was put the flour on the clean counter and made a well. Crack open the eggs and beat them with a fork in the well, adding flour as you beat. Then begin kneading the dough, adding more flour and maybe a little water. Once you have a nice, elastic dough, roll out into two sheets. The dough should be pretty thin. Then scoop the filling and put it on one sheet of the pasta so that you make a little grid with the filling. Put the other sheet of pasta over it, and then cut out the ravioli. Moisten the sides with a little water to make the sides stick. Place in boiling water and cook until they begin the rise to the top.
Sage butter sauce
3-4 Tbs. butter (or more!)
5 sage leaves
¾ cup toasted walnuts
Melt the butter with the sage in a skillet and cook on low a few minutes. Remove the sage leaves. Put cooked ravioli into the skillet and coat them with the butter. Sprinkle toasted walnuts on top, and some more Parmesan cheese if you want. Add salt and pepper to taste. Enjoy!

And Then the Living Room Turned Into a Waffle House

Dear Rose,
Sorry I am posting this picture of you eating a waffle. Please don’t be mad at me.
Love,
Sophie
Last night I went to Lea and Chives’ house, mainly for a pottery night. I succeeded in throwing my first pot (a shallow, clunky bowl really), which was fun albeit pretty difficult. Luckily, Chives is a patient and skillful teacher and while there are no photos of last night’s pottery session, you can expect some soon.
Maybe it was because it was around dinner time, or perhaps it was being in a studio surrounded by Chives’s and Lea’s beautiful handmade bowls, mugs, and plates, but we all got hungry. Chives wanted pancakes, but with a torn out kitchen due to their current remodeling projects, pancakes seemed unlikey.
“We could go back to my house,” I suggested.
“Or we could make waffles,” said Lea. “We have a waffle iron.”
I have to admit I was skeptical about this idea. Waffles? No kitchen? Really? What a fool I can be! Lea ran to the grocery store, we went into the living room, cleared off the coffee table, Chives set up the waffle iron on top of an old pizza box which was put on top of some logs, and we mixed up the batter.
Lea also pulled out a pomegranate, a container of Greek yogurt, and a jar of honey.
“I thought we could have waffles with Greek yogurt and honey,” she said, hereby adding one more reason to the already 1,256 reasons why we are friends and I love her.
I never would have thought of putting these things together on top of a waffle, and the combination was one of the best things I have had in ages. I admit I strayed at one point and topped my second waffle with maple syrup and butter, but quickly went back to smearing it with yogurt and honey before decorating it with the tart, juicy, pomegranate seeds.
Lea said at one point she liked pomegranates because there is something so historic about them, and I agree. It is one of the most ancient fruits- and while I suppose it was the apple that Eve bit, the pomegranate seems so much more forbidden. So putting this on top of a waffle?
With one forkful windmills collided with ancient pillars, Ode on a Grecian Urn traded lines with Hans Brinker or His Silver Skates, yellow tulips bloomed under towering Cyprus trees. And this was all happening in my mouth, while I chewed.
Lea didn’t have vegetable oil so we used olive oil instead, but this just added another subtle dimension to the already wonderfully unexpected amalgamation. All this with only a waffle iron plugged into an electrical outlet in the living room.

While Eleven

These pictures were taken in August of 1994, when my mother, older brother and I took a short trip to the Czech Republic in search of my mother’s “long lost relatives.” The impetus for the trip occurred when my grandfather had died the year before, and my mother had sat by his bedside dumbfounded as he mumbled and sang in Czech- a language she had never heard him speak before these final moments at the very end of his life.
My grandfather never revealed much of his childhood to my mother, nor did he ever pass on any sort of Czechoslovakian traditions or sense of identity to his children. Hearing him speak this foreign language therefore moved and surprised my mother profoundly, and stirred within her a deep curiosity to find out more about this side of her family, and herself. She knew she still had relatives in the old country, since she remembered her aunt Barbara used to send a little money to some of them before she died, but aside from this she knew nothing.
About a year after my grandfather’s death my family went to Italy for the summer. Since the Czech Republic is not too far from Italy, my mother thought a side trip was in order. My father had to take a business trip in the middle of the vacation, and after he left my mother loaded all four of us children onto a train in Arezzo and we traveled north to San Danielle del Friuli, where some close family friends live. We dropped off Thea and Simon with them, and then my mother, Sven, and I boarded a train that crossed through Austria overnight, and in the morning arrived in Tabor, Czech Republic. From here Sobeslav, the small town where our “relatives” lived, was only another short train ride away.
The events that unfolded that day traumatized me as an eleven year old, and are documented in the following essay I wrote in seventh grade and decided to dig up and share after I also found these snapshots. While comparing the train station in Tabor to a train station in WWII was certainly a bit melodramatic on my part, my mother can attest that the vibe when we got off the train was not good. I didn’t know it then, but we had arrived in the Czech Republic only five years after the Velvet Revolution, and only a year and a half after Vaclav Havel had taken office. The country was therefore still emerging from behind the curtain, and while I may have been a bit overly dramatic in my impressions as an eleven-year-old, I certainly was picking up on some of the residual social and political tension that had not yet completely dissipated.
I think this feeling was also due in part to the fact that while I had traveled to other countries before this, it had always been to affluent European countries like Finland where we rode bicycles and watched strange Scandinavian cartoons, or Italy, where we were smothered in kisses and overfed by loving Italian friends and neighbors. This was an entirely different and foreign part of Europe that I had never seen before. And that morning we had arrived after spending weeks in Italy- extroverted, loud, loving, wild Italy. The contrast for me was overwhelming and I found it extremely freighting. I can’t help asking myself now how this experience would have been different if I went as an adult. Surely it would have been disturbing, but I don’t think it would have been quite as visceral as it was for me as a pre-adolescent.
As soon as we got there all I wanted to do was go back, as evidenced by my mother’s snapshots in which I look less than thrilled. I spent nearly the entire day in tears, begging my mother for us to leave. The first picture is of me in front of a bridge, right after we left Antonia’s house. I think my mother wanted me to stand still so she could snap the picture, and from the looks of it I was flatly refusing. The second is of my brother and Antonia in her house, and the last is of my brother and me at the “translator’s” house with Jan standing in the back in the green shirt.
Below is the essay I wrote in Mrs. Meyer’s class in all its resplendent seventh grade glory. I think I wrote it only a month or so after it happened, and the prompt she gave us was something like “write about something you did this summer. Some of the sentences make me cringe now, but I held my itchy fingers back from making any revisions!
Brevity is not something I am good at, and this essay (or introduction to this essay for that matter!) is no exception. Sit back and get comfy, maybe go to the bathroom first or grab a glass of water. Or take a break and come back and read it later.

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As soon as the train pulled into the station, my mother, my older brother Sven, and I walked across the tracks, bags in hand, and made our way to the main building. I felt like I had stepped back in time, like into World War II during the German occupation. It was grey and depressing. People eyed us suspiciously. We quickly made our way up to the main desk. No one looked happy; no smiles, no laughter. You immediately sense these people had gone through something unfamiliar to what I knew. I felt scared and nervous, probably the way they felt about us, strangers in their home. Their home, we were in the Czech Republic. It was the summer of ’94 and my mother, my brother and I had come to seek long lost relatives in a little town called Sobeslav; that is, if there was anyone left.
“Three to Sobeslav,” my mother said, using gestures to try to communicate with the woman behind the desk. She understood and gave us the three tickets and said something in Czech. We were puzzled. She said it again, getting impatient. Still we didn’t understand. Then she took a piece of scrap paper and wrote “8 K” which was Czech money. Of course, she wanted Czech money. Well we had just come off a train from Italy, it was seven in the morning, and we didn’t have any Czech money because we hadn’t had a chance to go to the bank. So, my mother shook her head and began to get nervous and very self conscious. The people behind us were getting impatient also. Then, a Czech soldier standing further along in the line pushed his way through and bought himself a ticket, paid for it, and paid for ours as well. He spoke to us in English. Finally! Someone spoke English. My mother repaid him with an American ten dollar bill. He thanked us, told us what track the train would come on, and then left. Immediately after, my brother burst out laughing.
“What?” my mother asked.
“Do you realize what you just did,” he said.
“What,” my mother said again.
“You gave him a ten dollar bill!”
“So,” said my mother. “He paid for our tickets.”
“Yes, but ten American dollars are worth about fifty Czech dollars. Our tickets actually cost about fifty cents each.”
“Oh dear,” said my mom. “Well, at least he’ll be able to go out for a few meals for a while.”
A few minutes later the train pulled into the station and we all go on again. We walked down the empty corridor and found an empty place for the three of us to sit.
I was relieved to be back on the train again, and felt less vulnerable. I looked out the window as the train began to move. For the first time that day I saw the beauty of the country. The sun was coming out and I gazed at the rolling green fields, passing forests and small summer cottages by the side of the tracks. It really was how my mother described it. Fairy tale country, magical and mysterious and very beautiful. I was happy to be out of the grey and dismal station that we had arrived at earlier that day and took a few minutes out of reality to let my mind wander.
I was snapped back into reality when my mother pulled out a letter she had written about two weeks before. It had taken her about ten days to write because she had to write it all in Czech which meant she had to look up every word in her little English/Czech dictionary. The purpose of the letter was to send it to some names of some people who were supposedly our lost relatives. She had made two copies of the letter. One she sent to the address she had gotten from a cousin at home. The other she kept; this was the letter she pulled out. The letter said that she and her two children would be coming to Sobeslav on the 9th or 10th of August. It told who we were and our business. She hoped this letter had been received so they would know we were coming and who we were.
She opened the letter, briefly looked it over, and then went into the corridor where a short, middle aged woman with brown graying hair and glasses was standing. In English my mother said, “excuse me,” and handed her the letter. The woman read it and when she was done handed it back to us and smiled.
The train stopped when we arrived in Sobeslav and the woman motioned us to come with her. We took our bags and followed her off the train and through the station into Sobeslav. It looked relaxed and somewhat peaceful. The park was on our right with green trees and benches where old women sat discussing whatever they had heard lately, and to the left there were shops that sold postcards, dolls, puzzles, fruits and vegetables, and an assortment of other little things to buy.
We followed her as we walked through the town. When she saw someone, she stopped, took the letter from my mother’s hand and opened it, then showed it to the person, asking if he or she knew the person we were looking for. Many of them said no, until finally an old man said, “Yes, I know Jan. He lives just down that way.”
The woman thanked him and nodded her head saying, “yes, yes, come, come.” We followed her now not stopping to ask people. We crossed the bridge through the town square and into what seemed to be a normal working class neighborhood. We walked a little ways down then stopped at one of the more tumbled down houses. It was triangle shaped and had dead flowers in the front. The grass was overgrown and badly needed to be cut. There was a rust gate. The woman called out in Czech, “Hello! Anybody home?” A few seconds later a man’s head stuck out the window. He shouted back at us in Czech, “What do you want?” My mother stiffened. The woman replied back to him, “Some people are here to see you.” At least that is what I assume they were saying. “Okay, okay,” he said and shortly after he appeared at the gate. He looked to be about sixty five or more years old, was tall and skinny, and had grey hair going every which way. The woman said a few words more and the old man nodded. She then turned to us and smiled. We turned our attention to the man, who opened the gate and let us in. Then we turned around to thank the woman, but she was gone. I looked around but I couldn’t see her anywhere.
“An angel,” my mother whispered.
“Yes,” I said. “An angel.”
He led us through the gate and into the house. It stunk badly of rotten potatoes. The second I entered the house I wanted to leave. Then we proceeded up three flights of stairs. When we got to the top a very old woman greeted us. She carried a cane and poked everything she went by. She was clearly surprised and confused. She motioned us into what I assume was the living room. It had an old table and a mattress on a bed stand, some old books, and a broken TV. We walked into the kitchen. A few rotten pears lay on the table, a few dirty mugs by the sink. They clearly had no food. IT was frightening to see these people living this way. What did they eat? What did they do all day?
The way we finally found out they were our relatives was this. In their living room was an old book shelf. On the book shelf stood two old photographs from the 50’s or 60’s of my great aunt Barbara’s family. They lived in Detroit and my great aunt was sending them money and food while she was still living. And this was who my mother recognized in the picture, on top of the bookshelf.
My mother pulled the pictures down and proceeded to make gestures, naming everyone in the photograph, so that the old woman, whose name was Antonia, would know we were somehow related. I think she understood because both she and my mother started to cry. Then she took out more photographs and we looked through them together. She offered us some stale candy. “No thank you,” I said. Still she tried to give me the candy. “No, no, no,” I said. Finally she got the idea. The she showed us the rest of the house. I couldn’t stand the smell another minute. I swore I was going to throw up, so I said, “Mom, can we please go?”
“Yes Sophie, just hold on a minute,” she replied
I started to fuss. My mother gave me a look saying, look Sophie, we’ve come all this way, just get with it.
I felt so helpless I started to express my feelings to my brother but he just laughed. What was his problem? I couldn’t believe it, this was a highly dramatic thing for me and he just laughed??!!

Antonia returned with my mother and an old, bloody chicken bone stuck in her pocket. By this time my mother really wanted to leave and we proceeded to the stairs but she yelled at us. So we wrote her a note saying in Czech that we had to leave and if we found someone who spoke English we would return. She read it and we left.
Air! Ah air! I could finally breathe again. I walked out the gate with my mother and my brother, who was still laughing.
The man with the long grey hair I learned was named Jan, and was Antonia’s son. I apologize for not telling you that earlier.
Antonia stuck her head out the window and started yelling at us in Czech. We didn’t understand so we walked down the street towards the town square, found some benches, and sat down.
“What if they come find us and drag us back to the house with them?”I asked.
“I don’t think Antonia can get down those stairs without Jan’s help, and I don’t think he will be able to find us,” my mother replied.
We were all a little shocked at what had happened and I think my mother regretted what she had done.
We went to an ice cream parlor to life our spirits. My mother and I got a chocolate ice cream cone, and my brother got a big cream filled pastry. I took one big lick.
“Yuck!” I said in an astonished voice.
“Oh, yuck!” My mother said. “It tastes horrible!”
“Yum, yum, yum,” my brother said.
“This ice cream has sour milk in it,” I said.
“I think you are right,” my mother replied.
My brother just laughed as he enjoyed his big pastry. My mother and I discreetly threw out our ice cream. Then for about three hours we walked around Sobeslav, trying to get as far away from the house as possible.
We were making our way to the train station to go back to Tabor when my mother said,
“There he is!”
I froze. Terror ran through my body. I wanted to run. He crossed the street and came directly toward us, took our bags and motioned for us to come with him.
“No, no!” I said.
I began to go into hysterics. Where was he taking us, what were we going to do? We began to walk with him. My brother laughed and my mother tried to comfort me although she was very nervous herself. We crossed the bridge and we then stopped at a gate with high surrounding walls so you were unable to see the house.
“English,” Jan kept saying.
My mother shook her head in understanding. She told me he had found someone to translate for us and I began to calm down a bit.
Jan rang the door bell and it was several minutes until a woman answered it, and told us to come in. There was a little court yard with flowers in it. Beautiful flowers!
We came with her into the house. She was short with brownish red hair, and wore a skirt with an apron tied around her waist. He name was Maria. She led us into the kitchen where a plump, pale man sat somewhere in his late seventies. The kitchen had a cozy, lived in fell about it. They told us to sit and asked if I needed some medicine because I was crying. My mother politely said no thank you.
The old man went and got his diploma off the shelf. He had received mostly C’s and had forgotten most of the English he had learned. They gave us coffee and biscuits and we then proceeded to try to communicate. We got somewhere using the English/Czech dictionary, and we found out a little about the family.
The old couple was very lively and full of energy and life. They joked around and we all had an enjoyable time.
Then Jan took us to a little diner where we ate goulash and drank coke. It was awkward. We tried to tell him we needed to get to the train station and he seemed to understand but not very well.
After we ate lunch we all went to the train station still accompanied by Jan. We got there, got our tickets and realized we still had an hour to spare. So we sat on a bench and listened to Jan talk.
When it was time to get the train we all walked up to the train station. The train came and we said good-bye to Jan. He shook our hands. Mine was the last he shook; he wouldn’t let go. I started walking with him still holding onto my hand. I smiled. He smiled. Then we got back on the train and left Sobeslav for good. It had been a long, long day. I had so many thoughts running through my head. Should we have done this? If we should have done it, we certainly should have done it differently. My mother says we were like a naughty child who did something he wasn’t supposed to do. The live so differently to us and experienced things I have never experienced. Now, I can never look at things the same way I used to. That one day had changed my entire life.

Wednesday Night Dinner

Winter Root Vegetable Chili (8 servings)

2 Tbs. olive oil

1 onion, chopped

4 cloves of garlic, diced

2 red bell peppers, chopped

1 lbs. carrots, peeled and chopped

1 lbs. parsnips, peeled and chopped

2 Tbs. cumin

2 Tbs. chili powder

salt

1 28 oz. can crushed tomatoes

1 c. water

1 can each: red kidney beans, black beans, chickpeas

1/2 c. barbecue sauce

Put oil in large sauce pan or dutch over and saute onion and garlic, about three minutes. Add red bell pepper, carrot, and parsnip, and saute for 5 minutes. Add cumin and chili powder and cook one minute more.

Season with salt.

Add tomatoes, water, beans (you could use any combination of beans, and corn would be good too) and barbecue sauce and simmer 20 minutes.

Adjust seasoning and serve with sour cream, tortilla chips, corn bread, and red onion relish.

Red Onion Relish

1 red onion

1 bunch cilantro

Juice of 2 limes

pinch of salt

Put everything in food processor and pulse until finely chopped. Serve on top of chili.

Hazel's Gingerbread Cake with Pears

Spray a 9" cake pan that is at least 3" tall.
Melt 4 Tablespoons unsalted butter, pour into the pan, sprinkle 2/3 cup brown sugar on top. Slice and arrange 2 pears on top.

1/2 cup soft butter
2 Tablespoons sugar
1 egg
1 cup dark molasses
1 cup boiling water
2 1/4 cup flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons ground ginger
1 teaspoon cinnamon
2 Tablespoons candied ginger, chopped
Heat oven to 325 degrees. Mix thoroughly: sugar, soft butter, and egg. Blend in molasses and water. Mix dry ingredients and blend in; beat until smooth. Pour into pan. Bake 45-60 minutes, until center is firm, but before the brown sugar burns. Remove from oven and invert
onto a serving plate. Serve warm or cold with vanilla ice cream or
whipped cream.

Note, Can be made with crisp apples as well, and served with chilled apple sauce mixed with whipped cream.

Genoese Minestrone

The weekend turned out to be lovely, and highlights include swimming laps with Lea at the URI pool, pulled pork sandwiches Saturday night (thanks Libby!) followed by live music at the Ferguson’s, a thorough house cleaning, and an afternoon visit to a friend who has a brand new baby. I decided to make this minestrone soup for the new Mama, and since her only request was something with “roughage,” the large quantity and variety of veggies in it made it a suitable choice. When I first started cooking soups I always thought that they needed lots of spices and herbs to make them flavorful. Often soups do need a little extra “help” in the seasoning department, but I am also learning that when there are lots of vegetables involved, the flavor from the vegetables alone is enough to give certain soups the delicate, delicious taste that is so good.
This recipe comes from Debra Mayhew’s cookbook Soup, which I cannot recommend enough. I bought a copy of it years ago for 5.99 at Walden’s, and I think it is easily one of the best cookbooks I own. This soup is hardy and very satisfying. Putting a spoonful of pesto on the top also adds another delightful element. With a slice of bread it is the perfect dinner for a cold night in January.
Genoese Minestrone
3 Tbs. olive oil
1 onion, minced
2 celery stalks, minced
5 ounces green beans, cut into 2 inch pieces
1 zucchini, finely sliced
1 potato, cut into ½ inch cubes
¼ Savoy cabbage, shredded
1 small eggplant, cut into ½ cubes
I can cannellini beans, drained and rinsed
2 plum tomatoes, chopped
3 ounces vermicelli
Salt and freshly ground pepper
(You can make the pesto if you feel so inclined, but I just bought a jar from the grocery store.)
Heat oil in large pot and cook onion, celery, and carrots over low heat for 5-7 minutes.
Stir in green beans, zucchini, potato, and cabbage and cook for about 3 minutes over medium heat. Add eggplant, cannellini beans, and tomatoes, and cook for 2-3 more minutes.
Pour in the stock with salt and pepper and bring to a boil. Stir well, cover, lower the heat and simmer for 40 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Break the pasta into small pieces and add to soup. Simmer, stirring frequently, for 5 minutes. Stir in pesto and simmer 2-3 more minutes, or just ladle soup into bowls and let everyone put their own pesto on top.