Jake's Cookies

I love molasses cookies. They are my favorite!
When living in Sofia in the early nineties, before TV or internet, we kept touch with the outside world through magazines delivered to our Dept of State address.  That is where I came across the recipe for "Giant Molasses Cookies".  Our commissary privileges at the US Embassy gave me access to the ingredients I needed, mainly molasses and spices. I baked huge batches because they were so easy to make.

I packed a large number of cookies along on one memorable road trip down the coast of Turkey to Ephesus. Being early in the year, the weather and tourist trade hadn't heated up yet and we were finding most hotels still closed for the season.

When we did find rooms, there was often no heating or restaurant available. So I remember Jon firing up his camp stove to make me tea, while Jake and I snuggled up in sleeping bags. Jake was one at the time, and so won't remember the trip, but I remember those cups of tea and cookies well.  They were always a comfort.

Later we moved to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, and I continued making the same cookies, this time with a small boy to help me. They are perfect to make with little ones. The ingredients mix easily, then they are made into balls and rolled in sugar. We would take them to children's parties and play dates.  And since Jake, now three, claimed to have made them, they were called Jake's cookies.

Then we moved to the US where it is easier to buy cookies than make them, and my boys grew bigger with less interest in baking with mom. I stopped making the molasses cookies for 15 years.
As the Christmas season approaches, I want to start baking again, and try to make those favorites that bring with them memories of loved ones who are now far away.  I considered making mince pies, but I know mincemeat is out of the question here in Sofia. I did come across some "MELACA", and assumed I had found molasses. So I am back in the business of making molasses, or Jake's, cookies and stirring up all the memories that go with them.

Thanks for Leftovers

I had Thanksgiving all planned this year. It would be the first year I ever attempted to cook.  Being British, my family didn't have the tradition, and we usually go over to friends and family and celebrate. This year I was going to accept the challenge of cooking the whole meal for my family in Sofia.
I even had my blog planned. I was going to share my adventures looking for a turkey, and recipes that didn't include canned pumpkin or creamed corn.
On Tuesday the world turned gray. I woke up aching and without energy. I wanted to stay in bed, but I had shopping to do, and a pie to make. I struggled through the preparations, feeling lonely and unappreciated. My family like the idea of eating a meal, but not enough to take part in the peeling, chopping, measuring and mixing.  I don't even remember finally siting down to eat.  I got through it. My family retired to their rooms and their individual pastimes, and I was left with the kitchen to clean up. Thankful?
 I have nothing to be thankful for.

At this point leftovers are a hassle.  They need to be wrapped, refrigerated and sorted. The turkey needs to be separated from the carcass and boiled for soup.  I finally collapsed in bed with an awful headache. My neighbors above, who are constantly renovating, started drilling, and my sons played loud rock music. Could things get worse? I should see a doctor, but I don't know any doctors here in Sofia.
I have nothing to be thankful for.

Jon went with me to the doctor on Friday morning. I had phoned the Medical Center where I see my dentist, and the doctor there could fit me in. He met us at the entrance and introduced himself in perfect English. He gave us the impression he had been waiting for us to arrive.  I immediately liked the doctor. He took care of me right away. No, there were no forms to fill out as I was already in the system. After a couple of tests on site, the doctor was able to prescribe an antibiotic that should take care of the problem. He couldn't charge me now as his computer was down, but he would be in touch. No need to schedule another appointment to go over the test results. He would phone me.

I was very grateful. Maybe I have something to be thankful for.

We stopped off on the walk home for a cuppa in our favorite coffee shop, and to pick up the prescription from a local pharmacy. The lady didn't speak English but was able to give me what I needed. I asked her to repeat the price twice. "3.80 leva."  I couldn't believe the medication could cost only $2.
"Blagodarya"   I was grateful I was only a short walk away from home with the medicine I needed to feel better.
Maybe I have something to be thankful for.

I came home to turkey soup with dumplings, and leftover apple pie. I was feeling better already and settled back on the couch. The power went off, putting the whole house into darkness. The boys came out of their rooms, used their phones to find candles, and gathered around me on the couch. It didn't last long, but those were the best moments of my week.  Just being together in the dark, talking and sharing the moment.  I was grateful for them being there, with me.

The lights came on, and everyone went back to what they were doing before.  But that short period of darkness had shown me that we can pull together when all the food,  the eating, the tradition obligations and electricity are over and done.
I am thankful for the leftover parts... and feeling a lot better.

Filling in the Blanks: B_rc_l_n_

I went to Barcelona without doing the usual preparation. I had no map of the tourist attractions, no guide book or suggested tours. I went knowing that I would be exploring on my own since Jon would be at a conference, and there wouldn't be any family around to keep asking, "Where are we going?" or "Why are we here?"
The advantage of staying at a nice hotel was that there was a free shuttle to take me downtown, and a concierge who gave me a map and circled the one sight I must see. So that is how I found myself dropped off outside this building, and then wandering off in search of what I believed to be the most visited church to the city.  Along

the way I noticed other buildings with unusual chunky architecture. But I wasn't prepared for the Familia Sagrada. It totally confused me. Along with the tarps, cranes and scaffolding, there was altogether too much going on. Some details were religious, other seemed right out of a Dr Seuss book. And there were letters, or words, floating around as if anyone could just come and add on their own details during the construction. This is the most popular attraction in Barcelona?
I walked around the other side and it became more bizarre. Where the first side might have resembled a sand castle, it was at least finished with straight lines. Now I was looking at a rough facade with no form. On closer inspection there were large fruits and a Christmas tree in among the blobs and globs.  Who was responsible for this? I could imagine it might have seemed like a good idea long ago, but it was being built today.  Needless to say, I didn't stand in the long line and pay to go inside. I decided to see what else Barcelona had for me.

I walked the wide streets down to the Arc de Triomf and through the Parc de la Ciutadella. Again I was surprised, this time by the number of noisy birds that seemed to be parrots, or parakeets. I didn't know there were parrots in Europe. But they were everywhere, building nests in the trees.
At this point I was anxious to sit down and figure some of what I was seeing. I needed WiFi in order to do some research.
Back at the hotel I started reading about the famous architect Antoni Gaudi who is responsible for much of what is unique about Barcelona. He started the construction of the Familia Sagrada 130 years ago, and it was meant to be his masterpiece. Many other buildings, the paving

stones and parks showcase his work. The style is Modernist, and it represents a break with everything that has come before.  Anything goes, and anything does. There are curves where we would usually see boxes, and fanciful details in the place of function. It is different, and certainly draws a crowd.
Gaudi and his works are not without controversy. Picasso was know to say, "Send Gaudi and the Familia Sagrada to hell." I don't know if this was because he objected to the modernist style, or that he resented the money and attention Gaudi attracted in Barcelona. The Familia Sagrada attracts five million paying tourists a year, but it also costs 25 million euros a year to build. There was even talk of constructing a direct train from France, just to bring in more tourists to the church. Whether you think Gaudi's buildings are beautiful or not, they are the sort of place you feel you have to see.  There is a fascination in their oddity. But then I felt the same thing about Picasso!

I arrived in Barcelona knowing very little, and learned much. I looked up the parakeets as well.  There is a large feral population of monk parakeets in the city that can cause problems, especially during nesting season.
There is so much more to see in Barcelona, and it is all fascinating, leading us on to find the how's and why's that fill in the gaps of our personal experiences.

Where Am I Going?

My son phones me from school.  He has left his swim stuff at home and can I bring it to him. I am a stay-at-home mom, so I can't really say I'm busy. But I'd rather not have to take a taxi all the way out to the school.  Jon suggests I take the metro and walk.  "It will be a nice walk through the woods!"  He has done it, but it isn't my sort of thing.
Twenty years ago I found myself walking to my teaching job at AAS each day because Jon went by car to his job at the American College. The route took me down a back road through the woods, across  a field and through some village houses. I was also pregnant with my first child.

I could have dealt with the distance, the smells and the icy path in winter, but what got me were the dogs!  Sometimes I met a pack of them crossing the field.  Others were 'guard dogs' that came out of houses, barking and nipping at my ankles. I couldn't avoid them and tried walking with a big stick to beat them off. Jon bought me a can of pepper spray.  The Bulgarians told me to carry rocks in my pocket.  It made more sense to throw rocks at them before them got close enough to bite. Kicking out at them was probably the worst idea.
I put up with this harassment for over a year, before I finally asked for help. The school arranged for me to be picked up by one of the drivers.

This time, the location of the school has changed, the area is more built up, but I have heard there are still the same dogs.  I took the metro to the last stop, got my bearings, and headed towards the mountain.  "Where am I going?" I asked Jon on the phone.  He directed me onto a path across the field, and sure enough, there was a dog coming along. Fortunately, I didn't have to resort to stone throwing, the dog left me alone.

The "walk through the woods" turned out to be very similar to my walk to school 20 years ago.  The only person I met was a man and his horse clearing the path. I suspect he was illegally helping himself to wood, so I didn't interfere.  I recognized the "Bell Park" with the bell tower, so I knew I was close. A stream had to be crossed, and then I was in a housing complex. The guard dogs were contained behind high walls and I only heard their barking.
Some things in Sofia have changed greatly in 20 years, but others remain the same. It is still full of new experiences.

I laugh when people ask me for directions along the way. I barely know where I am going myself!  You would think that by this point in my life I would be more settled, but I find myself still on the move, and not knowing where I will end up. It does make looking back on the past interesting. And my favorite part is reconnecting with people who shared those experiences with me over the last 50 years!

Here is a shout out to all those wonderful people Jon and I taught with in Sofia 20 years ago, and I am still in contact with today. Many of them are still overseas and still on the move!  Just today I made contact with a past director of AAS who was responsible for building the campus in Knyazhevo all those years ago... but that is a subject for another blog.

Bringing Tragedy Home

Shortly after the New Year there was a terrorist attack carried out in Paris. I don't know anyone who lives there, and I wasn't familiar with the satirical magazine, Charlie Hebdo. I heard about it on the news.  When I saw the flowers piled up in front of the French Embassy I made the connection, but was confused as to the meaning.
Who was bringing the flowers, and why?

I made the connection quicker this time. After hearing of the new attacks in Paris, I went out to the French Embassy, just around the corner from where I live. Already there were reporters, camera crews, and concerned people gathering. One mother had brought her daughter to hang a message on the fence, another man was being interviewed.

I continued to observe the goings-on outside the Embassy during the day, and into the night. More messages were added in French, showing support and sympathy. Candles were lit in memory of those hurt.  Even small gifts and works of art were left in what was becoming a makeshift shrine. Sometimes there were as many as 6 camera crews filming at one time. And quite a few people were, like me, just there, observing, and wanting to be a part of the communal grieving.

The tragedy on Paris was becoming more real to me.  There was plenty of messages on facebook, but they didn't quite give me the whole picture. Some suggested that there are atrocities that happen continually around the world that we ignore.  I think we just don't see them.

I am living in southern Europe, surrounded by the immigrant crisis. I traveled from Greece to Hungary and Austria without seeing anything that would suggest there was a crisis if it weren't for the news.

Then someone I know decided to see the problem for themselves. This couple traveled to Lesbos, a Greek island, to help in any way they could. Upon arriving back, I couldn't ask enough questions. I wanted to know more than the news had portrayed.  They had been there, made a difference and seen the suffering for themselves.

They saw immigrants arriving by boat on the beach.  In reality, about 3000 are still arriving each day on that island from Turkey. The inflatable boats often don't make it, and the pieces litter the shore. There is transportation for the ones who arrive, and camps run by volunteers. Even so, the suffering of these people is real.  They are lost, homeless, penniless, and hungry. I saw the pictures. This couple made the whole situation real for me, and stirred up sympathy in a way that the media coverage couldn't.

There is a sense that, in the act of reaching out to someone, we feel ourselves to be a part of humanity, and we can feel their suffering. We feel that we need to do something, however symbolic, to make that connection. The flowers and the aired words of sympathy help us to feel part of our world, and that we care enough to want to make a difference.

I will end with a link to a very moving piece played out side the Pairs theater where so many were killed. I was motivated to write this blog, because we all need to bring home the tragedy.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3wnHr_OJhGw

Picasso, Plans and Palaces

There is a Picasso exhibition showing at the National Art Gallery in Sofia until January. It made headlines... a must see, even if you are not a fan of cubist art.  It is free.  It is housed in the former royal palace.  And the weather is perfect for a walk downtown.

I haven't always been a Picasso fan. Like most children, I really didn't have any appreciation for his art when I was first introduced to it. I started to understand some of the techniques when my art teacher had me examine his drawings during my A-level studies. It wasn't until much later, when I was introducing Picasso to my students, that I developed an admiration for the artist's huge range of ability.

At first, the palace seemed a strange venue for modern art. Its classical designs were certainly not echoed in Picasso's black and white drawings.  The exhibition contained collections of drawings that were variations on a theme. Rather than one being a study or exploration, that would evolve into the last, each piece stood

on its own. The artist chose to change small details in each or the whole artistic style.

I looked closely at four prints of the familiar theme, "David and Bathsheba".  In one the faces were detailed, leaving no doubt as to the emotions, but in others they were left blank, causing you to wonder what the character was thinking. The beautifully stylized Bathsheba appeared static and superficial, where the woman bathing her, a simple outline, was full of movement.

I like this print of "Pan", because your eye goes immediately to the face, and its simple profile. Then you notice the hand, a blur of music and movement.


I wasn't suppose to take any pictures inside, but I did finally get one, of the artist's wife and children.  Again, in this your eye goes immediately to the children playing.  It is only later

that you see the mother, reclining behind them.
Some of Picasso's art seems so simple that we might imagine it to be spontaneous or accidental. But there can be no doubt that it is very carefully planned... Picasso style.

I have started to think that we should make our life plans the way Picasso did his art:
Focus on the important.  Deliberately leave yourself open to a bit of mystery, don't try to plan every detail.  Be willing to try new and unexpected ways.  And deliberately plan something that, to others, looks totally unrealistic.

Much of nature is unplanned, unrehearsed, and very unpredictable... but we find it beautiful just the same.

Close Please

We get excited about new beginnings, but what is really satisfying, is a successful conclusion.

No, this isn't jail.  It is part of a medical complex where I had to go for a dental x-ray.  Navigating the medical system of a country you are not familiar with can be scary. We aim to have those things taken care of when at home.
My tooth broke last June, right before we were due to travel for the summer. I had tickets booked and hotel reservations, but this couldn't wait.  I had probably left it too long already, which is why I was having problems.  So I called the International Medical Center and found they could fit me in the next day.
I walked past the place twice before recognizing

the building. This was definitely not your American style dental office.  There was no one in the waiting room, no waivers to sign, and no expensive machinery.  The dentist saw me the front room and fixed my broken tooth temporarily in less than half an hour. I was OK to travel, and I would see her on my return for a more permanent crown.
Cost of filing: 40 BG lev or US$22
This started my series of visits to the place which only ended this week. Each time the diminutive Dr.V would meet me in the waiting room, ask me how I had been and show me through to her room.  There she would apologize in advance for any discomfort.  "It is good?" "Are you comfortable?" was her main concern, and my answer was always "yes". Despite her need to deaden my tooth, perform a root canal, and set and remove a crown three times just to make sure it was quite right, I was never in pain. I rather enjoyed my visits to the dentist, which was only a short distance from my home down the tree lined streets. Her cautiousness, rather than worry me, made me feel she was determined to give me the best possible. Cost of root canal: 210 BG lev or US$115

 As part of her need to check her work, Dr.V sent me down to get an x-ray of the tooth.  She didn't have the equipment on site for this. She gave me vague directions, "It is near the park, 3rd floor." I am still amazed I found it. It wasn't in the first building I entered, or the second. I found myself wandering around dimly lit corridors looking for someone to ask. All I found were locked doors and signs in Cyrillic. I started knocking on doors until one finally opened. I pointed at my mouth, the lady behind the door pointed down the hall.  I continued doing this until I knocked on the right door, and was ushered in. I gave the number of my tooth, and held the x-ray between my teeth. Cost: 5 BG lev or US$2.75

Dr.V seemed pleased with the x-ray. She said, "Come", and walked outside. In the backyard she showed me some samples of enamel... I was choosing the color for my crown. "This light better. Ready next week".
Cost of crown: 350 BG lev or US$192
After that I returned once again  expecting to start work on yet another crown.  "I think is good", she said and obviously didn't see the need for another crown. I was done. I thanked her profusely and promised to come again for a check up. As I was leaving, she stopped me. Apparently the receptionist had overcharged me for the crown, and I was owed 35 lev. She opened her own wallet and gave me the money. I don't think I will ever go to a dentist again who ends up giving me money! The Bulgarian dental system might not have the most up to date and expensive equipment, but it has a certain charm, and  is not at all an unpleasant experience.

Michaelmas Goose Memory

If you are unfamiliar with this version of a Michaelmas (pronounced 'mikelmus') goose, then you probably didn't know my father. John Taylor didn't cook much, but occasionally he took on a dish of which he only had a memory.  That is how I got involved in making stuffed cabbage rolls and Michaelmas goose. We would look to see what was in the cupboard, or left over in the fridge. Leftover rice and some sort of canned meat were two certain ingredients.  Squash was something I would rather not eat, but the filling looked interesting, and watching my father sew the whole thing up was quite unforgettable.

A friend recently posted a picture of a veggie alternative to roast turkey for Thanksgiving and I was suddenly reminded of my father's Michaelmas goose. I searched the internet for a recipe only to find that my father's version, made of stuffed squash, doesn't exist.
Michaelmas is an old celebration on September 29th, where families roast a real goose, often stuffed with apples and carrots. So where did my father's version come from?
I decided, like my father before me, to try to recreate this dish from memory. I went to the local grocer for ingredients to stuff the squash. I came back with apples and "kebache" or Bulgarian meatballs. And, of course, I had leftover rice in the fridge.

This was going well: the squash was scooped, the meat prepared, the filling made.  I couldn't find any string that I could use to 'sew' the two halves together. Our house is full of wires, cords and tape, but no old fashion string. I settled for a simple ribbon, wrapped the whole thing in foil and hoped for the best.
I went back to the computer to see if I could find anything that would link Michaelmas with this dish.  (That is what we do these days, we only believe our memories if they can be found on the web.)  I found out the Michaelmas was harvest time, and apples and squash would be readily available. I found school menus for more traditional schools in England that offered dishes similar to this in the Michaelmas term. But the goose was always a goose, and never a squash.

 This will probably remain a mystery, unless someone else in my family can shed light on it.
Today felt like I was going back in time and cooking with my father again. Together we made up the recipe from whatever was available, and we created something that we remembered to be delicious.
I won't even mind when my boys come home and refuse to eat the 'goose'. It wouldn't have bothered their grandfather either. He was able to rise above rules and social customs to enjoy the life that had been given him.  He is missed and much loved.

Take Time and Pumpkins

In an effort to use local produce, I decided to bake with fresh pumpkin. Pumpkin Bread sounded like a good idea, and I was going to give it a try. The whole process took about 6 hours and gave me insight into why people use canned pumpkin instead.  Here is the time breakdown:

1/2 hour shopping for a pumpkin, more flour and ginger at the local market. The pumpkin was easy, but I had some difficulty deciphering the Cyrillic writing on the other two.
1/2 hour researching a recipe that actually used fresh pumpkin, and learning how to cook pumpkin.
1/2 hour cutting and scooping out the pumpkin. Some pumpkins are easier to cut than others, but all require a sharp knife and muscle.

1 hour baking the two halves at 175 degrees C.
1 hour cooling the pumpkin outside.
1/2 hour scooping and mashing the pumpkin from the skin. I don't have a mixer or food processor, so it was all by hand. The result didn't look nearly as smooth as the canned variety.
1/2 hour mixing up the ingredients for batter. The brown sugar I bought was very stubborn and wanted to stay in lumps.
1 1/2 hours baking the bread in a loaf pan. The finished product was edible and very moist!

I know you are thinking, "Who has 6 hours to make a loaf of pumpkin bread?" Well, I do, and I naturally didn't sit and watch the baking and cooling and more baking. I was able to do laundry, clean, and write a blog at the same time. Still...

I have one cookbook, The New Better Homes and Gardens: How We Cook Today. You will be surprised to find that it does not contain any recipes that use fresh pumpkin. Neither does the information section for cooking fresh vegetables even mention "pumpkin". I have to conclude that no one uses fresh pumpkin as a vegetable or dessert today. That must be because we either don't have time to cook, or don't want to be put through all that work when there are cans available. ( I must say that there are no cans of pumpkin available in Sofia that I know of.)
My apple pie made from scratch with fresh ingredients and lots of care, was certainly the best pie I have ever made, but then I haven't made many.

This is a case of having either money or time, but not both. If we are working full time we have money, but little time. Equally, when we are not working we have lots of time, but little to no money. Time is a precious commodity today. When you have it you have to choose how to spend it, don't waste it or fritter it away. I felt that my 6 hours were well spent because I created something, learned and tried something new. Many would disagree, and never be able conceive wasting 6 precious hours on pumpkin bread.
I have lots of pumpkin left over, so I am already looking up more recipes that use fresh pumpkin.   For some of you, that is yet another good reason to use canned pumpkin!

Wrapped Up in Feeling

I recently viewed an art exhibit by Christo and Jeanne-Claude. Christo is a Bulgarian born artist who dedicated his whole life to wrapping things in the environment with the help of his wife, Jeanne-Claude. Together they financed, planned and carried out many large-scale projects that temporarily changed the environment in some way. The exhibit was of photographs and detailed drafted plans of their works, which they sold to finance their bigger projects like wrapping monuments, building and bridges.
I was having a rough day, feeling let down and betrayed by fellow man. I tend to hide in a corner and lick my wounds in these situations, but had forced myself out to the City Gallery to see if the art would speak to me and change my mood. Obviously, I was not familiar with Christo's work.
The artists' early work consisted of the wrapping of different objects with different materials, and the covering of windows.  I didn't get it at all.

Why would the artist want to do this? What was his deeper meaning? It looked too simple.
The later projects were grander in nature, with walls made of oil barrels, huge inflated packages and wrapped monuments. Was he trying to hide beauty?  Wanting rather to have seen the objects unwrapped, I studied the drawings to catch a glimpse of the shapes and textures that had been covered.
I moved on to the photographs of the "Valley Curtain", the "Wrapped Coast", and the "Running Fence". I started to become more interested. The show included a video about how the artists achieved their goal of staking out a 40 km long veil in California. I was impressed by both the beauty and the sheer accomplishment of such a feat. And they took it all down 14 days later.

Some projects never got off the ground. They were either too big to get permission or 'pie in the sky'.
The artists always claimed there was no deeper meaning to their works, although many have read meanings into them. I was starting to myself.
When I came across some bodies wrapped in clear plastic it unnerved me. They needed to get out!  I wanted to get out. I had seen enough.
Walking home I thought about all those wrapped objects that needed to be unwrapped to be properly appreciated.  I way we respond to art says something about ourselves.
I later did look up the artists to see what else might explain their very original environmental artworks.  Since they were all temporarily displayed and then taken down, there are no existed works.  Christo said, " I think it takes much greater courage to create things to be gone than to create things that will remain." 

But he was wrong, his work does remain, in the form of photographs, prints, drawings and the impact they had, not on the environment, but on all who viewed his work.  If you get people to notice, something remains.