I can’t stop thinking about those three girls that were found last week: Michelle Knight, Amanda Berry, and Gina DeJesus. Also on my mind is Mr Ramsey, the man who stepped forward and kicked in the door to free the girls. Friends, it is so important to step up when we’re called. Is it scary? Yes. Can it be dangerous? Yes. But what else is life for, than helping each other? I’m not by nature a hero. Once, when I was in my mid-twenties, I heard a man scream and groan next door. The sound was chilling, the urgency of the scream scraped up my spine, setting my every nerve on full alert. My gut reaction was to duck away from the window, for fear of being attacked or worse. Once on the floor, I called the police. They lit up the house next door in less than ten minutes. Nothing suspicious was found. No source ID’d for that scream. Their findings didn’t sit right to me, but I let it go because, surely, the …
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If I had to face life or death, I’d choose Swiss Fondue. Every. Single. Time. This decision is purely based on personal experience. A) I know that life gets better whenever I dunk hunks of rustic bread into ooey-gooey cheese. To support my case, I must call attention to a fictional character: Heidi (does this help me or hurt me?). She knows all things are better with melted cheese because, apparently, this is the only thing she eats at her grandfather’s house, on the flower dotted Alps… and she is happier there than anywhere else in the world B) If I’m faced with death, I’m willing to bet that, if I crack open a pot of fondue, Mr. Death would certainly realize they are no match for boozy cheese. I’d like to think that, as he slunk away, I’d toss him a cube of cheesy bread for the road. A peace offering of sorts. Two days ago I wrote about my near death experience in the Swiss Alps and how Fondue is one of the few comfort …
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Yes, I have a three year old daughter. No, I don’t hide a head of cauliflower in her mashed potatoes. I never slip zucchini in her pancakes when she’s not looking. And I refuse to bury carrots in her cake. I don’t cater to my daughter that way. Don’t get me wrong. On any old Monday, Ava can blow through a bowl of cauliflower mashed potatoes. On the weekend, she can annihilate a tower of zucchini pancakes before the early bird has had his breakfast. And, as of today, she loves carrot in cake as well as any Swiss child. But she knows the vegetables are there. We talk about it. Laugh about it. In our house, we revel in a real carrot’s gnarly glory. I point out the knots, the hairs, the fuzzy green top to Ava. She giggles, she scrunches up her nose, and then she chows down. When I happened upon this traditional Swiss Carrot Cake, I realized that, though Ava had enjoyed many a gnarly carrot, she had never eaten carrot …
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“Who doesn’t honor the Rappen isn’t worth the Franken” Swiss Proverb I’m not one to pass up a penny on the ground. If I were in Switzerland, I suppose I’d pick up a Rappen with the same thrifty care as any penny on our soil (Rappen are like Swiss Pennies). Apparently, I’m not alone. Enough Swiss people feel the same way, that they came up with the proverb at the top of this post: “Who doesn’t honor the Rappen isn’t worth the Franken” (100 Rappen make up a Franken). But this proverb isn’t really about money. This is about the seemingly unimportant details of our lives that we overlook in the hustle and bustle of day to day living. But these little details ARE important. So much so, that the Swiss tell us, if we don’t take the time to care for the small things in life, we aren’t worth the big. So what ‘Rappen’ have you been ignoring lately? Is it time to pick it up and give it some attention? And while we’re …
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The thing I remember most about Switzerland was skiing in the Alps. I remember, because I came ridiculously close to dying. I was a novice, skiing on a slope at least one level beyond my own . It was late afternoon and the snow that had melted slightly in the warm noonday sun had now begun to refreeze and harden. Suddenly, my skis caught in the ice and I could no longer get them to behave. Instead of turning with the rest of the skiers, I continued straight, towards a beautiful overlook. Beyond was the blue sky and a several hundred foot drop. The rounded edge of the overlook, which was only protected by a billowing piece of orange plastic netting, sped closer and closer. My skies continued to reject my inputs. I had a choice to face: throw myself down or go down. All the way down. So I threw myself backwards. The force of my descent caused my giant red and pink ski coat to fly up. The ice scraped along my back, leaving cuts and …
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“Det är skönare lyss till den sträng som brast än att aldrig spänna en båge.” “It is fairer to listen to the string that broke than to never strain a bow.” Verner von Heidenstam (Swedish Poet & Novelist) I slumped into my chair, put my head on my arms, and groaned. I’d spent hours making the Swedish princess cake, only to find out that the marzipan was too thin. Not only could I see the cake through the spring green coating, the marzipan began to crack as I struggled to stretch it over the cake. Whipped cream oozed thickly out of the seams and ripples. Back to the store it was, to find more marzipan, color it, and cover the cake anew. I also made the custard three times. And the cake batter three times. I huffed. I puffed. I had a storm cloud over my head. If this cake was a constant struggle, it was mostly because I wanted the recipe to work. I wanted it to be easy for you to follow in …
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I never thought I’d say it but here goes: “I’ve spent the large majority of my adulthood pining over meatballs.” Not just any meatballs, but Swedish meatballs. We used to eat them for lunch at my small high school in Luxembourg. On those days, I made sure to bring enough money to buy two portions. The bellyache was worth it. When made perfectly, Swedish Meatballs are tender, but do not fall apart, thanks to the perfect balance of breadcrumbs and cream. After a brisk sizzle and shake in butter, they brown up and fill the kitchen with the delicious scent of fried onions (thanks to the grated onion that’s been worked into the mix). Sneak a meatball from the pan, and you’ll discover the glory, complex flavor, thanks in great part to a blend of good quality meats (usually beef, pork, and veal, although many just use beef and pork). Somewhere in the background, there’s a ghost of something else. You might never figure it out, unless you were the one who made them: nutmeg. …
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They say this spring green dome from the 1930’s made with layers of sponge cake, raspberry jam, custard, and whipped cream is DIFFICULT. Everyone says so, in fact, except for the Swedes. Curious, right? I finally figured out why: Swedish folk have great recipes and three quarters of a century’s worth of tips and tricks up their sleeves. Like, ahem, pre-rolled marzipan and boxed custard. I even saw one Swedish video which used prepacked cake, already sliced in thirds. “We all start out as children.” This Swedish Proverb hints at what I learned, first hand, when making this cake: we must crawl before we can walk, we must be children before we are grown. Experience comes one step at a time. Considering I made each part of this cake 3 times, and messed it up terribly along the way… I thought you might benefit from my errors. So, do forgive me, but before we get into the recipe, I must tell you about the top five mistakes I made when making this cake, so you don’t do …
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“Att våga är att tappa fotfästet en stund, att inte våga är att förlora sig själv.” “To dare is to lose your foothold for a moment, to not dare is to lose yourself.” (Strom, 1981)* Oh, this week. This beautiful week of Swedish cooking. As with all the “big hitter” countries, I entered this week with trepidation. It wasn’t because of the entree. I knew I’d make Swedish meatballs from the moment I began this Adventure. No, the main reason I was a bundle of nerves had everything to do with a cake. A cake! I really wanted to make a Swedish Princess Cake, but I feared I’d screw it up. I asked you all on our Facebook Page, and so many of you voted that you wanted to see the real deal. Thank you for motivating me to go for it… for encouraging me to dare. The recipes and meal review will be posted throughout the week. Swedish Meatballs [Recipe] Beautiful, tiny meatballs made with pork and beef, seasoned with a grated onion, cream, and …
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While I haven’t been to Sweden, I have dated a Swede. And that just might be everything, ever. At least, when it comes to Swedish food. The one thing about dating a genuine Swede, is that you might begin to think you’re in Sweden for the duration of the relationship; their national pride and is that strong. Especially if he still lives with his mother. And why not? This is a stunning land, full of thick, verdant forests, airy, breathtaking mountains, and the crunch of snow. With a land this grand, no wonder the appetite is whetted. At the time Daniel and I were dating, back when we were impossibly young (18, if I remember correctly), he was, in fact living at home. One of my first dinners at his house involved steak tartar, with a raw egg cracked over the top. Pungent horseradish gratings were piled on the side. I’m not sure I impressed anyone with my squeamish hesitation, which resulted in my complete avoidance of the tartar. Breakfast, if I happened to …
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“The bee that is forced into the hive will not produce honey.” This Swazi proverb has me thinking about what I do and why. When I used to work a desk job, I had a palpable limit to my energy and creativity: it was called “5pm.” The old song “It’s five o’clock somewhere” was my quitting time rhyme. I was out that door faster than anyone else and, in fact, I was unproductively waiting for the end of the day even before five o’clock. But since I began cooking the world, something strange has happened. No longer am I watching the clock. No longer do I count the minutes down by the second. Instead, I have weeks like this one… our Swazi week … where I’m surrounded by the steam of the moistest corn bread I’ve ever had, reveling as I eat nearly an entire loaf by myself. Times when I fall into a tongue in cheek discussion with Mr Picky about how delicious beets are (I believe it, he doesn’t). Where Ava tries …
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Swaziland’s swooping slopes are dotted with crops; it is here that the Swazi grow the freshest produce, from sunshine yellow lemons, to buttery avocados. With farming of that caliber, it should come as no surprise that Swazi Salads are especially grand. This is not to say they are carefully composed salads. (Most things that are careful, aren’t nearly as delicious.) No, these are simple, heaped piles of chopped veggies. But you can get them on the side of even the most humble plate of beans, which counts for, well, everything. There’s no elaborate dressing, save, perhaps, a squeeze of lemon juice and fresh grated ginger. Croutons? Forget it. The crunch you seek comes from a handful of crushed peanuts and the crisp bite of a sharp radish. Feeling bold? Add minced hot peppers to that lemon juice. Fresher and brighter is the name of the game. So what’s in a Swazi Salad? Every time I looked up Swazi salads, I happened across some combination of avocado, lettuce, onion, and beets. Beets were everywhere: red heaped piles …
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