When I dream of places that really exist, instead of those weird surreal places I usually dream of, most often I dream of my old apartment building in Bonn where I lived for three years. It hardly ever looks like my apartment building, but I know that it is the one and I usually get slightly nostalgic after I woke up from those dreams.

However, last night I dreamt of the Citicorp building in New York. You might want to know that I spent a lot of time in the Citicorp building, either in the Barnes & Nobles or the waiting hall at the lower floor, so I guess it has a special place in my memory. Last night I was there with the husband, though I have absolutely no idea what we were doing there. I was all „I know my way around here“ and when he needed to go to the bathroom I knew we needed to go to the lower floor because that was where the bathrooms were (and probably still are). So we took the escalator down and landed right where the security guys always sat (and probably still sit), only they had lots and lots of bowls and plates with coins on them and they tried to tell us that we were supposed to donate a bit of money to whatever it was they were collection for.

Strangely enough they didn’t bother talking to us, but rather tried to show us what we were supposed to do. So they waved around the husband’s face with one of the bowls and indicated that he should take a coin and put it there. Needless to say we were confused and didn’t really understand what those scary guys wanted. It was really frustrating for both sides and I think my husband never really got to the bathroom. Luckily it was just a dream.

This is basically what went through my head while watching the first five minutes of this season’s Lost (over and over and over again):

Oh. My. God.

Despite being astonishingly good-looking – especially for her age – and therefore becoming my husband’s new object of desire¹, Nigella Lawson’s recipes are both amazingly easy and most of all ridiculously yummy. I believe that this is a miracle.

But it might also be that the small tube of vanilla extract that I bought in a small store in Salernes for 10 Euros, all the while thinking that I surely must be a crazy person spending 10 Euro for a few grams of vanilla powder, was one of the best things I ever purchased. All the muffins, cupcakes, cookies and cakes I now can flavor with it and add a hunch of vanilla flavor and making them oh-so-damn-tasty. I’m thrilled.

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¹ Oh, I don’t mind as long as he shows good taste.

Because I made this. Since I’ve been obsessing about food for quite some time now I figured it would only be consistent if I’d started a food blog.

So I’ve been browsing for pictures and messing with stylesheets and php and I finally got what I wanted. Well, I’m halfway there at least. Now it’s all the fiddling with the details.

The first post actually is my rant about yeast that I posted here a few days ago, so nothing new actually, but it fit and I needed a post to start with and test the design with. Now if you all go and compliment me on the lovely job I’ve done I’m pretty sure that’s all I need to go to bed happy.

Yes, that says it’s another nine months before the book’s actually released. I’d say that’s one heck of a pre-order there. But then again… I mean, we’re talking Clotilde’s first cook book here. How could I resist?

You know you’ve been obsessing for food too much when half your birthday presents are cookbooks or otherwise food related items.

I’ll tell you more once I am what you would call „awake“.

Somehow I dread the day when it will be impossible for me to not longer think of myself as a girl, but rather a woman.

I don’t feel like a woman. I like to spend lazy days on the couch, comfy under a blanket and watch TV. I like cute skirts and dresses. I use sparkly hair thingies, for Pete’s sake. And I don’t want to stop.

Can we just delay the woman-becoming-thing until I’m, you know, 50 or so. That’d be great, thanks.

Somehow I refuse to believe that yeast and I are not meant for each other. I always come back and try again. There’s a good relationship in there somewhere, we just haven’t found it yet. At least we respect each other, or at least I respect The Yeast. A lot. I believe yeast is a very powerful and versatile being and that once we get to know each other better we will be able to achieve a lot of culinary goals together.

For now though, there’s a lot of struggle and misunderstandings. Most of the times we make a compromise, like yesterday when I wanted to make bialys which, for those who just like me, have never heard of those things before, are kind of like bagels, only they don’t get boiled first and they don’t have a hole but are rather punched down in the middle, leaving a depression which is then sprinkled with a mixture of finely chopped onions and poppy seeds. They seem to be a pretty New Yorkish thing and since I consider myself pretty up to date with all things edible, I was a bit confused wondering why I had never heard of bialys before.

So, naturally, once I learned that bialys exist, I had to make some myself. It’s a simple yeast dough, which usually means that I spend all evening in the kitchen either tearing my hair out in despair or leaving dough traces all around. I swear there were little bits of yeast dough everywhere. I don’t know how this always happens, it just does, as my husband never tires of pointing out.

In my own defense I would like to add that I only had two recipes and they both were Americans one, meaning that I had to deal with converting all the measurements, which added to the hair-tearing-out part of this specific cooking experience.

On the plus side I’d like to say that the dough rose perfectly. I used a trick I had read somewhere and put it in the oven with the lights on. Apparently that’s a damn good place for yeast dough to rise and practically climb out of its bowl.

The next struggle came when I had to punch in that depression which is practically what makes a bialy a bialy. Yeast dough has its own will when it comes to shapes and stuff, so convincing it to please, PLEASE stay flat in the middle is not as easy as it sounds. Then came the onion mixture, then came the oven. I had the bialys in the oven for about 30 minutes until they were brown and crispy on top and then set them on the counter to cool down. Two were eaten right away and considered tasty, the rest was packed in freezer bags and then put in the freezer.

In the end, I felt like this was one more step towards a wonderful and enriching relationship. We’re not there yet, though. But I’m confident that one day we have learned so much from each other that baking with yeast will just be easy-breezy for me. That day will come. I am sure.

Just to make that clear and to avoid confusion: I am not nor have I ever been French. Unfortunately, might I add. But I have been a francophile as long as I can remember, possibly since the first time my parents took me there when I was three and the only thing I can remember is sitting in a black and brown „Ente“ (or „deux chevaux“ as I just learned) driving somewhere.

But nevertheless I managed to enjoy a four course bento box meal for lunch today. It’s not that hard, actually, but I was thrilled once I discovered that I don’t have to give up those marvelous eating habits I’m trying so hard to adapt.

The menu, if you’d like to call it so, went like this:

Entrée
Tomato and cucumber salad, seasoned with salt and coarsely ground pepper

Plat
Yesterday’s leftovers, which was Asian stirfry with rice

Fromage
One babybel cheese

Dessert
Japanese caramel flavored pocky sticks

Now I suppose that if I just try a little harder I’ll be able to enjoy a first class four course lunch at my desk every now and then.

Recently I’ve gone a bit crazy over cook books and magazines. I even dragged the husband to Draguignan under false pretenses, so that I could find a bookstore and get my very own copy of „Cantines„, a French cook book featuring food served in French school cafeterias interpreted by chefs. I read about it on Clothilde’s Chocolate & Zucchini, because she contributed to the book, sharing her memories of bi-flavored ice-cream.

Since then I have only managed to try out of one of the recipes, grated carrots with a coriander-lemongrass dressing. It was easier than I thought, although I think that I lost some calories grinding the dressing in my mortar. So, who says that cooking isn’t exhausting?

I also bought two cooking magazines, one of which I like so much I actually think about subscribing, since I don’t think I’ll find it anywhere around here.

Back in Germany, I spent a day in Cologne last Wednesday. My husband had a one-day job there and so I just came with him in the morning and set out for the city, having breakfast at Starbucks, and then spending two hours in the book store. At one point I ended up with five cook books stacked beside me, at least two of them very tempting, but chose to not buy anything at that point of the day.

I then met with Andreas for sushi lunch, after which we more or less aimlessly wandered around in search of a well-assorted kitchen supply store. We were more or less unsuccessful, finding two stores, but none that could satisfy my needs as recently self-proclaimed aspiring kitchen goddess. Whatever.

Of course, since I can never ever spent two hours in a book store without helplessly falling in love with at least one book, I returned to the book store later and bought a crime novel for the husband and Nigella Lawson’s „Feast“. Okay, now there’s a role model. I read about her in Anthony Bourdain’s „A Cook’s Tour“, got curious and rightly so. Feast is a little bit overwhelming, since most of the recipes are intended to be… well… part of a feast, so there’s a lot of turkey and roast meat, plus lots and lots of heavy cakes and stuff, but it looks and sounds all too yummy and great. Now, if I only had a roasting tin.

So there. I am addicted to cook books. I can’t stop browsing through them. I already put another Nigella book on my wishlist, because… HELLO?!? How can I not desperately want a book called „How To Be A Domestic Goddess“. Because, yes, that’s exactly what I need to learn.