Somehow, I get the impression...

That this person from this week's Postsecret collection might be Belgian or a big fan of Belgium. Not exactly sure how I came to this conclusion. :::snicker::::

The Token

He glared at me with such anger, such disappointment; I could barely keep myself from bursting into tears. With sadness in his eyes, he walked away. Twelve years old, in tan corduroys, a plaid button-down shirt and worn loafers, this boy who’d been so kind to me, couldn’t look at me again. I’d betrayed his kindness. And I lied to him.

Arch was my friend.  He was a Mormon boy, tough as nails, sweeter and kinder than anyone else I knew. Me, I was lost, broken and mostly friendless. We couldn’t be more different if we tried, but we somehow managed to forge a friendship. I adored him.  Seventh grade me, in hand-me-downs, often teased, mostly ignored, loved Arch. But I also feared for him.

Arch was a bit sweet on me. Of course, I didn’t realize this then, when I was still too obtuse and young to know these things.  But later on, it came to me, far too late to figure it out; far too late to come out with the truth and to somehow try to erase that disappointment in his eyes that to this day still remains vivid in my memory.

There was this other boy, my mother’s friend’s son. Chris was the kid everyone made fun of, the kid that wore elastic-waist-band jeans and who was often found wedged bottom-first in the garbage can, thrown in there by bullies.  He was the kid nobody would help. They would walk by laughing. It was decided between mothers that we should be friends.  During that time, I was absent from school quite a bit. Chris’s mother offered for Chris to bring my books to my mother’s work so I could have them when I was home.  My locker combination was winkled out of me. My schoolwork followed me home to my dismay—not as if I ever really did anything about it anyway.

The locker combination. It was what caused everything.  It started with a Valentine’s day surprise. I opened my locker to find chocolates and a flower.  Arch was with me. I exclaimed my annoyance at it. I grumbled about Chris having my locker combination, and about Chris's mother colluding with him to make this gesture.  Arch was angry, but of course, I did not know this. All I did know was that during science class, it was announced that Arch was suspended. That he’d thrown Chris into a locker during gym and given him a concussion.

Sometime before then, Arch had given me a dried starfish. A little token. It was pretty cool. I kept it in a little box in my locker. I had showed it to Chris before the whole locker-incident. So it was inevitable that I came in one day after Chris’s face had been made black and blue, and opened my locker and found the little starfish crushed to bits. A little piece of it fell out when I picked up the box, unbeknownst to me at the time.

Arch was back in school by then. I didn’t want to tell him about the starfish, because he already got in trouble for attacking Chris. So I didn’t tell him.  But he found that little piece of starfish somewhere, and he came and stood before me and asked me about it. He thought I'd broken it, discarded it. He thought I didn't treasure it. I lied to him. “It’s fine,” I told him. “I took it home.”  He said he found a little broken leg, and I declared it couldn’t be the one he gave me. It was safe at home. The idea of him getting suspended again for his temper, for his ire against Chris, it was too scary.

He didn’t believe me, naturally. It was insulting to his intelligence, I know, but when you’re a kid you just grasp at straws. He never spoke to me again. I went to a Catholic intern school that next year and I don’t know where he ended up. There are days, when I wish I could send him a little starfish. An apology. I wish I could go back in time to tell him the truth so I could fix the disappointment in that boy’s eyes.

But what can you do. He’s a grown man now, somewhere, probably with a healthy crop of kids and a successful life, a stunning wife, and happily ensconced with the LDS somewhere in Utah.  A good soul—maybe with a bit of a temper issue, but he was a kid, it’s forgivable.  He probably doesn’t even remember the stupid starfish. Here *I* am, at forty, still finding myself sometimes lamenting that lost childhood friend. How pathetic is that? LOL.

To my friend Arch. I’m sorry I lied to you.  And I’m sorry for Chris too, wherever you are.

Chicon au gratin.

One of my favourite meals as a child was chicon au gratin.  Chicon (endives) are a Belgian staple when they're in season, and it's a huge crop there.  Endive is delicious served fresh, chopped into little pieces in a mayonnaise/lemon vinaigrette. It's the BEST salad to have with a rare tuna steak.  Mmm. But endives are also delicious cooked. They have a natural sweetness and bitterness that just works wonders with cheese and savory foods.

This dish is particularly good for our weight watchers regime because even with cheese sauce, it's surprisingly light.  I've learned to make a light cheese sauce without going through the effort of making a real béchamel which requires butter and flour. This meal amounts to about 14 points (if you use two medium potatoes per serving).  I reached 19 lbs this morning by the way. It's so exciting! I've gone down two sizes.  Anyway... I digress; here goes:


Start with four fresh endives. These California-grown endives are a bit anemic as endives go, but they'll do the trick. They can be a bit expensive, but you only need four for this recipe.

The first thing you are going to do is cut out a little cone out of the base. It will make them less bitter. It's something Tati taught me, so just do it. :)

Once you've done that, you want to put them in a pot and boil them until they turn a sage green and are softened. Not too long.

I actually took these out too soon, They were still a slight bit under cooked.  Anyway, quarter them lengthwise when they're properly cooked.

Now it's time to pull out the deli-style lean ham.  Cut super thin, it's 1 point for six slices! So you take a quarter of the endive and put it on the ham.  Roll it up like a taquito.

Put your little ham-rolls into a shallow baking dish.  Now for the sauce.  You can do it the proper way, béchamel and all or do it the weight-watchers way.  For a béchamel, you will heat a tablespoon of butter in a saucepan, and let it brown a bit.  Add in a tablespoon of flour and brown it, and then add the milk gradually while whisking.  Then you'd add in your cheese etc.  


I put 3/4 of a cup of 2% milk into a saucepan, and added some grated nutmeg, a little bit of salt and pepper.  

You want to use a good, firm gruyere.  Some domestic cheesemakers think that gruyere should be like a softer cheese, it should not.  It should be a firm cheese with a strong flavour. If you want a bit of a kick, add a little bit of parmesan. I used about a cup and a quarter (or 12 points on the scale) of grated gruyere.

Bring the milk to a simmer, and add in the grated cheese, whisking all the while.  I added a couple of teaspoons of corn-starch to thicken up the sauce, I confess.

Once you get the sauce where you want it, pour it over your little ham-rolls.

Sprinkle some cheese over it and huck it into the oven at 375°.  While that's cooking, take out four small/medium sized potatoes and cut them in two, and then quarter those.

Pop them into a pot with some water and a sprinkle of salt.

Boiled potatoes are a big staple in farm-country in Belgium. They are completely integral to the yumminess of this meal.  

When it's baked, broil it for a second to get a nice brown crust on the top.  Serve it up with your potatoes, sauce and a nice green salad.  Voila.  It's SO good, trust me.  Bon appétit.

The art of pony-riding

OMG… my sister posted this video on Facebook and it brought back flashbacks of a wonderful time. I laughed so hard thinking about the times when we-little-me enjoyed many of the same antics as the boy in this video. Learning to ride on a Shetland is a real life-lesson. But I guarantee that the little boy in this video is one hell of a horseman today. Ponies are the most singularly stubborn, devious and rotten creatures in the world! They will try to scrape you off on fences, they will do what you see Ed doing in this video, the quick-stop-head-drop, which throws the rider onto the neck and hopefully (if they’re not sticky) onto the ground… They will stop and roll you off, they will buck and kick you off, and they will run forward and then in a flash, veer off, leaving you still going forward. Ponies are evil. Penny (the one pictured in this post) was so round, that her little saddle would slide forward onto her shoulders and neck, and before we went out and got a crupper to secure it to her tail to prevent the sliding, she would constantly do the quick-stop-head-drop so I’d go sliding onto her neck and pitching forward with comic slowness into the dirt. Her favourite tactic to get me off was to veer into the center of the ring at a canter, stop short, and then try to roll me off. I had to learn to predict this behaviour and keep her on her feet.

Penny and her progeny, Eva.  Yes, we bred the bratty evil.  But luckily,
she was sold to another young victim by then.

Penny and Pinto, Viking and Ugly were all wonderful teachers. I fell so much, that falling doesn’t scare me (even when I’m now old and fat). They taught me to feel that particular tightening of the spine that occurs before your mount is about to do something rotten, and they taught me to not be a big baby about cuts, bruises and even the occasional bone fracture. Riding kids are tough little things… Riding mommies don’t go running fretfully into the riding ring when little Sally falls. Riding mommies purse their lips and say: “Go on, get back on… don’t let him get away with that!”

I rode my ponies everywhere. When we had them at home, I would ride them to see some friends whose family owned lots of land nearby, and we’d all hop on our ponies bareback and wander the countryside and invent adventures. I would play ‘Hobbits' at home when I was alone, and ride around our expansive back yard with its tunnels of rhododendrons and dark, sunken paths, and imagine I was on Middle-Earth, riding a pony on an adventure, I would ride my pony to the store to get a Kinder-Surprise chocolate egg and a cold Gini. I would ride my ponies to the traveling carnivals and all over town. Whenever things got rough at home, I would ride my pony away.

I started instructing ponyclub when I was about fourteen. It was really fun. Ponies are so much fun! I wish I could have one again.. I wish I could teach ponyclub again! I loved the little competitions with all these kids dressed in jods and blazers with their ponies all shiny and braided. The last pony I ever owned but was too big to ride was a pony named Lady. She was a Shetland/Welsh mix, and she was pitch black and beautiful. She was the first pony I trained to cart, and she was a perfect carting pony; unflappable and calm. I would drive that little carriage with her just about everywhere. I was training a young girl to ride shortly before we moved back to the US, and I trained her on my full-sized horse until she became comfortable, and then started letting her ride Lady. I let her ride Lady in a competition, in which she did fairly well in as a novice, and it was then that the parents and the little girl fell in love with Lady; and asked me to allow them to buy her. It took a lot to let her go.

Lady and I, giving rides to people at the Brussels American School gym track during the
1988 or 1989 July 4th celebration.

I have decided that if I am fortunate enough to get pregnant… that this will be the excuse to get a little squat, ornery Shetland again. I look forward to tiny saddles, and tiny bits, cruppers and itty bitty jodhpurs and paddock boots. I think it’s a wonderful thing for a child to do… and it’s full of great lessons. And you can’t put a value on the memories of growing up around these amazing creatures. Yeah, it can be dangerous. So is crossing the street, and you can’t get moments like that video above doing that.

Cow Tipping and Beer

I learned about cow-tipping from an Admiral’s son. Young Mr. Hogg… worked for a summer at our horse stable, helping clean stalls and feed horses and huck hay and straw. His dad showed up one day to the stable, elegant in his Navy whites, not even wincing when I walked up to him covered in hay-dust and dirt—he shook my hand and said: “good, hard, dirty work improves the soul…” He arranged with my mother for his son to work for us for the summer.

He spent the summer among my entourage of townie friends—teaching us all college drinking games, like quarters and a game that involved beer in ice-cube trays, straws and a race to each end… Our riding club had a bar with beers bottled and on tap. We were all regular imbibers of beer; Belgium is all about beer… hundreds of varieties; it was and still is the best thirst-killing beverage on hot summer days when you’re out throwing bales. My tolerance for drinking has faded a lot since those days, but back then, it was part of our lives, it was a large bottle of table beer during dinner, it was a pils between giving riding lessons… even though most of us were in our mid-to-late teens, we drank a lot. American kids though, they’d find themselves suddenly free beyond their dreams, and often got in trouble over-indulging in the lax drinking laws. With 20 Frank (25cent) beers being served at the town sport hall weekend parties, it was old hat for us. However, Jim had many of us drunker than we’d ever been—just because he introduced stupid games, and encouraged us to drink far in excess to what we would normally do. He was college frat boy in so many senses… something I’d never experienced until he came along.

He then told us about cow-tipping. None of us believed it of course. Jim took off to travel around Europe for a few weeks in a junky little car, and one night, the group of us decided we were going to try this cow tipping thing. We fueled up on Duvel beer and rode our mopeds and motorcycles down the road to one of the many farms around the stable, and a couple of the boys vanished over the fence. All us girls could hear in the darkness was their questionable attempt to be stealthy while snickering and stumbling. Then we heard a terrifying sounding snort, and then the horrified cries of the boys and their running flight followed by thundering cloven hooves. It was the cliché. The only denizen in the field was the biggest bull we’d ever seen. They flipped over the top wire of the fence in time to escape the groggy bull, and they lay there both moaning in pain from the barbed wire and laughing at the same time.

Two of our friends had decided to go to a club a couple of miles from the stable rather than tip cows. On our way back from our cow-tipping adventure, we ran into those two. They were staggering side by side up the street towards the stable dragging a street-sign complete with concrete ball still on the end. We put the street sign inside the stable gates, and then all piled into Johnny’s car (a tremendous feat) and drove to Leuven to have mussels at an all-night restaurant. All of those guys are on my mind today. Jim, of course… Johnny, Lekkes, Kristof, Bastin, Alain, Kurt, Cacahouette, Veerle… What fun we had together; a ragtag bunch of aimless crazy farmer kids with visions of tipping cows like Americans do. LOL.

[Illustration/Office Special = Don't know what inspired this little thing today. I used a sharpie and and ball-point pen. Mommy monster has a bottle of "Rarr Human Repellent" ostensibly to chase away the thing that is terrorizing the poor frightened baby monstie. Who knows. It's random as usual... that's how I roll. ;)

A Sunshine Day.

First and foremost, I'd like to say this... Is it good to reward bad behaviour? In my case, yes. It is. :)

The Hungarican Chick blog received its first blog award today. Imagine that! Not only in spite of my bi-polar rantings... but actually, because of them! The lovely Christine H says:

"There is so much to love here - She is witty and has lots of photos of her beautiful horse." I agree.. photos of my beautiful horse are award-worthy. Thanks Christine. ;)

Sunny is not exactly the best word to use when describing yours truly. But hey, I'll take whatever positive reinforcement I can get.

ANYWAYS....

Today I am waxing nostalgic. I heard someone say Ulysses today. The name Ulysses, thanks to a cheese-filled childhood cartoon series, is forever ruined for me. I instantly start singing "Ulysses.. Ulysseeees, soaring through all the galaxeeeeee, in search of earth... flying into the niiiiight..." Why? Well, I will reveal this in the first little movie below . I have decided to post some of the things I watched on television as a wee one... Just so you can further understand exactly what contributed to my questionable sanity levels (the whole Hungarian/Puerto Rican thing aside).

Ulysses--yes... a space version of the story. Telemachus is a stupid kid and there's a robot named Nono. Seriously. And yes, I watched this (this is the English version that was aired I *think* on BBC2 but I don't remember).


Candy Candy--a dramatic animé soap opera I was glued to:


These, from what I understand, also existed in the US; so some of you might know what a 'barbapappa' is.


Calimero was really popular. People would cover their cars in Calimero stickers... a little chick with half of his egg shell on his head:


I *know* these little Belgian guys made it to the US, along with Gargamel and his cat.


And lastly, just to creep you out a bit... :)


OMG, I almost forgot this one... It's the adventures of Tom Sawyer... "He's afraid of nothing, he's an American!" they sing. ::heheheh::


Captain Flame (Capitaine Flam!)


OMG, and Maya and Goldorak... I need to stop!




Enjoy. And remember...

Ulysses... Ulyseeeeeeees... Soarin' through the Galaxeeeeeeeee...... In search of earth... flying into the niiiiiiiiight...

OMG, and I forgot to mention... My long lost cousin Viktor actually friended me on Facebook today!

Happy Friday from the Leeuwens.

Meneer Leeuw en Vrouw of the United Kingdom of the Netherlands.

Happy Friday, rain, ponies and a sloppy office special

I can't draw today. This hideousness is the final product of several attempts to draw today. FAIL. I guess I should stick to writing. For now. Blech!

I'm feeling a bit more ... even today. I spent some quality Tag-time yesterday. I groomed him while gossiping with the barn-ladies... curried out his big stompy feet, brushed his thick, lush tail, combed out his golden mane... it was like tending to my very first and much-adored My Little Pony Applejack in Super-Size. I collected a huge number of those ponies well into my teens. They were swept away by time and life I suppose. What a bummer. They're worth some bucks nowadays--especially the originals.

Maybe I'll paint some apples on Tag's behind, and some white freckles on his face for Halloween next year.

Anyway... Tag was pretty bratty as usual in the grooming phase. I tie him up on the tie-bar by the entranceway where he can easily reach out his muzzle and assault just about anyone who walks by; which he did. He mugged every person that passed by, and got a few frustrated smacks on his muzzle; which really had no effect at all. I got him all geared up, and climbed onto his back, and we rode for about an hour solid, doing some wonderful things. He really is coming along with his training and I am so delighted by his energy. I never thought a draft like Tag could be light on his feet. He's learning his transition into canter very well, and is sustaining his canter, which is something he is beginning to understand. I felt so damned good after riding. I gave him something like nine carrots... okay, maybe a few less, but still, he was rewarded for his hard work. And for the whole time I was at the barn, not one negative thought entered my mind. Not one sad thought, not one bad memory. That horse gives me peace like nothing else in this world. I'm still bewildered as to why... but they've always done that for me. I think that my upbringing around horses has been the sole reason for my survival through childhood. I really do.

My Shetland pony Penny had a filly. I can't remember what they called the baby. My mother had just sold Penny to a neighbour for their little girl because I'd gotten too big for her. The new owner phoned to tell me to come right over the morning they discovered the new baby. Here I am freaking out with delight. OMG.. she was cute.

This is a type of Belgian Draft called a Brabant. And they say Tag's feet are big.. LOL! This is a stallion that lived next door to our house. That's my sister Anna with our Irish Setter Lily standing next to him. This big guy used to go crazy every time I rode my little pony by his paddock. He'd whinny in a deep bass neigh, and start galloping towards us, and I swear to you I could feel the ground shake. My poor pony mares were always terrified of him. Would wouldn't be? That's a tank you're looking at there. He was used to plough fields... yes, they still do that over there sometimes. :)

Some holiday reminiscing...

When I was little, my holidays were long and fruitful. Belgium has a strong tradition of celebration of the Christmas season. My family is Catholic, however far from practicing. But when I was a child, I was surrounded by people who were, and in part, I was able to participate in Catholic traditions. I would attend mass at huge stone cathedrals, and attend Christmas mass with family friends. Sometimes, I really miss those big old echoing churches and the formal, somber pageantry of Orthodox Catholic mass. Yeah, I'm not sure why... but I do.

On December 6 (I think Holland celebrates it on the 5th), in Belgium, children are lucky. If they put their shoes outside their door or by the fireplace or stove, they will receive gifts and treats from St. Nicholas. Namely , Sinterklaas’s helper does the delivering. He is known as the politically incorrect “Zwarte Piet”. It means “Black Pete”. From what I remember as a kid, he was St. Nicholas’s (Sinterklaas) assistant and he came up from Spain with St. Nicholas. The reason why he was black was because he had to go down so many chimneys… however his character has evolved into as sometimes blackface parody that often incites controversy. He has always been Sinterklaas’s assistant, not his slave, and he helps Sinterklaas deliver toys and tangerines and treats to all the children. From what I understand, he’s been multiplying lately too, and there are now more than one Piets helping Sinterklaas.

Our December 6 fare was usually tiny Milkana chocolate bars, Kinder-surprise eggs (mmmmm, I miss those!) a huge Speculaas (ginger type cookie) in the shape of Sinterklaas, a tangerine or Clementine, and some little toys and such. That is the first ‘reap’ of the season.

Then we got Christmas like everyone else, tree and all; in addition to the second ‘reap’ of toys and goodness.

Then on January 6, we got to celebrate Three Kings Day, and we’d set off in groups of three wearing robes and paper crowns, and badger neighbors for change and treats. Score! Third ‘reap’. We’d cap off Three Kings celebration with a King cake… which has a little bean, sometimes a coin. And whoever got the slice with the token got to wear the crown. Cake & candy. Megascore.

Such fun. :0) So yeah… it’s a long holiday over there. And kids get major score-age. I miss that crazy culture. One day, I'll tell you all about the Carnaval de Binche with the orange-hucking, feathery-headed Gilles... So cool. I can still hear the bells ringing. I miss Belgium so much sometimes it actually hurts.