Ugg
Earlier this week several colleagues came in to town to prepare for a huge meeting. We met them at The Brussels Airport Sheraton to review the presentation.
Our VP from the States was hit hard by jet-lag and a bad, bumpy, flight over the Atlantic. She was as hungry as a bear too. As soon as we got to a reasonable agreement on what we were going to cover in the presentation, she was off - racing through the 70's-inspired lobby with shiny, brass railings and round white bulbs - to the nearest, fastest food.
Without looking at the menu, or considering the other options available in the hotel, she marched right in to the main restaurant and anchored herself to a table for 6 like she was a planting a stake in property.
We sat down and ages later, the waiter brought us our menus. The type of menus suggesting that the restaurant considers itself very posh indeed. They must have weighed 2 pounds each. Apparently, this restaurant is the
gourmet dining option in the hotel. Bien Sur.
You know the chef has it sort of wrong when there's not even one sound out of 6 people for at least 5 minutes in to reading the fancy, overdone carte. We were all a bit dumbstruck.
The descriptions were glaringly odd. If you tried your very best to write a mock posh menu, you couldn't do better than this one. We all agreed that the descriptions started normally and then went downhill or went wonky for a better term - really fast. Example: Medallions of roast pork on a bed of tarte apple confit with basil foam and pomegranate scented rice pudding. Or roasted lamb with figs, Madeira reduction and a concertina of wild mushrooms in a kumquat jus. Huh? Someone is trying waaay toooo haaard me thinks!
The other thing that was particularly odd was the that there was nothing under 20 euros on the menu. No wonder there was only one other occupied table in the place. The prices for everything: salad, starters and mains ranged from 20 - 37 euros. Outrageouss - especially for Belgium! It had better be good. Our VP said we couldn't change restaurants now as she had already stuffed two rolls in her cheeks and was sucking down her second bottled water.
I was firmly undecided when the waiter came to take the orders. In mid-sentence about a customer issue, I flipped to a page and saw the word quail. So I ordered it. I vaguely remembered it was around 25 euros.
When our food arrived. We stared at it for a full minute - well, except for the VP. (She pitch-forked her steak off the plate before the waiter got it settled on the table and I think she was almost about to eat it right off the tines). Overall our food looked like two-thirds of each order had been removed from the plate. They were tiny portions. With one exception. The lamb - a lamb shank that could easily have doubled for a club owned by a caveman named Ugg. It was enormous and wobbled on it's knuckly base between the fancy figs and mushroom sumthin's.
Mine. Well..Let me start with this. I don't think there was even 1 mouthful of food on my plate. Ok a slight exaggeration - there were at least 2 mouthfuls of grated beetroot. Half of a mouthful of quail. I almost couldn't eat it. It looked so vulnerable, like a cross between a large butterfly and a baby hummingbird that had landed on a live telephone wire after a summer storm and had been shocked of it's feathers.
I couldn't figure out how to approach this tiny,tiny,tiny thing. Maybe one can eat the bones...Um. No. I took baby nibbles with my front teeth and barely got enough food to chew 1 full rotation - not quite enough to taste the quail. The grated beetroot was fine - in that it tasted just like grated beetroot. That's it. Done. I considered the benefits of trying to eat the cayenne pepper that was dusted around the edge of the plate.
Where's the dessert menu?
Ugg - You know there's trouble when the waiter says 'Would you like to see the dessert trolley?'. 'Why yes, OoooOOOOO Yes, by Golly! A dessert trolley, How jolly!!'
As predicted, the trolley had various cakes molded into perfect rounds of that lightly-flavoured whipped cream stuff on cardboardy wafer-like tarte shells. A bowl of cut fruit, and of course something chocolatey called mousse. I went for the chocolatey. I am a chocolate mousse snob. The mousse should have a dense texture with granules of chocolate that melt on your tongue. The chocolate should be deep and serious, and not too sweet. This chocolate mousse tasted like whipped cream with chocolate aroma passing by. It was saved slightly by a generous portion of chocolate curls on top.
After dinner, I went home and made myself some toast. With butter and mixed red berry jam slathered on top. Yum
Master of The Universe
A man in Israel is giving me a very difficult time.
He is one of my customer contacts, but I think he was a bit put out because I didn't immediately recognize his position as being master of the universe. He is not involved with any customer sites we service and is merely in a communication position.
I got in early Monday morning to find an e-mail with a conf call date and bridge time for later that day. I was not aware that we had a conf call, but that is of no consequence to the 'master of the universe'. All shall make way for the 'master'...
The agenda said we were to discuss issues that escalated at the customer site over the weekend. I of course, panicked and called all of the sites and asked the internal staff what had gone wrong. No real answer, a few speculative ideas, but nothing earth-shattering.
When I got on the call with the 'master of the universe', I asked what the seriously escalated issues were. Guess what? He didn't know. He merely called a meeting to tell me to call the customer and follow-up with him. That's it. In order to prove his masterful mastering of this powerful universe, he told me in 8 different ways in the course of a 7 minute conf call to follow-up with the customer. Got it 'Master'. Understood 'Master'...Sorry you had to take the time to set up a conf call (even without knowing any information to talk about) in order to make sure I knew who was the 'master of the universe'.
I wouldn't let him have the satisfaction of playing this game - I wasn't in the mood. So he realized that I wasn't impressed with him or his impression of 'master of the universe' routine - this pissed him right off!!
Last week, in a conf call with the people that actually know what they are talking about, and are involved in the work, we all agreed to get a document to them by Friday Jan 20th.
In an 'I am Master of the Universe, I will make your life hell' way, today Mr. Israel pushed the due date up a day as it suited him better to receive it on Thursday - get this - mentioning in a very snide tone 'You do know we don't work on Fridays in Israel...you do know that don't you?'. Hmm. Now playing hard ball. Why yes, I do sir. In fact our whole point in getting it out on Friday is that everyone would have a day to review it before the conf call on Monday - And in fact because you work on Sunday, you have the time. Caught him again - he didn't like it.
He's like a dog with a bone. I get no less than 3 mails a day saying that 'it is due Thursday no later than noon', 'you will deliver Thursday no later than noon', 'it will be Thursday or else'.
So, I started copying his big big boss - a very reasonable, honest, nice man. I wondered what the real 'master of the universe' would do when he saw that some low-life, peon who doesn't have a clue is trying to impersonate him. I love this crap!! Oh I love men who have nothing to do but try to wield their power- especially when they have none! Ha
Oh well, I feel better. I am ignoring the guy - have been professional and nice and pleasant. He is boiling under his skin
Just spoke to the person who escalated the problem. He says he doesn't even know the fake Master of the Universe :-))
Food Love
I found a recipe in my latest Olive magazine that I feel like trying. It's an Indonesian beef dish called beef Rendang.
I went to the butcher on my evening walkies with Bunny Dog last night and ordered the beef shin required for the dish. Beef shin is not a common cut anymore so one has to order it ahead. I asked for the bones as well. I probably shouldn't have because I don't have a freezer to freeze anything like stock. And Bunny Dog can only do so much 'bone-zing' over a weekend you know. Oh well, I will figure it out.
I need to get a mortar and pestle for bruising and grinding the lemongrass. It's very strange that I don't have one already - I am sure I have made something requiring a mortar and pestle...love potions, poison...ha ha
I have fallen in food love with the picture of this dish in the magazine. I know that's a strange thing to say. But sometimes, there's a picture of food that is so powerful, I can't get it out of my mind. My first impression was that it was a bowlfull of shu mai pork dumplings with a spicy glaze - a mouthwatering dim sum choice that is my absolute favourite. After realizing it was not shu mai, I was intrigued. With the image, sensation, texture and taste of shu mai on my mind, I decided then and there to make this new dish.
I know that the real product may not look the same. Food Photographers are as skilled in their art as fashion photographers. They use even more subliminal messages too. Imagine having to capture in a photograph the thickness of a sauce, the viscosity, the buttery emulsion, the taste. To make you salivate, wonder of the texture on your tongue, even imagine the smell. MMMM. A suggestively placed roasted asparagus spear, a braised duck leg wrapped in a silkily sensuous sauce with Caramelised shallots lazing around in pools of the sauce begging to be eaten.
Food love.
OK - I need a person to play 'guinea pig' and taste test. My best friend is in Paris for the weekend. Another girlfriend is just back from 4 weeks in Senegal and is spending the weekend removing sand from her life, so no go. My Spanish friend eats like a bird and I need someone who relishes their food. I need a guy I think.
I need Someone who will ask what wine to bring. Someone to dance around me in the kitchen wondering when it will be ready. Someone who asks what I am doing each step of the way. Someone who will stick their head over the pot of moist beef with lemongrass, garlic, chilies, coconut milk and juices trying to inhale the aroma.
Someone who will fall in food love with me.
Bring back Beppe
I was thinking about Eastenders on my morning walk with Bunny Dog. How in the world did Eastenders end up being on prime-time BBC1 4 weeknights and one whole Sunday afternoon EVERY week? It's insane. What about a few cooking shows? Gosh, even re-runs of cooking programs would be better than Eastenders every night. - And I was - until VERY recently - a huge Eastenders fan - believe me - I know what's going on and have been glued to it since 2000. So, if I can't stand it on 4 nights a week, how does anyone who doesn't like it deal with it?
We can get the digital and cable stations that have all of the other BBC channels over here, but it costs an arm and a leg. And for the 4 channels I would actually want: 2 cooking channels and 2 more BBC ones, it's a bit too steep to pay for 65 music and video channels, 41 B-movie and violent crime stations, and 23 women's network (crap girlie fiction romantic mini-series) useless channels.
Anyway, now I know how the British public feels about their nationally run television service and what a gyp it is.
Ya ya - OK - you're dying to know. Why the change of heart? Why am I no longer a major Eastenders fan? For starters: How dare they knock off Dennis - so cheap to have him stabbed in the square on New Year's eve - with Sharon all teary (surprise surprise)!!. Dennis was - to put it mildly - scrummy!!! Here's what you do - bring back Beppe di Marco. He was the hottest thing ever to grace Albert Square. Get rid of Phil the 'pill', please 'off' Julie and Gus - who are the worst actors 'evah' 'brov'. Bring back Mel, have her fall in love with Beppe and have him chasing Dawn Swann. Please put Sharon out of her (and our misery). Oi - Give Billy a wonderful, sweet, stupid, kind girlfriend who won't kick him around like the rest of the Mitchels and Albert square. Have Pat get in an accident involving her tacky-assed earrings prompting her to change her ways and throw them away. You know I'm right - 'inchya'?
So, I have had enough. Give me some re-runs of Rick Stein on the beach cooking langoustines in white wine and reciting Elizabeth David. How about some Nigella padding down to the fridge in the middle of the night to whip up a snack of triple layered chocolate spongecake with freshly grated, toasted, coconut while innocently sucking the frosting from her fingertips. Show me an hour of Keith Floyd swaying to and fro in the galley of a sailing yacht off the coast of South Africa - inhaling red wine between adding each ingredient. I would even watch Delia Smith show me how to boil and egg over Eastenders right now.
But, there's no cooking shows on just now - Master Chef should be on soon - god I hope it's not with the idiot hosts from last year. Alas, that's not for several weeks...
What shall I do?....
There's always The Vic
Older chickens make better soup
Friday night, we started at The Hairy Canary. Then we went to the pub and finally to the Wild Geese. At 10 pm, the Wild Geese didn't even have enough people in to front the bar in one layer. It was dead. Assuming that since it was Friday, people were still eating, taking their time, getting their outfits just right or taking a 'disco nap' so they can stay up until the wee hours of the morning.
Peter, Mr. Mumbly, from the Hairy followed us to The Pub. Well, he followed Lara. Of course. But there was little to no spark that evening - even if I did play pool very well. By 10:30 I was well and truly tuckered out. Feeling a bit older than the crowd. Well, for good reason.
I went home and walked Bunny Dog, ate a frozen pizza to soak up the wine and went to bed.
Saturday woke me and Bunny Dog at 9:25 hurray! It's been ages since we slept that late! And Bunny Dog (BD) wasn't even whining to go out so we could lie in a bit. BD had this lazy attitude about him. He was upside down with his paws in the air yawning. Every once in a while he would drift off and his paws would tremble and shake. He would let out a low yowl and grr. Chasing Rabbits again in his sleep. Dreaming of Normandy and the vast dunes in front of the beach house. His domain, his fantasy, his dream. Miles of grassy, hilly, knobbly rabbit-infested dunes to fly through, sail over, speed, agility, determination. It's all in the chase, he's never even been close.
Finally up and out. Hardware store. More light bulbs. Grocery, more everything. And the butcher shop. A chicken. I got it in my head that I had to make chicken soup.
Chicken soup to fill the house with that homey, unmistakable aroma of chicken and celery and carrots. Soup to banish the last vestiges of the flu. Warm on a cold day. I got a huge tree-like bunch of celery, beautiful sweet carrots and big fresh yellow onions from the veg grocer down the street. I stopped in to my favourite butcher shop to get a chicken. They always give BD a handful of Prepare Americaine - hamburger meat. So he acts all cute and sweet and dances on his back legs to tease out ever larger lumps of burger meat. It works.
Oddly, I found myself singing 'Chicken in a pot, I've got a chicken in a pot' to no particular person or to no particular tune. Cooking puts me in such a great mood. I cooked it in my Le Creuset 7-quart blue braising pot. My favourite possession. After a couple of hours, I removed the chicken and veg to taste my lovely chicken stock. But it was boring, bland, flat and definitely not representative of the effort spent in making it.
I know! I'll call Mom. She'll know what happened. She listened intently as I took her step-by-step through the process and waited for an answer as to why my chicken soup was not so impressive. Her conclusion. The chicken was too young. 'Older chickens make better soup'.
There you have it. No wonder I can't make better soup :-))
Hit the Road Pat
Yesterday I blew off the Doctor. I just couldn't bear the thought of the two of us spending any more time together - that would have been about as exciting as watching a slug cross the patio in summertime.
I sent him a txt saying that I had made other plans for the weekend because I hadn't heard from him. True, even if I didn't try to contact him myself... In response, I got a very snippy text message saying he was 'relieved that he had only RESERVED the tickets and not actually paid for them as of yet'. He followed and ended with that ever-so-British f-off word 'cheers'. Well, gee. What tickets? For what? Who? where? How was I supposed to know that he had actually made plans? By ESP? And all by himself too! I mean, this is a guy who basically asked what it would take to go on a date with me? I responded - 'for a start -it would require that you actually ASK me on a date'. So, I guess I should have programmed him to actually tell me that he was planning a date with me and to let me know what day, time and all of the necessary information. What a weenie. Glad that's done and dusted.
I was very much in the mood for a cocktail - ok a glass of wine - I always think cocktails sound so appealing, then I get to a bar and can't decide what to order and end up with wine. Anyway, I was looking forward to a night out with my best friend Lara, trolling the expat scene looking for 'Mr. Right now'. But, she had a headache and opted to go home. She promised me she would be fine for Friday night. Hmm, am I up for a Friday?....
There's a totally different vibe in the pubs and clubs on Fridays. On Thursday's there's a frenzy to get to the pub after a long, hard day at work. There's an electricity in the air because there's always the possibility that you could have the best night of your life, whipping off your suit and kicking off your heels and dancing on the tables (you really can over here)throwing caution to the wind - 'so what if I have work in the morning?'. And the possibilities...Somehow, a one-nighter seems less intrusive on a Thursday - easier to wash away the smell and feel when you have to crawl out of bed at 6:30, shower and dress for work. Sooner to forget and move on - ready for a clean, unencumbered weekend- back to normal. 'Hit the road jack' attitude. We used to have a specific 'see ya' gesture - called the 'hit the road pat'. You do it by softly patting the guy on the shoulder twice and leaving your hand there with a very small rub after the second pat. This should be accompanied by a slightly patronizing look on the face meaning 'you go along now and take it easy young man' mixed with 'I'm done with you and am a very busy, important woman - sling your hook, mate'.
Friday nights are slow and deliberate. People often have long lingering dinners somewhere fun like Como Como, the tapas bar with a conveyor belt running through the restaurant and 100 different wines by the glass. Then people slowly drift in to the pubs still in their food comas, melting and meshing in to the crowd, assessing. There's no rush to drink and get home. No work in the morning. On a Friday, One-Nighters take on a whole new shape and form. The exciting or scary possibility that this person may want to linger in bed the next day. The exciting or scary possibility that they may be gone when you turn over at first light the next morning. Makes a person get a wee bit choicy.
So, instead of a Thursday night out. I stayed in with my Bunny Dog and ate Chinese food from the Blue Lilly. The Blue Lilly is pretty crappy, but I am addicted to their Peking Duck served with pancakes, scallion strips and dipping sauce. I can walk Bunny Dog over there and we hang about in the restaurant waiting for the take away to be ready. Bunny Dog greets all of the diners, checks under their tables for wayward morsels. The owner gives him a shrimp cracker. He always sniffs it, crumbles it in to 65 (or more) pieces and then doesn't eat it. Even though it's a crappy Chinese place, the people are nice and it's right across the street.
In the middle of wrapping a morsel of yum yum duck. My mobile phone buzzes. It's another text message from the Doctor. I ignore it. 'Hit the road!'
A man and woman were at a Chinese restaurant and the waiter put a covered pot in the middle of their table. Every few seconds the lid would rise a bit and the man could see two little beady eyes looking at him, then the lid would close again. This went on for several minutes and the alarmed man called the waiter over to their table.
The Man says:
'Waiter, there's something strange looking at me from that pot you put on the table'
The waiter says:
'You did order the Peeking Duck sir!'
A man in a bespoke suit and Dangerous Dog food
I am going out with my best friend Lara tonight. Thursdays are usually hot nights to go out in Brussels. All of the European Commission workers meet at their favourite watering holes and mingle. We go to several hot spots near Schuman and try to mix in. A lot of EU workers fly or train to their home countries Friday afternoon and Thursday is their big weekend night away from family, spouses, kids, responsibilities, true identities.
We usually start at Ralph's where the people-watching is the best. Ralph's happy hour draws the largest crowd of well bred, tall, tanned men in bespoke suits and fine cologne. Admittedly, most of them are snots and snobs, but that's ok. I like to look at their wavy hair smoothed down with expensive hair balms and admire their 'over the top for a 30 year-old' cuff-links. Italians, French, Spaniards, Londoners, Danes. Each surrounded by a gaggle of skinny blonde women from their offices desperately trying to look cool enough to be taken home for the night. Or at least get a few drinks for their efforts. 'Oui, Oui honey, you are an ultra skinny, fashionista, uber-hard-working European, bimbette and no-one else can even touch you. Please don't throw up in my BMW. Merci!
What I love about the place is the fact that Lara and I do nothing and get all the guys. It really irks these women who have been trying ever so hard!
If there is a man from Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria, or Turkey in the place, he can be found hovering around Lara, breathing hot, sweet, sticky breaths. She's like a homing device. She's absolutely gorgeous. Long, glossy, brown hair, deep brown eyes with long lashes and perfect skin, ruby lips and a beautiful smile. She is very tall, rubinesque, soft and feminine all over.
After dancing with the best looking guys in the joint. Lara and I get bored and hop a taxi over to The Wild Geese, The Pub or if we are in a sitting mood, The Hairy Canary. All three are within a block or two and it makes an easy second neighbourhood to hit.
The Geese: A huge meet, meat market. More of the North African Contingent and what seems to be the equivalent of factory seconds in terms of the dating scene. Great music, pick-up lines, crap drinks and usually uninhibited fun.
The Pub: Rugby team headquarters - verra nice - with some hard core drinkers in a loud bar with OK music and my forbidden fruit - a pool table. I have never approached this table with anything less than Minnesota Fats' confidence and never departed the table without my tail between my legs in utter and complete defeat. A star Forward from the Brussels Barbarians Rugby team consoled me once by saying the table was much shorter and the balls lighter than in the US. Thanks cutie. Lara sighs every time I run to the pool table and she hunkers down for some singles badminten against Rugby Scrum Halves with missing teeth and cabbage-y ears.
The Hairy Canary: An Irish pub for drinkin' and sittin'. Excellent music. Nice chit chat. Older, yet approachable men. Intelligent conversation to a point. As a permanent fixture - An attractive, Brit named Peter who does some sort of security around the commission - in a nice suit and tie. He mumbles alot and we all think he does something rather James Bond-ish. He is (of course) absolutely in love with Lara, but is too shy to talk to her. So he's always over my shoulder, asking me questions he could and should be putting directly to her.
So, those are the options for tonight. I have to go home and do something important first though. Last night I found a one and half inch plastic spear in Bunny Dog's freshly opened can of food. I will call the dog food company and let them know. I can't tell you what this may have done to my Jack Russell had he swallowed it. I think, no matter where we end up tonight, it will be on my mind.
Is it a 1 or a 2 day?
This morning, my alarm went off at 6:15. I hit it hard with the back of my hand and went back to sleep. I meant to hit snooze - sort of - but apparently I turned of off all together. I didn't wake until 7:20 and felt behind schedule before even lifting the duvet.
My dog was snuggled close to me because the radiator in my bedroom packed-up a while back and even after 'bleeding' it doesn't work. The term 'bleeding' the radiator seemed so dramatic I was excited - I was told a whoosh of air and steam would pour out and anything a from a trickle to a slow stream of water. Instead, when I unlocked the bolt I heard the very faintest whisper of noise, like a sigh from a 1 day-old baby dove and not a even the tiniest puff of steam. However, since it is stone cold and dead to me, I think the term 'bleeding' is appropriate - it' got nothing inside - lifeless.
I swear. I woke up in the middle of the night, stuck my head out of the covers and could see my breath - in the dark no less. Perhaps a dreamy hallucination. I felt as if my head was encased in an ice cap. I should have worn a hat to bed. It's amazing how the radiators everywhere else in the house can be cooking along steadily and not even remotely warm my bedroom. I have stone walls and the cold stays put - a benefit in the summer, a death sentence in winter.
Even before taking Bunny Dog for his morning walkies, I tore through the storage closets in the loft looking for the two small space heaters I once had. I am going crazy because I know they will mysteriously appear when I buy more of them.
If I had a real man in my life, I am sure he would make it his mission to fix the radiator. I guess 'real man' is not the right thing to say. I should say - if I had 'a man who was in a relationship with me to the point where I'd let him fiddle with me radiator'. You see, I've been on two meetings (not dates per se) with this Doctor who, up to now, has been - potentially - more than a friend. However, he's so boring, I can't exactly get excited about another date with him. He has described, at length, over the phone, what I should do to fix my radiator. However, he's just not savvy enough, or brave enough or cheeky enough - or - go on then - say it - interested enough - to offer to come over and fix it himself in a true act of manly bravery. No radiator Gladiator. Perhaps he won't be more then a friend. I want a man with a toolbelt and a plunger handy. And if they don't have a tool belt, at least someone who can improvise!
The Doctor: A 46 year-old Doctor working for a major Chemical company as their resident poison expert. British, living outside Brussels. Divorced, two boys. He's a lovely - man - who - speaks - very - deliberately - one - word - at - a - time. As if each and every thing out of his mouth has been analyzed, processed and should be delivered with such precision and reverence to make sure the receiver notes how intelligent and important the sender is. It just drives me mad and I have an inkling that it doesn't get better - I think he's got one other speed and it's slower.
Now my Welsh friend, he would have sorted it the second he got wind of the problem. I miss him so. He is such a good friend. He worked for the European Commission and was endlessly entertaining by relating the stupidity and bureaucracy at the EC. He was in the Fisheries department having been a Trawler Captain for many years in his past. He moved back to Wales to be near to his elderly father and spend more time with his 3 lovely daughters who live with his ex-wife near London. His long-term plan is to open a B&B in Ireland and play music. He plays guitar, occasionally lets his hair get too long and wears a braided copper bracelet to ward off arthritis - he says. I think it's a throwback to his college days when read English Literature, played in a band and wrote poetic lyrics. He should be coming back to visit soon. I can't wait to make him a special dinner. Definitely someone nice to cook for. Hmm.
On the way to the office, I contemplate whether it's a 1 or a 2 day. And I decide that it's a 2 day. I mean, I woke in the cold, was late and everything. So, I deserve 2 croissants. And I shall have them.
A Short Story
On New Year's Eve, I heard that a British friend of mine became engaged to be married. Normally I would be so happy for any friend getting engaged - it's such an amazing start to something - most likely beautiful. I should know, I have been engaged twice. Anyway, I should have been so happy for him. But there was one problem.
The problem is that he started dating her only 3 months ago. I don't think that's long enough. They've only been away together for two weekend trips and besides that, they know very little about one another. Maybe I am just a spoiled sport, but I think it's crazy. At least it's an engagement and not a shotgun wedding - although I have just heard that they want to get hitched in July - seems a bit soon to me - gee, I hope the Bride finds a nice Maternity gown! I do know that both of them want kids more than anything. Even scarier that they don't know one another.
I think I would be ok if I knew he had really known her for at least 6 months. If it weren't for the fact that he was dating me as recently as 4 months ago, I wouldn't have thought about it so much I guess. Oh, don't get all surprised. He and I were never going to be more than good friends - we established that from the start. He doesn't read nearly enough for my liking and whenever I discussed anything more complicated than how to cut up a cauliflower, he would tip his head to one side like my Jack Russell does when I say 'Time for Walkies'. He just didn't 'get' me at all. He's a good guy though and a sweetie who would never hurt someone so I guess I will try to be supportive - and pray like hell that they come to their senses and date for a while longer.
I met him through an ex-pats website here. I've met a lot of people that way. Brussels is a small community and the ex-pats group is well integrated and people know people so it feels safe. My original dog walker was selected through the site. He's a lovely Filipino American who married a Belgian woman. He was looking for some extra cash and he felt right at home with us - my being American and - pal-ing around with my ex partner who was a Brit raised in Southern Africa. He became a great friend and I was sad when he and his wife moved back to the states. They are expecting a baby soon. A girl.
Speaking of babies. I went home to DC for the holidays and had a chance to have a party and invite all of my friends and their kids to my parent's house for a post Christmas get-together. I fell in love with their kids all over again. They are all so amazing and for the first time, one of them made me really want kids - that's never happened before. I guess I got broody, but for sure, I got a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach talking to one of my friends kids and I could totally feel the gut wrenching desire to be part of a little life like that - to make a little life like that. It's the first time ever. And as the days pass, it's sort of going away. But I don't think it will go away completely.
I keep thinking about how lovely those kids are. And then I remind myself that the parents are all lovely people who have taken the time to get to really know one another, learn from each other, grow together, experience, share, contemplate, argue, stretch the boundaries, forgive one another, comfort and support each other and love. They have worked on creating strong families where it's possible to have happy, healthy, nurtured children.
And there's 'the rub' my newly engaged friend - there are no short cuts
