Lilac Colored Glasses

Muffins are not a Belgian thing.

Neither are brownies.
But we sell both of those things at the coffee kiosk (despite the fact that the company is British and brownies/muffins aren’t British things either), so occasionally I have to explain what a brownie or muffin is.
More often the muffin, since the brownie is slowly creeping onto the shelves in supermarkets.
And sometimes this is a dilemma because terminology here for baked goods is different than in the U.S.

For instance, in America, we have specific names for everything. There are the blanket terms “baked goods” and “pastries” but within those categories there are specifics like cupcakes and pies and brownies and muffins and scones. Or danish and blintzes and croissants and eclairs.

Descriptions here are often much more broad. Pretty much everything baked that isn’t “brood” (bread) or “taart” (cake) is grouped under the category of “koek” (everything else). This includes all pastries, crunchy cookies, wafer cookies, etc.
So, if I’m running to the bakery for pastries? I’m going to get “koffiekoeken.” If I’m describing a brownie then I say “het is een soort zachte chocolade koek” (it’s a sort of soft chocolate “koek”). If I’m looking for cookies I look for “koekjes.” So how exactly does one describe a muffin? It’s not flat or thin or crunchy or made of puff pastry. It’s obviously not bread and it doesn’t fit the Belgian definition of cake which is much softer and creamier than what Americans call cake.

Interestingly enough, Belgians distinguish their own cake (taart) from the spongier version, which they call “cake”. Keeping all of this in mind, can you see how, when someone comes up and asks me if the muffins are “cakeskes” (little cakes), my first instinct is to say no. Because they aren’t cakes, dammit, they’re muffins! Muffins have bits of stuff in them and they’re considered acceptable as breakfast food and they don’t have icing.

But they’re baked and spongy and don’t fit into the bread or taart categories…

So in the end, I give up.

“Ja,” I say, “da’s zo een cakeske.” (Yes, that’s a little cake)

I’m not talking about the weather, which was warmish for a whole day a week or so ago and has dipped back down to irritatingly, but not quite freezing cold.

No, I’m talking about something else entirely.

See, I haven’t been blogging much about work (okay, I haven’t been blogging much about anything), but that’s sort of a good thing. It means no drama, no problems, no nothing. The worst thing I could say about it is that my knees have really started to constantly hurt from standing for hours, but that’s partially my fault for forgetting to take a five minute break to sit every couple hours or so. There are some interesting things that occur, like last week when we ran out of milk at 5:30 in the evening. All we could serve for the rest of the night was black coffee, milkshakes (made from a milkshake mix, not milk), and tea (but not the chai steamer, cause that’s made with milk). Talk about impotence…a coffee place with no milk.

And there have been a few encounters with shitty customers, although in all honesty I can only think of two right away and they were both yesterday. One guy was pissy cause his cappuccino was taking too long and he was yelling at me to hurry up and tried to grab his drink while I was putting a lid on it, so I tossed the lid at him and he slammed it down and stormed away. Hey, if you decide to get into a huge line during rush hour and ask for a drink that requires the barista to foam the milk (takes 5 minutes tops if there’s no spare foam around, which there will never be during rush hour), well, you’re fucking stupid. So don’t do it if you’re in a hurry. There was also a woman who ordered a coffee and a croissant (3€) and put a single euro down on the counter, insisting she’d already paid me the other two. Which was complete bullshit. The order was still on my register and no receipt had printed cause she hadn’t paid me yet. Although it is more interesting to argue with someone in Dutch as opposed to the mind numbing repetition of “milk or sugar? cocoa or cinnamon?”. I won that one though. The woman haughtily said she’d check her money to prove she’d paid (cause, like, I would have had a clue what she started out with in her wallet in the first place?) and afterwards she shut her face and gave me two more euros. Cause that’s what she owed me and her wallet must’ve proved it to her.

There have been two encounters that I know of where kids have made fun of me for speaking english (both times I was replying in English to coworkers who only speak english or prefer to speak english). The first time didn’t bother me much cause they were teenage girls and understood enough that I could be passive aggressive enough to embarass the one and my Dutch coworker told off the group of them. The second time was some bratty ten year old who never made eye contact and spoke in a fake voice and was, in general, an asshole. He was incredibly amused when I asked my Turkish colleague for a strawberry milkshake and basically stood there mocking me to his friend while I contemplated simply handing his money back and telling him to get his milkshake somewhere that met his language standards. That one bothered me more, though I really can’t say why, it just did.

Cause for me it’s still a really big accomplishment that I can speak a second language. Plus I can stumble through enough French to take a French speaking person’s order, and I’m picking up a bit in Spanish as well. In Belgium it’s no big deal to be multi-lingual, but for me it is and it’s hurtful to be mocked, even if it is by an insignificant little pest.

So anyway, through all of this, there are my coworkers*, all of whom I get along with and most of whom I really have fun with. And the hours are a little weird, but I don’t mind it so much, especially because I’m able to request the days I prefer to have off as long as I ask a few weeks ahead of time, so there is tons of flexibility. And I received my first full month’s pay yesterday and I’m definitely making about 300€ more a month than I was at the crèche.

But yesterday (yes, a lot happened yesterday customer interaction-wise) I received what I consider to be one of the best compliments I’ve gotten since I moved here. There was a man in his late sixties or maybe seventies who had ordered a cappuccino and was waiting patiently for his drink (which earned him major brownie points from me before h e even opened his mouth). I was trying to explain something to my Romanian colleague in English but ended up switching over to Dutch to finish the conversation and afterwards the customer said to me (in Dutch, of course), “You speak with perfect American English accent and a perfect Flemish accent. Where are you from?”
And I grinned and told him I was American and he said, “Your Flemish accent is perfect!”
And I thanked him and after he got his drink and walked away I did a little happy dance. It was one of the warmest little rays of sunshine I’ve ever had in Belgium.

*You will never read about my Belgian colleagues cause I have none. Apparently immigrants make the best coffee.

I was just downstairs, casually spreading some shrimp in dill sauce on a cracker when it occurred to me that my eating habits and preferences have definitely changed over the past two years. Some of it definitely has to do with availability, but some of it is definitely exposure to new things and taste combinations. Here are some comparisons I came up with off the top of my head.

What I snack on?
Then: Kettle Chips and Helluva Good French Onion Dip
Now: Shrimp in dill sauce and wheat crackers (usually KrispRolls)

What I miss the most: Triscuits with sharp cheddar cheese and spicy mustard

Soups in my pantry?
Then: Campbell’s Hearty Steak and Potato, Campbell’s Chicken and Wild Rice
Now: Campbell’s Leek Bisque with Scallops, Knorr’s Broccoli with Boursin

What I miss most: New England Clam Chowder

Late night munchies?
Then: Sheetz MTO or nachos grande
Now: Kebap or fries

What I miss the most: Sheetz, I do so miss Sheetz. SHEEEEETZ!!!!!

Morning pick me up?
Then: Grande non-fat caramel macchiato
Now: Koffie verkeerd (a.k.a a simple latte)

What I miss the most: The choice to have skim milk or a larger size

Favorite restaurant?
Then: Toss up between Red Lobster, Shogun and Don Pablos
Now: Alaturka (Turkish cuisine, probably best Turkish pizzas in Gent), Kastart (really awesome pasta place)

What I miss most: Affordable seafood and real Tex Mex food

Tipsy time?
Then: Margaritas, SoCo and cranberry with a twist of lime, Yuengling or Guinness
Now: Pinot des Charentes, Kir Royal, Rodenbach, Tripel Karmeliet

What I miss most: Frangelico

And don’t get me wrong, this is totally not my day to day diet, just some noticeably different tastes I’ve developed since moving here.

Once upon a time, in a land called Yerp, there two little boys named Frankie and Willy (actually, for this particular story, I guess I should call them Wouter and Jean-Pierre, but I’m the author and I’m American, so just go along with me, okay?).

Frankie and Willy were twin brothers, but they couldn’t be more different. Frankie was hard working and industrious. He worked long hours in the fields, took care of the crops and studied hard during lesson time. Willy was laid back and preferred traipsing about the wilderness, fishing and trapping muskrats to bring home for supper. He didn’t care too much for lessons, finding it much easier to laze about until the truancy officer eventually insisted he study a bit.

Frankie’s favorite color was gray, Willy’s was green.
Frankie’s favorite snack was pastry, Willy’s was sausage.
Frankie spoke a language spoken by few, Willy spoke a language spoken by many.
Frankie earned money by doing the daily chores, Willy nicked the money from Frankie’s piggy bank.

And the two were always fighting.

Frankie insisted that Willy should work harder around the homestead. He stomped his feet and told Willy that his language was important too, and that each brother should speak each other’s language.

Willy smirked and refused. Why should he work harder when he knew Frankie would just continue to do all the hard work himself? Why should he bother earning his own money when he knew Frankie would just continue to fill the piggy bank. And who wanted to speak Frankie’s language anyway? It was silly and little and hardly anyone else used it anyway.

The twins fought and fought, nearly coming to blows until their father, Russel (or Ruxelles, if this fairy tale isn’t already transparent enough), stepped in and negotiated a truce.
See, Russel was the head of a large pottery company called West Urn Yerp  and ever since he had been given his position, he had been under a lot of pressure from his boss to show that he could hold his company together. And how can a man be trusted to hold an entire company together if he can’t even control things in his own back yard?

So Russel, who was in the middle of his own identity crisis and was struggling with drinking problems and sinking ever deeper into a life of crime, decided to patch up the relationship between his sons in the easiest way possible.
He raised each of their allowances and promised them that, no matter what, they’d be treated equally, as long as they held hands and pretended to get along.

Willy, who was never one to ignore the insistent knocking of opportunity, grabbed hold of Frankie’s hand as tight as he could and promised he’d try harder. He even learned a bit of Frankie’s language (Frankie had already mastered Willy’s language long before, since that was the only way Willy would bother speaking to him) although he rarely bothered to speak it, since he knew Frankie already understood him well enough.
Frankie grudgingly held onto Willy’s hand as well, knowing that without Russel, he’d have a much harder time finding enough chores to do to earn money for his piggy bank.

And so it went. Frankie continued to work hard to earn money and learn new things while Willy continued to wander around and pluck the coins from his brother’s piggy bank. If Frankie complained, Russel threatened to stop giving him chores to earn his allowance. If Willy demanded too much, Russel scolded him a bit before patting him roughly on the head and heading down to the bar to join some of his sleazier friends for a round of drinks.

And so it continues to this very day, far far away in the land of Yerp. Frankie and Willy are still forced to hold hands, despite their constant squabbling while Russel grins falsely and continues to hold onto the day to day management of West Urn Yerp, ignoring the troubles in his own back yard.

The tale doesn’t end here, of course, for there is always the matter of trying to clear the wild Turkeys out of Frankie’s garden, or the inexplicable flow of Morro Cans into Willy’s forrest.
But the hour grows late and those are tales for another time.

The wedding plans are well on their way.

We were assigned our photographer from our wedding picture company, I’ve lost about a third of the weight I want to lose, CB is going to start looking for his suit this week, and my mother sent the wedding invitations out to the Belgian side of the family less than a week ago.

And for once, the cultural hiccup had nothing to do with me.

See, the thing you have to know about Belgian wedding receptions is that the eating is a major part of it.
Like, the main part of it.
Like, the first dance won’t start until midnight because up until that point, people are still eating.

There’s the opening drinkies and h’ors douevres (which is a bitch to spell and I will, from now on, use the Dutch word for them, which is hapjes, which is said more like HOP-yus, see, there, you learned some Dutch because this blog is nothing if not educational *snort*), followed by a three course sit down meal and rounded off with coffee, a dessert buffet and a wedding cake (you’ll hear about the cake another time, cause it’s worth telling you about). Often times, because the dancing lasts until 2 or 3 in the morning, people will also serve sandwiches or even fries with mayo very late into the evening.
Belgians reeeaallly like their food, especially when it’s food served in dinner party fashion.

Anyway, the important thing to remember here is that in Belgium, the couple chooses the menu for the reception and there are no options.

What we choose, you eat.

If you go into anafylactic shock due to the food containing shellfish or nuts, well, you’ll be in Belgium, so no one will bother to help you sue us. Tough shit.

But I digress.

The invitations to the American wedding/reception were received last night by all of CB’s attending relatives and more than half of them ended up calling CB’s mom all confused because why were there two lines and a list of all the courses under each line? Was it a typo? What were they supposed to do?

Because none of them has ever had a choice of what main course they eat at a wedding. We’re offering a choice of chicken, salmon or pasta as the main course but, not knowing they get a choice, when CB’s relatives saw the three options, they assumed each one was a course and had no clue why the meal was listed twice on each RSVP card. Cabanamom had no clue either, so she ended up calling CB who had to explain to her that no, there was no typo on our wedding invitations, but rather, each person had to write their name and then check off their meal choice. And all was right with the world.

Or at least it will be until the Belgian contingency finds out that our imported beer is Heineken.*

*To the average Belgian, Heineken is complete and total swill. It’s like Pabst Blue Ribbon or Milwaukee Best or pretty much any other beer you can think of that tastes like someone blew bubbles into toilet water.