Full moon maunderings

In eight hours the moon will be full. It’s there now, riding high in the sky, fat and round and as full as makes no difference. I’ve always loved the light of the moon so I came out to sit in the moonbeam that was conveniently shining on my reading chair in the garden.

Its silver light bathes me in cold radiance, the breezes wrap me in shivery coils of gently moving air.  In the distance is a rushing sound. All is peace here in my garden.  I watch as gossamer wisps of cloud move across the face of it, none of them catching and holding, all slipping away, leaving her shining alone in the late night sky. I play tricks with my eyes, making two full moons and imagining being on another planet – one where two moons would be normal. I think about all the other full moons I have been witness to over my life, who I had been then and what I’d done. There are a surprising number of memories attached to full moons, some good, some great, and some just plain bad that I don’t want to talk about.

Here come the wispy veils again, covering the moon briefly so as to adorn her beauty with their softness.

I’ve been many people under the comfortingly cold and uncaring light of the full moon – I’ve been deliriously happy, whether high as a kite, or sober as a priest. I’ve been shattered, penitent, broken and despairing by the light of the full moon. Ive been hungry and been full, and I’ve found love under her light and what passed for it too.  The moon has seen much of what is important to me.

Full moons mark many significant moments in my life, it turns out. Right now it’s marking  a moment in which I feel entirely at peace in what has become my own garden in our house, eleven months since I arrived. This place has become my home. I smell the brine than comes right in from the North Sea on the wind and breathe deep. I reach inside myself and find one of the definitions of love, and smile as I move to comply with it.

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Sent from my iPad

Inmiddels…bloemenpracht

I’m working on a post about my friend’s visit, and hope to have it done before the next visitor shows up! But, it’s slow going and so, in the meanwhile…flowers!

We were at the garden centre yesterday and Carel turned to me and said with what I think was a certain dismay, “Over there – the most brightly colored flowers ever!” He was right, too. They really are, sporting a nearly embarrassing array of richly colored, wide blooms in an assortment of colors ranging from palest pink and peach to eye-searingly intense purple and hot pink, supported by fat little leaves in a cheerful mixture of red and green, covered with diamond-like crystals that glitter in the sun. And of course, I had to buy a flat of them, despite being uncertain what exactly I am going to do with the little darlings. According to the label they are ice-flowers. It’s an odd little plant, but!  I mean, how could I not buy plants with sparkles? They’re so beautiful! And, well, sparkles. What more do I need to say?

The rest of the garden is looking very happy and flowering energetically as well. This richly orange pansy is one of my favorite flowers:

This little blue guy – I don’t know what it it is called, but it’s terribly cute with its tiny blue florets!

One of the container plantings is looking like it will turn out just exactly as I has envisioned, which is always gratifying.

There is quite a bit more work to do on the garden, after which I will make more posts about it – there is a plan to make a small deck, add some seating, small tables and a tiny fountain, along with the obligatory barbecue. The Dutch are very, very big on barbecuing! Monday, though, I’m going back to the garden centre to return a couple of mistakes and pick up what I now know I need to finish off the planting part. It will look very cosy, I think. I can’t wait.

Niewe Tuin

Spring has well and truly sprung here in the Netherlands, to the palpable relief of the general population. At first you could not tell it by the temperatures, it remained gelid. But the flowers told me what should be happening, anyway…first the crocus came, the tender pale violet ones that are the most brave and flower alone, the vanguard for the rest, which sprawl out in richly colored patterns on the low hillocks of the Sterrebos.

They are everywhere, little lakes and ponds of color, surprise patches of purple,

yellow,

and white

in dark corners, in the medians, on sidewalks, along the train tracks, along the streets, in people’s gardens, all over the parks.

I love them. I plan to plant many of them, this fall. However, today was one of the first really fine days of Spring, and Carel and I had promised each other that we would tackle the garden this weekend if the weather permitted. Well, it didn’t just permit, it encouraged! We went to the garden center yesterday and bought some plants and pots to put them in, and today he took on the job of raking out all the old crap, cutting down the brambles…he basically did the whole cleanup job, bless his heart. I potted the new plants and did a lot of cleaning. This is the corner that gets the most sun, where I like to sit, before the cleanup.

and after!

This is the long side of the courtyard, along the house, taken from the far side

Here it is, afterward, taken from the opposite end:

And lastly the shadiest corner, over by the bedroom, before:

And woo, what a transformation!

I love it! It’s just so nice to be able to sit outside in a tidy space full of color and birdsong – there’s a blackbird who sings entrancingly for us each evening. I plan to add more plants but for now this will do nicely. Yay!

One of my favorite things about travel…

I have met some of the most interesting folks by way of being trapped with them in a metal tube, hurtling through the sky at terrifying speeds…for many boring hours. On my way back from Florida I had the great pleasure of being seated next to an Irish gentleman who was heading for Dublin, back to his home and family after a conference.

We naturally got to talking and sharing iPhone photo archives with each other, and I found out he he’s a chemist – part of a team that has invented a wondrous waterproofing substance – that he’s got a beautiful Thai wife (if I remember her country of origin correctly) who is also a chemist, and two daughters that would give any father joy. I bored him to tears with photos of the dog and Carel in exchange for being fascinated by his camera roll, and asked him if I could swipe a few of his photos for my blog. Being a nice guy, he said yes. I particularly liked these two that he took in Jordan:

He was telling me about their Easter tradition, which among other things involves decorating eggs, like any other one I’ve ever heard of, but the similarity stops there. His eggs are decorated to look like people, and then they are rolled down a hill. I asked him why and he said he had no earthly idea, but that’s how it is done in his village. Anyone know?

Steven, if you see this – it was really great to meet you. I hope you made your connecting flight safely; I did, though it was very close. Thanks for making those 3 hours a whole lot more fun than I had anticipated. Greetings to Teeny!

I also wanted to share a photo taken by Margot from AOL, on her way back from MAAWG. The lucky wretch got a front row seat to the last flight of the Discovery and was kind enough to share the image with me.

Of all the photos I’ve seen in the last few years about which I have said “Wow, I wish I had taken that!”, this one tops the list. Awesome shot, Margot. Thank you for sharing it!

Warm is goed.

Spring is springing, much to my regret. We haven’t had anything like what I call a winter, except for about 3 weeks in early December.  However, Spring does mean flowers, and anyone that knows me knows how I feel about flowers.

I must say, they grow some seriously weird things in the woods around these parts.

We went to Florida for a week. Granted, it was for work, but it was still Florida. Warm. Warm is nice. It may be Spring but it’s still freezing out, and the balmy low 80′s (21C) felt great.

My bare toes and I spent a little time lying on the “beach”, sharing the last rays of the sun with Ivo.

I was lucky enough to get two really lovely shots of the water in the slanting light.

We had hoped to see the last flight of the Discovery, but sadly our attempt was blocked by a huge cloud and all we saw was a little of the contrail long after she’d soared up into space. That was really very disappointing. Wah.  On the way toward our failed attempt to see the shuttle take off, though, I did get a shot of some dramatic sky and trees I like very much.

We had dinner with some FBI guys (They’re pretty much like any other guys. The movies lie.) at the California Grill on the 15th floor of the Contemporary Resort at Disney. We ate there twice, the second time minus the Feebs, and that time around we had the good fortune of being unable to get a table and thus having to eat at the bar where we were taken care of by a truly excellent bartender named Ray. This man is a master of his craft, and I had a really good time with him. When I asked for the French port with my dessert that was a suggested pairing on the menu, I caught a fleeting pained expression on his face, so I beckoned him back and asked him what he would recommend. He looked all happy and said he’d make me something, but wasn’t going to tell me what was in it until I’d tried it. If I didn’t like it, he’d give me something else. So the man whipped me up something which was utterly delicious and was in fact a much better choice with the molten chocolate cake I had selected for dessert.

I’m not sure I remember exactly what was in it, but it involved Hershey’s syrup making the stripes down the sides, Godiva liqueur, some vanilla liqueur, maybe Kahlua? cream, whiskey and God knows what else. It was wonderful. In the course of the discussion that led to the creation of this drink I mentioned I don’t like whiskey, and he flung his hands in the air and said in a despairing voice, “Forgive the girl, she knows not what she says.” So when he came back I challenged him to give me a whiskey I did like. He thought about it and said “Wait. I’ll get you something else to eat, the whiskey won’t go with that at all.”  Off he went and came back with a small dish of grated apple and cheese, and a couple of sips of whiskey. It wasn’t bad, but I much preferred the other drink. He was a great lot of fun to have around during a meal.

While walking through the Amsterdam airport, we spotted this odd pile of items.

We went home, to our newly painted house and a very happy dog. And the flowers. Did I mention the flowers?

Pasta met spullen, als gevraagd (as requested)

Turn the oven on very low, set out an oven-proof dish that will hold all your stuff, pasta included and then…Make Stuff. Once you have made Stuff, put it in the oven-dish, and cover it up. Here’s one version of the Stuff you can make to go in this.

Boil a bag or two of fresh pasta, or if you’re feeling adventurous, make your own. I’m generally way too lazy for that, but it’s unquestionably going to be yummier if you make your own. Well, if you’re any good at making pasta, anyway. When it’s cooked to just slightly less than the softness you prefer, drain it and toss it in a bowl with some butter or olive oil, just enough to coat it and keep it from sticking together. Put it in the covered oven dish. In the oven.

Sautee’ a pile of cut-up fresh mushrooms in butter or olive oil, salt and pepper, and maybe some white wine (or red, if you don’t mind purple mushrooms). I think the wine gives a lovely flavor so it I use it if I have some. Pour in the wine and cover the ‘shrooms, letting them simmer until tender. Remove the lid and raise the heat, cooking off the liquid. Using a slotted spoon, remove the mushrooms. Put them in the covered oven dish.

In the same pan, pour in a bunch of carrot rounds and peas. Cook the same way as the mushrooms, until the carrots attain the desired level of softness and the peas are tender. I like to brown the carrot slices a little, so I turn up the heat just toward the end. Put them in the covered oven dish.

While you’re doing all this, in a small pan slowly cook some really good bacon, sliced into lardons. If you’re Dutch, use the bacony-bits (spekreepjes) you can get at Albert Heijn. They’re awesome in this stuff. When the bacon is good and browned but not crumbly – cook it slowly! – remove it from the pan with a slotted spoon and then cook some diced onion in the bacon fat. Remove both items to the covered oven dish.

Cube some meat. I’ve tried chicken, Aimee has tried pork. I bet this would be completely fabulous with shrimp, or some filets mignon.  Cut into 1-2 inch cubes, and sautee in a stainless steel pain with some butter (Butter. Not olive oil, this time. Butter!), salt, pepper, and thyme. As a gauge: For two chicken breasts, I use about a level teaspoon of dried thyme. Sautee until nicely browned, and remove from pan, dividing it into whatever bowls you’re planning to serve your meal in. Turn the heat down, deglaze the pan with a generous amount of cognac, then pour in some heavy cream. If you’re making this for two people I’d use about half a cup. Lengthen it a little with some half and half, sour cream, yogurt, or creme fraiche. Stir in some mustard – a generous teaspoon at least, some salt and pepper, and turn up the heat, stirring constantly until the cream is thick, slow pouring, and richly brown. (Caveat: if your chicken didnt leave enough browny stuff on the bottom of the pan to turn the sauce brown, then add a little more mustard for flavor and carry on anyway). Salt and pepper to taste.

Take your pan out of the oven, and distribute pasta, bacon and vegetables over the chicken cubes, pour the cream sauce over the lot and toss it until everything is creamy and coated and delicious. This is not a particularly attractive looking meal, so I didn’t photograph it, but…be prepared to over-eat.

You can vary the Stuff any old way. If you’re low-carbing, you should skip the pasta and add more veggies, like broccoli and cauliflower. Zucchini. Sweet peppers. Use whatever veggies you have on hand – that’s how this was born:

..oO( what’s in the fridge that needs using up? )

Enjoy

Meer medische verschillen…

Today I had another positive medical adventure that provoked me to want to post some more about the differences I am experiencing between US and NL health care. It’s not a particularly happy topic, and the US situation is personally infuriating to many, including me. My perspective has changed somewhat, though, as I am now in the amazingly fortunate position of now being enraged on only behalf of my loved ones that suffer needlessly due to the soul-less policies that drive the medical industry in the United States.

The way it works here is if you need something particular, like a pain doctor,  you go to your GP and he sends a request to the specialist on your behalf. A week or two later you get a letter in the mail, inviting you to your appointment, informing you of who your doctor is, what is needed, etc.  I’ve noticed that the doctors here do not rush you. They take the time to ask a lot of questions, listen to what you have to say, discuss ideas, and then ask you what you think of your treatment plan. Yes, you really just read that. I have spent over an hour with each of my specialists, initially. Each of them specifically requested my ideas and eventual agreement to the approach to treatment. I remember reading something along the lines of the average time a US doctor spends with a patient is 10 minutes.

Readers, what are your experiences? Have you been rushed at your doctor? How badly? Did you ever complain? What happened, if so?

I had my first appointment with a physical therapy place today. It isn’t far from the house, a straight shot up the Hereweg, 8 mins walk.

This morning it was absolutely pouring – for the first time in a while! and the wind was very strong, force 8 on the Beaufort scale, so I walked much faster, blown along by the mad gusts of wind! When I arrived I had to decipher a sign on the door that said to push the red button, which I did and was buzzed in, then met by a smiling little guy who said “Welcome! You did not bring a bathrobe, did you?”

Ah, um…well, no, I had not! Apparently I needed one, though, so he gave me one to use for the visit. I’ll bring my own, next time.  He offered me a cup of tea, which I accepted, whereon he brought me a wooden box of assorted teas so I could choose the one I wished. I had melon, and it was very good. There were also little packets of biscuits, which I gladly helped myself to. They’re delicious: thin, crisp, buttery, a little spicy.

…Wait. Really?! Being offered – no, served! tea and biscuits while waiting for the doctor? This wasn’t a zillion Euro fancy place, it was a Dutch standard doctor’s office, absolutely plain by American measures, so the service wasn’t something that I was paying for. It was just a very nice thing they do. Wow.

After a little while I was escorted to meet my chiropractor and massage guy. I entered the room and one guy was sitting at a desk and another, older gentleman was standing. He reached out a hand and introduced himself as Jan, and indicated the man at the desk as “Dr. Peters”. I exchanged a few brief pleasantries with the doctor, beginning with the one I always get first: “Where are you from?” In my case this is not an easy question to answer, being a diplobrat and all. I asked him where he was from, as his English was truly superb. He gave me a big grin, pointed at his framed diplomas and said “Kansas!”

…Oh, my God. What were the odds? I cracked up.

So after a few pokes and prods here and there, Jared from Kansas tells me my pelvis is rotated very much out of place, the left side pushed forward and the right side correspondingly pushed back, and crushing a nerve center in the process. This makes perfect sense, given what I’ve been feeling over time. My question is why didn’t any of the doctors I saw in the US see this? I saw specialists! And what was I told? I was told to lose weight, as that would fix my problem. Obviously.

How many of you guys have been told that?

After these guys beat me up, Carel picked me up because it had started to rain like mad and we went to go pick up my bike! He bought me a lovely bicycle so that I can be independent and able to travel much further than on foot. It’s a women’s GazelleNL which has been customized with a carry rack on the front so that I can do the shopping and so on, and a suspension in the seat post to help protect my broken rear. They also installed a special seat we bought with a cutout where the tailbone is, and so today she was ready and now I have my own bike! I am so excited. This evening I did a trial of how what my idea for customizing it will turn out – I put a thin layer of oil on the rear fender and then drifted some opalescent sparkles onto it. It looks subtle in the dim light and I think it will be gorgeous in the sun.

Daisy has been biking with Carel every day that the weather permits it, 2-3km a day. I look forward to being able to take her too. Anyway, as we were out picking up the bike, I got a call from the doctor who will be doing the attempt to find the nerve to apply the block to, Monday. She was calling to see if I had any questions or concerns before the procedure. I was shocked. The doctor. Herself. Called me.  So, Monday afternoon, we take the first run at finding a fix for my spine problem.

Hope it works the first time…

Een revolutionair idee!

I have a backlog of roadtrip posts to do, but this one has been nagging at me – one of the most obvious cultural differences between the USA and The Netherlands…

Yup. Health care.

Pretty much everyone knows how much the US system sucks. It’s extortionately expensive, the system exists to keep people sick (that’s where the profits come in, of course), and getting adequate pain control is difficult or impossible. People who are dying of cancer are denied pain medication because they could become addicted. I leave it to my readers to ponder the utter stupidity of that idea.

Those of you who don’t know me well may need a little backstory on this: in October 2008, I injured my tailbone. Over the following two-plus years the pain became completely unmanageable, and my life became very small. I could no longer ride horses, which is my grand passion in life. Driving for even 10 minutes was enough to make me want to cry. I could not go to the office,  I couldn’t go hang out with friends or attend parties or dinners because the drive was impossible. I became very isolated. I went for weeks without human contact – if I saw anyone other than my cleaning ladies it was unusual. This did not contribute to my mental health in any positive way. The American doctors were no help at all. They tried a couple of things and then sort of told me to just live with it, and gave me a prescription for large doses of …Ibuprofen. Over time, compensating for this injury also started to screw up the muscles in my lower back and pelvic girdle, causing intense pain and occasional numbness going all the way down to my toes.  Then I packed up a three bedroom house without any help, handily finishing the job of completely destroying my lower back. When I got to the Netherlands in October, I had wheelchair assistance at the airport. I could not get out of bed without help. I could not tie my own shoes. I was effectively a cripple – and a depressed one at that. Chronic pain saps energy, both emotional and physical.

I have a number of friends with chronic illnesses that involve a lot of pain, and the gyrations and humiliations they endure to get even inadequate pain control enrage me.  They get accused of drug seeking, or are told to lose weight (which is a whole other rant, how doctors can’t see past fat and how the doctors themselves are to blame for the embiggening of the US population), or are prescribed medication that is completely useless for their needs. I was lucky, in a way – I had a 14 year relationship with my doctor, and he trusted me enough to give me some Percodan for the last 6 months before I left. It wasn’t nearly enough to do the job, and he didn’t give me much, but at least he gave me some. I saved it for “emergencies” – essentially the days when I literally could not stand up. I arrived in the Netherlands with faint hope of anything changing.

That being said, one reason I chose to move here because of the Dutch medical system – it is not run as a profit-generating business, and is predicated on the idea that people should be made better, not kept sick. They have some very skilled doctors here and I hoped that maybe I could find an actual solution to my problem. I did not, however, believe that I would be given any relief from the pain.

Well. I was wrong.

Carel found me a doctor that had studied in the UK so his English was likely to be better than most, and conveniently his practice is also quite close – less than a kilometer away. I went to see him and explained my issue. He wrote me a referral to the pain center and a prescription for some Tramadol, which I was already taking. After the pain people had a look at me, I went back to him for a re-assessment of my pain medication. You could literally have knocked me over with a feather when he gave me a prescription for Fentanyl. If you don’t feel like looking it up, it is a synthetic opiate, approximately 100 times stronger than morphine. Guess what? It works. I’m careful with it, because I don’t want to over-use it. I don’t use it while I am working, either. But! I have adequate pain control. I didn’t have to beg for it. He didnt dismiss me with a “lose weight”. I didn’t have to buy it off the street. I expressed my surprise when I visited him today, and he looked startled. “Well, you are in severe pain. Pain is damaging. Why should you have to add that damage to the problem you already have? That helps nothing.” I just stared at him.

Uh, yeah. You Americans, read that two or three times. Compassionate treatment apparently does exist. My visit to the pain center bears this out. The teaching hospital in which it is located is *huge* (check out how big the actual building is).  When I say “huge”, btw, I mean “huge” to the point of the interior having street names and addresses to help you find where you are going!

The Dutch subscribe to the idea that if people are not miserable, scared, and dehumanized, they will heal faster*, and so they designed the hospital accordingly. The doctors don’t rush you. They sit, and listen, and ask intelligent questions. It looks more like a mall or hotel than a hospital. From their website:

Buildings can make people ill, or have a healing effect. Research has shown that the hospital building affects the healing process. The exterior, the interior design, the atmosphere, the views, the use of color… all these affect the well-being of the patient. If patients are comfortable and positive then this is good for the healing process.

UMCG feels that patients have to be able to continue to participate in society. This is why the hospital has brought the outside world into its walls. The result is a city within the city, with a bookshop, a hairdresser, a chemist, a pharmacy, cafés, a travel agency and much more. There is even a supermarket. Patients who are capable of leaving their bed meet visitors, employees, students and local residents in the inner streets of the UMCG. This allows them to temporarily stop feeling like a patient.

Yup, it has restaurants…

fountains, plants, random art everywhere…

The patient rooms have balconies with nice seating, that overlook the atriums. That’s a fountain on the right side.

It doesn’t smell of fear and disinfectant. The only thing that really gave it away to me was the presence of a lot of people in white coats. I was staring around like a country bumpkin newly arrived in the big city. Unbelievable. And yes, I know things here are changing too, and not for the better, but this is light years ahead of the USA, still. And it doesn’t cost the earth, either. I am not afraid of going bankrupt due to my medical bills, which was a real fear in the USA. Yes, I pay high taxes. But hey, they’re used for something good, like helping people. Not for…oh, blowing up brown people. Grr.

Now if you will excuse me I am going to take some of my pain killer and go lie down for a while, and wish with all my heart that I could get this kind of help for my friends.

* Isn’t that the most revolutionary idea you have ever heard of? Isn’t it also as bleedingly obvious as the nose on your face? GET WITH THE PROGRAM, USA!

Romeo and Juliet, or “Ham and Daisy, a Love Story”

In June Carel and I went to Barcelona for MAAWG, he traveling from NL, me from the USA. We met there a few days early to spend some time together exploring this fabulous city, which we did. In the process, we discovered croquetas de jamon, which are croquettes made with the local ham, either Serrano or Iberico, which is the delicious Spanish take on the better-known Italian “prosciutto”. We absolutely fell in love with these scrumptious little bites, along with the various other ways of serving ham in Spain. Since then, “ham” has been a recurring theme in our relationship. Until recently, the dog was innocent of such decadent temptations…

…but then Carel came home with a ham, a couple weeks before Christmas. We put it in the laundry room, and closed the door. Thus began the Ham Saga. Every day she would go to Carel in his office, poke him in the elbow and moan and whine until he’d get up, then she’d lead him to the laundry room and poke the door with her nose, gazing expectantly at him. She did this several times a day every day, clearly thinking we were the stupidest humans ever created! How could we possibly fail to understand what she was telling us? THERE’S A HAM. A HAM!

At any rate, the stupid humans contrived to keep her away from the ham until the day we designated as “Christmas” (having spent the actual holiday with our families), when we opened the box it came in.

She was Very Interested!

Carel sliced some pieces of it.

…and finally, FINALLY!! <imagine triumphant flourish of music> ….Daisy got her ham.

I wish I could say “and then peace reigned across the land”, but it is not true. We put the ham outside for storage and we are now reminded regularly that THERE IS A HAM OUTSIDE. The remindings will continue until the ham is gone.

Happy New Year

…from the Dutch war zone. They have this tradition here that involves putting calcium carbide in big metal milk cans and then blowing the lids off. It’s REALLY loud, and sounds very much like mortar rounds thumping away in the distance.

We’ve just had cookies (some flat, for the old year, and some rolled up, for the new year) and rum punch, to be followed by a Meat Festival and then more explosions. The dog, she would like you to know, much prefers ham to explosions. She’s not a fan.

May your celebrations be safe and …explosive!