The Art of Tidying Up

Banana flapjacks. I sort of improvised this recipe. I’ve never really understood the difference between pancakes and flapjacks, but I like to say “banana flapjacks” so that’s what I call them. Here’s how you make them: In a medium bowl, mix ¾ cup flour with almost 1-teaspoon baking powder. In another medium bowl mash 1 big banana and mix with ½ cup milk, a teaspoon of vanilla, and one egg. Add the wet ingredients to the dry ones; mix well and fry (in butter) on medium heat. I served the flapjacks with sliced banana, maple syrup and a light dusting of Saigon cinnamon. Since it’s Easter, we’re celebrating with a little extra sugar in the form of some Lindt chocolate on the side.

 If you think about it, life is quite full of nasty surprises. My first visit to the dentist comes to mind (thank goodness, dentists and their equipment are so much better nowadays), the sudden onset of tonsillitis is another, being jilted for the first time is a third, but the worst one to me is clutter. Why? Because it’s an endless, on-going issue, one that can be likened to Chinese water torture. And it seems no solution is in sight. It’s beyond me how clutter can build up with such expert speed; it’s always quicker than me. I can never catch up with the growing piles of paper, clothes, broken toys, and socks strewn around the house. When I have one area sort of cleared, it all starts again in another.

It’s enough to make me want to cry.

Enter Marie Kondo and her Japanese system of “tidying up”, which is what we might call organizing. I read her book The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up as if it were a detective story, I couldn’t put it down, that’s how excited it made me. And I’m not alone; actually I’m late to the party. If you’re following Kondo’s system (and people actually use her last name as a verb, they “kondo” their cookbooks and they “kondo” their music lists, google “Marie Kondo” and you’ll see for yourself), you need only “tidy up” once. She believes that if you do it once (and then follow up once a year at the most) you’ll discover that this kind of tidying will actually change your life. You will have a different life, because you won’t be bogged down by stuff you might not only not want, but probably also don’t love. And once you’re not bogged down by stuff, you’ll discover that there’s a whole new world out there, and you can pursue the life you always dreamed of. Doesn’t that sound exciting?

The secret is that Kondo gives you permission to throw out that which you do not love! Be it a blouse you paid $100 for or the instruction booklet to your digital camera, if you don’t love it out it goes. Because what good is the expensive blouse doing sitting in your closet? Admit it, if you never wear it you never will, don’t fall for “perhaps later when I’ve lost 5 lbs”. Just. Throw. It. Out. Same with the instructions to your camera, who ever reads that stuff anyway? It’s a thick and bulky booklet and where does one put it in the first place? Throw. It. Out. If you ever need instructions for your camera, you can get help through Internet, friends, or by just playing around with the camera yourself. The Christmas card from your daughter? It gave you all the joy and love in the world when you received it, now that love and joy is inside of you, and you can feel free to throw out the card. See?

This permission thing is a big thing with me. I am not at all a hoarder, not even by a long shot, but I do feel enormous guilt if I throw things out that I feel I paid a lot of money for or things that are of sentimental value. Kondo, however, tells me to not feel that way: We live in the here and now, and how often do you read the love letter that guy sent you in 9^th grade anyway? Keep a few things, but let the ones that don’t give you any joy hit the road.

Though I think the book is well worth the money, you don’t actually have to read it to become a Kondo-convert. There are plenty of detailed descriptions on how to start Kondoing your home and other areas in your life online. Be sure to check out the videos on youtube where Marie Kondo shows how to fold clothes Japanese style. Not only practical but also enormously attractive. Her underwear and sock drawer? Pristine, precise, and pretty. That’s how all socks should live when they aren’t on your feet.

The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up by Marie Kondo

The End of a Friendship

I, like many others I suspect, first found The Way of a Pilgrim through J.D. Salinger’s stories in Franny and Zooey. A few years ago, when things in my life didn’t look too good, this book meant a lot to me. It still does. It recounts a pilgrim’s journey across Russia and his wish to understand what it means to pray without ceasing (1 Thessalonians 5-17). Combined with this orange and banana smoothie it's a good way to start the Easter week.

I lost a friend last week. I watched it happen, too. I was “unfriended”, which I guess is, in social media, the same as being given the pink slip. It took me a bit by surprise, because it seemed such a teenagey thing to do: To “unfriend” someone. I didn’t think grown people did that. But it hurt. Of course it did. Although in reality it wasn’t all that unexpected.

“It doesn’t matter if it was a relationship or a friendship. When it ends your heart breaks,” someone wrote once. I think that’s true. Another friend told me: “But if a person does that to you, was she ever a true friend then?” I don’t know.

Cultural differences played a big part in this particular friendship. And though cultural differences can be so exciting and are – in the end – what I’m drawn to, they can make all partnerships difficult to navigate. It would have been so much easier with a friend from home, where people are allowed to argue and talk (even women) and where a person is allowed to have views and can speak up. But that’s Sweden and it is not OK to do so in all cultures or with all people. Some people shut you off if you say or do something they dislike. They exclude you. All of a sudden you walk down the street and they don’t say hello anymore, or they say hello in that silly, fake way. Which in turn, brings back memories from school, where groups of children – girls especially – would freeze someone out, ostracizing her, giving her the cold-shoulder. A vicious thing to do.

Here’s what I liked about my friend: We were both immigrants. We both felt, I guess, like Alice in Wonderland. It was easy to be with her. We both liked to walk. We discussed the eternal “Do you think you’ll always stay here, or do you think one day you’ll move back to your country?” We agreed on so many things (and disagreed on so many things too). She had style, I liked that. She had an eye for things. She was smart. 

I know what’s bound to happen now: Like a lawyer, I’m going to start building my case against her. I know she will also do that, if she hasn’t already begun. The case of why I am such a despicable person. Because I’m Swedish and speak out (when I should remain quiet and feminine), because injustices hurt me, because I’m cruel for questioning things that I feel are wrong. Because I’d rather discuss something – really discuss it – than be forced to enter this silent hell. The best way was to get rid of me. Simple and efficient.

Meanwhile, I would have liked it if she’d said:
“You hurt me with your outspokenness! I can’t stand how your tongue has to lash out at everything you feel is unfair. Why do you always behave like that?”
Then I could’ve explained myself.

But maybe friendships actually aren’t meant to last forever. Maybe they come with an invisible expiration date. The friends I’ve lost along the way, I’ve lost because I moved, we always moved around a lot, and distance and time slacken the tightest bonds, I swear. You move on, you meet new people, and you change. That’s life and I think that if friendships have to end, this is how they should go down. Easy as a sun about to set. No hard feelings. Those friendships are like the Victorian scraps I collected as a child, beautiful and sentimental and put to rest at their very finest hour.

I disagree with all those hip notions of getting rid of “toxic friendships”. It's supposed to be so Zen and so Buddha. I would love to see a Zen monk stop talking (if indeed they talk) to another Zen monk because he deems him "toxic".  It’s as if we’ve become so lazy that we don’t want to wrestle a bit to make things work. Compromise. Work around things. Accept each other as we are. It’s easy to walk away. It’s hard to stay. I view that in the same light as I view romantic relationships, which we tend to abandon at the first whiff of sourness.

“Get rid of him!”
“There’s plenty of fish in the sea.”
That sort of thing.

I was a bit shocked to see how many quotes there are out there about the end of friendships. Shocked perhaps because it’s never really happened to me before like this. Anyway, here are a few of them:

“Some people are going to leave, but that’s not the end of your story. That’s the end of their part in your story.”

“In the end we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”

“There will always be a ‘lie’ in believe, an ‘over’ in lover, an ‘end’ in friends, an ‘us’ in trust and an ‘if’ in life.”

8 Things Every Happy Woman Should Have

I’m so over winter now! But I will miss all the wonderful citrus fruit of the season. This orange freckly cake that I served for breakfast today is also great to use for French toast the day after. The recipe can be found here.

I found this list floating around Internet and thought it’d be a lighthearted way to end the week by sharing my take on it.

1. A go-to drink. I am not embarrassed to admit that I enjoy cheap, white wine on the sweeter side. I get headaches from red wine. But my husband does a mean gin and tonic, which is nice every once in a while. I never ever drink beer. I don’t really get beer.

2. A go-to Karaoke song. Umm…no! I don’t do Karaoke.

3. A uniform. I like dresses. And wide-legged pants. And skirts. But what I love is heels. I don’t care how tall you are, heels always look good. And besides, they don’t have to be that high. Also, platform heels and wedges are easier to manage.

4. A hairstylist they love. I used to have one in Brooklyn, and when he moved to California I nearly had a heart attack. Now, I go to Manjola at Nicholas’ Spa. She is not only a great stylist, she also tells great stories, and I am the kind of woman who loves a good story.

5. An exercise routine. I like swimming, but I don’t go to a pool on a regular basis. I suppose my all time favorite exercise is walking. I never tire of walking.

6. A hobby. Only one? Reading. Writing. Making things, such as baking. Drawing. Painting. Eating. Hanging with my family on a lazy Sunday. Does sleeping count?

7. A best friend. I have several: Helen, Camilla, Tatiana, Tina. I also have a secret best friend whom I have never met. Her name starts with an S and she may know more about me than anyone else.

8. A healthy sense of self. This took me an awfully long time, and many journeys to get to. I fiddled around for years not quite knowing who I was, where I belonged, and what I was supposed to do with myself. I know now. It’s OK to be good with words and bad at math. It’s OK to be pale and tall. And it’s absolutely OK to speak one’s mind. 

Have a wonderful weekend and see you again on Monday!

Memories from Mallorca

My Mallorcan bread, la ensaïmada, was flaky and wonderful and perfect with strong, black coffee this morning.

When I was very young, my family and I spent some time on the island of Mallorca in the Mediterranean. Later on, Mallorca was invaded by tourists, but in those days it was still quite untouched. Mallorca was my first visit to Europe outside of Scandinavia. It was my first taste of the Mediterranean, and an encounter of warmer latitudes that later far more exotic and tropical destinations have failed to live up to.

My mother claims that I was never actually inside the cathedral in Palma, known as La Seu, but I think she remembers incorrectly. I feel like I must have been there. La Seu sits sand-colored and majestic on top of a hill, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. It’s a splendid building, one that commands respect. I imagine the insides now, smoky of incense and heavy with prayers, and that a soft rustle of rosaries can be heard as well as an endless stream of Ave Marias, going up, up.

My memories from Mallorca are few but intense: I remember Chopin’s piano, a Pleyel, in the village of Valldemossa. I recall a finger pointing and a voice saying it had belonged to Chopin, and that he had been very sick on Mallorca. He had coughed blood. Later on, much later on, I traced Chopin’s heart to Warsaw where it had been smuggled in a jar of cognac, and where it still rests, enshrined in a pillar in the Holy Cross Church on Krakowskie Przedmieście in Warsaw. Chopin had come to Mallorca with his flamboyant mistress George Sand in hopes of finding a cure in the warm sun. Instead they found an island enveloped in wintery gloom. It was in Palma de Mallorca that Chopin got his death sentence: The TB diagnosis. But it was also on Mallorca, on that Pleyel in Valldemossa, that he managed to finish composing his famous Raindrop Prelude.

I remember Sa Foradada, a rock formation that shoots out into the sea and the crashing waves, and in which a dramatic 10 meter (or 32 feet) diameter hole can be seen from far away. I stood and looked down at it and someone, probably a guide, said:

“A truck could drive through it.”

I remember Geraldine Chaplin eating at a table close to ours in a fish restaurant by the harbor. Well, I remember the fish restaurant with its wet floor and high ceiling and I recall the enormous fish tank from which you would choose your dinner. My parents remember Geraldine Chaplin, a big star in those days, and I have created a memory of her from them telling me. I see her in my mind’s eye, sitting alone in the blue light, her face a pale oval: Sad and beautiful. And a flock of waiters criss-crossing around.

My last memory of Mallorca has to do with the preparations for the feast of Santa Catalina: Les Festes de la Beata. Catalina Thomàs was a Mallorcan  in the 16^th century, who at an early age had conversations with God. She was canonized in 1930. I’d never heard of saints before nor had I ever heard of any hagiographies, and I was very moved by her story, which I prompted my mother to repeat over and over again.

In an effort to tease out more memories from Mallorca, I decided to bake a traditional Mallorcan bread last night, called la ensaïmada llisa. The real recipe calls for lard, but I substituted it for butter. I also cut corners in how I made it, as traditional ensaïmadas are quite time-consuming to bake. In the end what I did, was this:

Ingredients

6 oz lukewarm milk

2 teaspoons dry yeast

3 cups flour

2/3 of a cup superfine sugar

2 eggs and 1 egg yolk

150 gram butter

Confectioner’s sugar

1. Stir milk and yeast in a small bowl until the yeast has dissolved. Wait for it to foam (4- minutes).
2. Combine flour, sugar, eggs and yolk with the yeast mixture. Knead the dough until soft and elastic. Cover with plastic wrap and let rise for 45 minutes.
3. Roll out the dough on a well-floured table. Make a large rectangle out of it, as thin as you can. On top of this, spread the softened butter. I used my hands to spread the butter. Then roll into a long, narrow cylinder. I pulled it a bit to thin it out. Coil it. Place a large upturned bowl on top and set aside to rise for another 1.5-2 hours.
4. Pre-heat to 356F. Bake until golden (I had to put some aluminum foil on top towards the end so as not to burn the ensaïmada) about 20-25 minutes. Dust with confectioner’s sugar.

Mallorca.

My Bad

Apple pancakes: 2 eggs, 1.5 cups milk, 2 cups flour, 1 teaspoon baking powder, a pinch of salt, ¼ cup of sugar, 3 grated Granny Smith apples, 1 Tablespoon cinnamon, a pinch of nutmeg, and about half a teaspoon of vanilla. Mix all ingredients and fry on low to medium heat. I found that I had to pat these down quite a bit or the center wouldn't cook properly.

I thought I’d pick up today where I left off yesterday, when I talked about nobody being perfect. I think most of us are terribly aware of our own imperfections. I know I am. I blush a little just thinking how out in the open all my personality “quirks” are.

Without doubt, my biggest fault is being impatient. This was sort of fine until my son was born, and I discovered that there are others out there who can and will put a brake on how fast and efficient I believe things should run. And that these “others” are babies in diapers. Good Lord! Fast forward seven years and it’s safe to say I still have my “moments”, where I feel I’m about to explode because things cannot happen the way I want/need them to happen now.

I don’t suffer fools very easily. This of course is tied to my general lack of patience. I dump my discontent on my husband when he comes home. I sit and stew over something and then – boom! – as I hear his keys in the door, I unload before he’s even had the time to remove his jacket.

“Imagine! So-and-so doesn’t know where Europe is located!”

“You won’t believe the woman at the bank, she took foreverrr!”

“Wait until I tell you what X let her kid get away with. The audacity!”

I have tried many times to put a lid on this. It’s very ugly.

Another baddie of mine is that I wear my heart on my sleeve. This is probably residual from my acting days, where I was told to not be embarrassed of my emotions. A friend of mine, whom I hadn’t met in many, many years, revealed to me that her son (who looks exactly like her) is in fact adopted from Russia. She shared her adoption story with me and I nearly broke down in tears over my sandwich. I’m very emotional. I often cry in church. Actually, I can work myself into tears just walking down the street.

I have severe time management issues. In Sweden, people are very punctual, and I used to be, too, but here in the States I’ve let myself go completely and I am now a veritable time slob. I fiddle around until the very last minute, at which I bolt through the door.

I can spend an inordinate amount of time reading or thinking. I am a thinky kind of person. This may sound good on paper, but in reality it translates to a sink full of dishes and a mountain of laundry. This may be filed under “Irresponsible” and “Negligent”. I may be agile mentally but when it comes to common chores, I’m horrible.

But my absolute worst fault is that I might secretly like my character flaws. This isn’t easy to admit, and the thought is so novel and kind of shocking that I am not sure I will (dare to) agree with it in the long run. But isn’t that why we don’t change more? We make excuses for our faults; we even cover them up as good personality traits. As if impatience were a sign of being smart or showing your emotions openly made you a more empathetic person.

This leads me to dispel of some faults I know I am not in possession of. Just to make myself feel a tiny bit better. I’m not vain; I am not a high-maintenance kind of woman. When I was younger I slept, penniless, in the most despicable rooms in the lousiest of hostels. I could do the same today. It doesn’t bother me. I’d rather die of food poisoning than complain in a restaurant. I have very little interest in money. I am not capricious nor am I envious.

Hopefully somehow, the good makes up for the bad. 

Relationship Stuff

Cucumber sandwiches and tea for breakfast today. Simple yet somehow elegant.

My husband comes from Colombia, and I am from Sweden. Sometimes (quite often actually) I think Colombia must be the polar opposite of Sweden. It goes without saying that one country is tropical and Latin American, while the other is located close to Santa Claus’ whereabouts. People are different. We can try all we want to not generalize, but we are different and where we come from (country, politics, and, yes, geographic location) does have a hand in shaping who we are, the way we think, the way we view the world.

If my husband hadn’t been as un-Colombian as he is, and if I hadn’t been as un-Swedish as I am, our relationship would have never worked. Last year in Sweden, a friend said, upon hearing about my Colombian better half:
“Ooo, does he dance and stuff? I mean, don’t they party a whole lot there?”

When I told my husband, we both had a good laugh. Nothing could be farther from the truth in his case.

In reality, my husband is more Swedish than a Bergman movie. He’s very quiet and not very macho either. I, on the other side, don’t think of myself as very Swedish. I’m not quiet, I am fairly religious, and I most certainly don’t party like it’s 1999 every Friday, like many of my compatriots seem to do. All those crazy things you’ve heard about Swedes, much of which involve nudity? That’s so not me!

But there are areas in which my husband and I disagree to a point where I can feel my blood boil.

Nothing makes me angrier than social injustices (homophobia, classism, sexism, racism – you name it). Unfortunately, the way I react to hearing or reading about it is that I get very upset and work myself into a rant. The way my husband, on the other hand, gets upset, is by turning completely silent. And silence, to me in my agitated state, is like a slap in the face. My husband’s silence when I’m upset, drives me insane. I see it as failure to realize the enormity of the issue at hand. It makes me feel as if he doesn’t have my back.

“But screaming and crying isn’t going to make it any better,” he says stoically.

Or worse:

“You’re beating a dead horse, Eva.”

I hate that last one. What I want from him is a sign that he agrees with me (which I know he does), and to me that sign has to be him behaving exactly like me.

How silly is that? Yet, it happens. And keeps on happening.

Both my husband and I come from broken families. When our son was born, I swore I would bend over backwards to give him a family that stays together. So far, that hasn’t been easy. But then again, what of importance ever is? Traditionally in my husband’s country, women take care of children and housework. Traditionally in Sweden, this is a biggie that has broken many a couple: Equal share of household duties or else! You see now what I mean when I said that where we’re from shapes us?

Initial attraction is one thing, staying is another story. One friend of mine has been married for 28 years. I asked her the other day how she felt about that, and she said:
“It’s been too long!”

But she smiled when she said it. The only complaint she has is that her husband won’t clean up after himself in the kitchen after he makes bacon.

My husband and I are navigating unchartered waters since we don’t know what makes a family work. We have no blueprint of a functioning family. We only know that we want this to work. I’ve learnt a few things, that the principle isn’t always the point, is an important one. For me, it’s better to do the dishes than to complain that my husband doesn’t do them. He, on the other hand, always picks up my favorite wine. On a weekend day, when I am tired, he takes our son out to the playground to play ball. I cook dinner. He throws his clothes everywhere; I pick them up (sometimes). He teaches our son time, because he knows I’m too impatient to do it. And so on. Is it perfect? Far from it. But I also know this: It will never be. The perfect person doesn’t exist. Nor does the perfect relationship.

A favorite homemade Valentine from years ago.

Ballet Lives

Choura, Prima Ballerina Alexandra Danilova’s exciting autobiography about her early life in Imperial Russia, her escape from Soviet Russia, and her subsequent career in the West. Today’s juice: A blend of oranges, grapefruit, and golden beet.

I’m not really a balletomane, I’m much too biased to one ballet company – the New York City Ballet – to be one. And these days, when I’m living outside the city and have a young son, I rarely make it to see even them. In lieu of seeing live performances however, I’ve picked up the habit of reading dancers’ autobiographies. My favorites are Choura and Holding On to the Air. Both books were written by Balanchine ballerinas, the first one by Alexandra “Choura” Danilova and the second by Suzanne Farrell. Danilova and Farrell’s careers can be said to have bookended Balanchine’s: Danilova’s at the beginning of it, and Farrell’s at the tail end.

I’m too young to have seen the New York City Ballet when its creator and main choreographer Balanchine was still the director. When I came to the States, he had passed on and been replaced by Peter Martins. Danilova too, was no longer alive, and Suzanne Farrell had retired. There was a new collection of dancers, even though the same ballets were being performed. Dance critics were not all that impressed, but I had nothing with which to compare what I saw. To me, the New York City Ballet was, and is, as exciting as it gets. And it is all because of George Balanchine (1904-1983), one of the most prolific choreographers of the 21^st century, and the one who gave birth to the “neoclassical style” that is so appealing in its mix of the classical and the modern.

Balanchine’s choreography is deeply satisfying to me. Leaning over the balustrade up in the fourth ring of the New York State Theater, watching his ballets was like watching the solution of some intricate geometric problem. A relief. I felt purged and pure upon leaving. As if a clean slate had been offered me, and I could start life anew, with a fresh understanding. My favorite ballets were Movement for Piano and Orchestra and Concerto Barocco, but almost any Balanchine ballet would do. It wasn’t just the choreography, of course, it was all that wonderful music also: Stravinsky, Bach, Tchaikovsky…

The book Choura tells about the very beginning of George Balanchine, from the eyes of Choura, Alexandra Danilova, herself. She and Balanchine were contemporaries, as children they were both boarders at the prestigious Imperial Ballet School in Russia’s St. Petersburg, as colleagues they left Soviet Russia together, and at one point they were even married. In her later years, Danilova taught at Balanchine’s School of American Ballet in New York City. Though Balanchine disposed of her as his wife in a very rude way, she remained loyal to him.

The gorgeous Suzanne Farrell was Balanchine’s last muse and quite possibly his favorite ballerina. About her, he said: “She never resists.” She, on her hand, wrote the following about him: “(…) if he thought I could do something, I would believe him, often against my own reasoning. I trusted him not to let me be a fool but rather a tool, an instrument in his hand. In short, I trusted him with my life." When Farrell, whom Balanchine was in love with, married another dancer, she was promptly fired. Years later, when his anger and sadness had abated, Balanchine accepted her back into the company, and choreographed some of his last masterpieces on her.

I suppose it’s this utter dedication in the Balanchine ballerinas, this allegiance to him as a choreographer that so fascinates me. It’s exotic and foreign. As is their mysterious sense of dedication, discipline, and patience, neither of which were thought of as important when I grew up in the slackness that was Sweden in the 1970’s. How I wish I had been given some of it though; discipline is very difficult to pick up later in life.

Danilova and Farrell gave their lives to ballet, and in some respect perhaps to Balanchine. Neither of them had children. But, as Danilova writes poignantly at the end of her book:

“I sacrificed marriage, children, and country to be a ballerina, and there was never any misunderstanding on my part – I knew the price. I put my dancing first, before my allegiances to friends, lovers, even husbands, before my home. It is possible to be a ballerina and give only fifty or seventy-five percent of yourself to your art, to conserve the rest and make of it a life for yourself, apart from the stage. But that was not for me. I gave one hundred percent of myself to my art, and my art has repaid me.”

Saffron Friday

Friday's breakfast: A slice of saffron cake and coffee. This cake is light and fluffy and very easy to make. And of course it has saffron, one of the most exotic and addictive spices I know.

The other day I brought some home-baked saffron buns to a friend who was recuperating in the hospital. As she broke one apart to eat, the scent of saffron filled the air.

“Oh,” I said, taking it in. “It smells like Christmas!”

Of all spices, I think saffron is the one I like the most. Now that I’m no longer in Sweden, where saffron is strongly associated with Christmas when used in baked goods, I reach for it far more frequently. This year my son and I perfected the saffron bun (or “lussekatt”, which I wrote about here), creating evenly colored, soft, and moist buns that aren’t too sweet. By now, however, I think we’re pretty much over baking those buns, but I don’t feel quite as done with saffron. Each time I use it, it amazes me with its exotic, soft, sweet scent and it’s beautiful gold red color. Saffron feels very luxe.

When I was a child and baked with my mom, she always told me that saffron was the most expensive spice in the world, more expensive than gold. I was very impressed. In those days in Sweden, you had to ask the cashier for saffron, you couldn’t just pick it off the shelf in the grocery store. It came in a small stamp-sized package referred to as “envelope”.

“May I please have an 'envelope' of saffron?” you’d have to say.

And the cashier would pull it out of a little box for you.

Saffron comes from a purple flower called saffron crocus, which is native to Greece or Southwest Asia. I read that today Iran accounts for about 90% of the world’s saffron production. A closer look at saffron revealed the following:

I’m certainly not the only one being enamored by the spice: Cleopatra is said to have put saffron in her baths, to enhance lovemaking.

Saffron is the color of choice for Buddhist monks, who wear golden yellow robes and have done so since Buddha died.

The word saffron comes from the Arabic word “zafaran”, which means yellow.

It takes around 75,000 crocus flowers to make one pound of saffron spice.

Saffron was used to scent the public halls and baths in Rome back in its days of glory.

If you fiddled with saffron during mediaeval times and diluted it with other spices (such as turmeric, which is also yellow), the punishment was severe: You’d be burnt alive.

Do you remember the song Mellow Yellow by Donovan? I’m just mad about saffron/Saffron’s mad about me.

Saffron is a natural antibacterial and is supposedly good for treating stomachaches, coughs and bronchitis.

On the frescoes of the Knossos palace on the Greek island Crete, young girls and monkeys (!) can be seen picking flowers for saffron.

On the Swedish island of Gotland in the Baltic Sea, saffron pancakes have been a local delicacy since the 19^th century. They are made on rice porridge, whole milk, eggs, sugar, almonds, and flour, and you serve them with whipped cream and jam. It’s a dessert served on special occasions such as weddings and even birthdays

A couple of days ago, I tried my hand at the fragrant saffron cake pictured above, for something lighter than the saffron buns. It’s quite lovely and very easy to make.

Ingredients:

200 g butter

1 cup 2 oz cups sugar

2 eggs

1 cup 6 oz all purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 g powdered saffron (I’m fairly sure I used more than that)

1 cup milk

Confectioner’s sugar, if you want, for decoration

Pre-heat oven to 347F.

1. Grease a springform pan.
2. Melt the butter and let it cool.
3. Beat eggs and sugar until frothy. Add the saffron, the melted butter and the milk. Mix flour and baking powder and add that to the batter also.
4. Pour the batter into the greased pan and bake on the lower rack in the oven for about 45 minutes.
5. Optional: Decorate with Confectioner’s sugar right before serving.

Have a wonderful weekend and see you again on Monday!

Kajsa

A surprisingly good breakfast: Half an avocado, half a banana, plain Greek yoghurt and some almond milk blended together and served with dried fruit.

You had brown hair and blue eyes. I had yellow hair and green eyes. We both had freckles. Your little sister, I remember her now, standing in the door to your room, where we were sitting on the floor coloring, singing in harmony. You stopped to say:

“ABBA is good.”

And your favorite crayon in your box of Crayola was the one called “maroon”.

And your sister stood there in the door. What did she want? A comic book. Tintin.

Kajsa, the back of your house faced a small, square yard, which was green. I have a photo of myself calling out something in that yard, and your mom is in the background. I wonder what it was I was calling? So long ago now. The words are gone. The only thing that remains is this: My open mouth in that photograph.

I remember your house: The light, bright hallway. The framed Magritte poster, the one with the feet morphing into shoes. Your father’s musical instruments. The piano, a black, upright, where he always sat playing. Your mother’s crispy macaroni, succulent ham and leek. You had a cousin in Switzerland whom you called Oskis. You had a cat – Tiger, was it? – and a hamster named Aurora. The hamster died. You were good at school, Kajsa. Always so good at everything.

It was you who told me about the rite of sheeting mirrors. The meaning of it.

“When a person dies, you put sheets over the mirrors,” you whispered. “So that you won’t see the ghost of the dead person.”

I held up for you to see the goose bumps on my arms when you told me that.

“She was only sixteen, only sixteen. But I loved her so-oh-oh.”

We sang along to Dr. Hook, your father’s album, and we wore headphones. The first time ever I wore headphones! Synthetic black, plush pillows over my ears.

“She was too young to fall in love, and I was too young to know.”
The lyrics were printed on the inner sleeve.

The day you moved I wore a green jersey dress with exposed red seams. Or perhaps I wore it at the graduation ceremony the year you moved. I can’t remember which. But I remember the green dress and that it had something to do with you moving. Did the green signal “go” for you? The red seams my heart – exposed? You left me behind.

Years later you found me. You had a grown daughter, you said. We both had small children. We exchanged information about our lives in a few messages, written during lunch breaks, or after dinner, or perhaps during your commute to your new job, or my commute. Busy, busy lives. So much had happened since our childhood years together. We had to cover it in a couple of sentences.

When I finally saw you again, when you finally came here, you were marked by death already. You knew it. I knew it. But you knew how to handle it and I didn’t.

We walked up and down Manhattan. And you were like you had always been. In a store I looked at a jacket. No, I didn’t look, I just touched it, and you said:
“Yes, that is you.”

And I thought it’s funny, how we could still tell such things about each other. That jacket was me.

You said: 
“You must come and visit me in summer.” 
Your daughter was five. My son four. And you said again: 
“You must come and visit me in summer.” 
And again. 
And I promised you.

It was raining when you left. We took the bus out to the airport. It was dark.

This is how I knew: At the airport, when you went through that final security check, you didn’t turn around. You’re supposed to do that. I always do. My mother always does. My husband. But you didn’t Kajsa. I waited for you to. I waited for you to turn around and wave at me, one last time, where I stood. Could you not feel me waiting? But you kept walking straight ahead – away, away – not once turning back. That’s when I knew I would never see you again.

Your husband and your sister told me that your trip to New York was something you leaned on during the difficult times towards the end. When you faced death's anxiety. They assured me: New York had meant something to you. Meeting me had meant something to you.

Many mornings I stood alone in my kitchen waiting for the coffee to be done. Talking to the ghost of you. Did you hear me then?

It seems to me now that those childhood years were the golden days, Kajsa, that shone all too briefly on our freckled faces. Way back when we were as thick as thieves.

Thick as thieves: Kajsa and I performing a song at school. Kajsa is the girl with the long hair and the guitar, and I am the one with a wig and pointe shoes. We were maybe 11 years old.

My Favorite NYC Places

Breakfast this morning: Banana- and red roasted pepper hummus on rye bread sandwiches. Obviously someone else was interested in trying them...

Now that spring is finally about to come to the Big Apple after a long, harsh winter, I thought I’d present my own favorite places in the city that never sleeps. Mind you, I am not listing stuff like the Statue of Liberty or Empire State Building, because I know you take care of that on your own anyway. So without further ado and in no particular order, here they are, my favorite places in NYC

1. Tompkins Square Park Located in the East Village, Tompkins Square Park is the perfect centerpiece for a leisurely spent afternoon. It is lined with several casual eateries, and there’s a lovely little public library nearby (for when it gets too hot) and even a small pool (mostly for kids, but I always bring my swimsuit anyway). And most importantly, it has the ever-hip East Village vibe to it. Forget Williamsburg, which hasn’t happened in a long time and which by now is chock-full of rich trust fund babes on their way to private Pilates sessions. Go to East Village instead. Subway: L-train to First Avenue or F-train to Second Avenue. 
2. New York City Ballet All right so their star choreographer Balanchine has been dead for thirty years, but this is still the American ballet company. Had it with old romantic Russian ballets? The New York City Ballet presents ballets that are sleek, exciting, New World-y, and as elegant as some advanced mathematical formula. Bring your boyfriend/husband with you – chances are even he will fall in love with ballet if Union Jack, Movements for Piano and Orchestra or Episodes are scheduled for performance. Subway: 1-Train to 66 Street, Lincoln Center. 
3. The Strand If you love books, you’ll love The Strand independent bookstore. The folks here promise “18 miles of books”. I’ve never fact checked that, but it’s safe to say there’s a whole lot of books here. New books, used books, out-of-print books, rare books – here you’ll find it all and to pretty good prices also. Subway: L-, 4-, 5-, and 6-Trains to Union Square. 
4. Coney Island Are there better beaches in New York? You bet. Are there any beaches as New Yorkey as Coney Island? Nope. Buy yourself a mango on a stick or a funnel cake or some corn on the cob, stroll down the boardwalk and look at the people doing their crazy dance moves. There’s nothing sweeter in life than dozing off in the dunes and hearing “Ice cold Corona!” being called out nearby. Subway: F-train to the New York Aquarium.
5. Williamsburg Wait, didn’t I just say to skip Williamsburg? Well, yes and no. Skip the pretentious hippity hip Williamsburg. Take the L-train from Union Square (where you are anyway since you’ve just been picking up some titles at The Strand) get off at the first stop in Brooklyn and then run, don’t walk, down Bedford Avenue until you come to the Hasidic Jewish section, that’s where you want to spend some time. It’s eerie. It will make you feel like you’re in another century. Time stands still here. If you are a woman and you’re wearing shorts, kids here will stare at you. Subway: L-train to Bedford Avenue.
6. Shakespeare in the Park One day you will be too tired to do any sightseeing. It will be a summer day and man will it be hot. That’s the day when you and your friend(s) pack blankets, books and magazines and perhaps some cards and head to the Delacorte Theater in Central Park and line up with everyone else for hours in order to get free tickets to that night’s performance of Shakespeare in the Park. This summer's plays are The Tempest (starring Sam Waterson as Prospero) and Cymbeline. Subway: B- and C-trains to 81^st Street. 
7. The White Horse Tavern OK, so I haven’t been here in a while – chances are it is still pretty much the same though, the White Horse Tavern (located on 567 Hudson Street) is one of those places that don’t change much. There was a time when I used to take acting lessons around the corner at HB Studio, and in those days we’d come here to memorize lines (and also because this was Dylan Thomas’ favorite hangout). The point is, you will do Greenwich Village, so why not stop here? A stone’s throw away from Magnolia Bakery on 401 Bleecker Street, where you will want to go and buy banana pudding. Subway: 1-, 2- or 3-Trains to 14^th Street.
8. Broadway Bring your good walking shoes (but make sure they’re cool and/or pretty also, please) and walk Broadway from the 80’s down to Union Square, located between 14^th and 17^th Street. Stop wherever you feel like it for a coffee or soda. For sentimental reasons, I always make a stop at Margot Patisserie located in the Ansonia on 2109 Broadway.
9. Chinatown Try whatever restaurant you want, just make sure you go here. I go once a week and absolutely love Chinatown. My personal favorites include: sugared donuts and bubble tea at Dragon Land Bakery (125 Walker Street) and New Kam Man, 200 Canal Street, a place where you will find Asian groceries, inexpensive china and other kitchen items (rice cookers and stainless steel pots), as well as Japanese beauty products to die for. I never leave without buying the honeydew-filled goldfish crackers. Subway: 6-Train to Canal Street.
10. Bryant Park If for no other reason, please stop here to use the restrooms! Who’d ever think public restrooms like these were even possible in a city like New York? They are so beautiful and well-maintained they nearly make me cry. The rest of the park is just as beautiful, there are free classes in juggling, yoga, tai chi, and knitting. In the wintertime you can ice skate. Subway: 7-Train to 5th Avenue.
11. The Cloisters New York City has more museums than you will be able to handle in a week or two. My favorites are MoMA and the Met, but in the summer I love to go all the way up to the Cloisters for a picnic. Subway: A-Train to 190th Street.
12. Harlem I wrote about Harlem here the other day. Don’t go to New York without visiting Harlem.

My favorite place to eat is usually the nearest diner (I love New York diners, especially their Swiss cheese omelets with home fries). But for fancier lunches, there’s Le Pain Quotidien, which you can pretty much find all over the city. For more exotic places, I like to venture out of Manhattan to the following:

1. Pollos Mario in Queens. Colombian food. I cannot tell you how much I love this place! The waitresses have extremely tight white pants, which might or might not be off-putting, and there is a giant fake orange tree in the middle of it and sometimes you have to stand in line for quite a bit before you get seated, but once you are seated, you don’t want to leave. I’m a vegetarian and I love this place – that says a lot. I always order the same: sweet plantains, pickled red onions, yellow rice, avocado salad, and a tall glass of tomate de arbol (a drink made with milk and tree tomato). If you aren’t a vegetarian, my husband suggests you try the pargo rojo frito (fried snapper with rice, green plantain, and a side salad). 86-13 Roosevelt Avenue. Subway: 7-Train to 90 Street – Elmhurst Avenue.
2. Christina’s on 853 Manhattan Avenue in Greenpoint, Brooklyn – best Polish food ever! I adore their pierogis. For Polish donuts (pączkis), head over to Rzeszowska Bakery on 948 Manhattan Avenue. Subway: G-train to Greenpoint.
3. Minni’s Shabu Shabu in Flushing, Queens. All right, so my husband pretty much forced this onto the list. He likes to go there and my son likes the idea of going there, and I sort of just string along. We usually tag this one onto a visit to the New York Hall of Science. I haven’t gotten the hang of the shabu shabu swish-swish food yet, but one day I hope I will. Subway: 7-Train to Roosevelt Avenue/Main Street.