When In Groningen...

We flew into Schiphol and immediately hopped on a tour bus for a scenic 6 hour drive through endless windmills and pastures on which grazed the happiest cows on earth, until we got to Groningen province in the northeasternmost tip of Nederlands. Usquert (population 1200) to the general public is not known for much else but their International Dance Festival, which is what we were there for. Over the course of 11 days, however, some friends and I would come to know it as home. Nini and I were lucky enough to have been selected to stay with the De Boer family, who in addition to speaking Dutch also spoke German, French, and thankfully English, and whose backyard included a strawberry patch and 2 egglaying chickens.

It was these two chickens who heroically provided our breakfast everyday morning. Like clockwork, I would hear the chickens make avian lamaz sounds for around 20 minutes until an eventual silence gave me my cue to make my way down ladders for stairs to the “magic box” where two eggs had magically appeared, still warm and wet with cloacal fluid. Being the guests of honor, Nini and I indulged in these little treasures, while our host family made due with the store-bought variety. I fear that those are the freshest eggs I will ever eat in my life. With the deepest orange yolks surrounded by creamy whites, we had them simply fried in butter, over ham, cheese, toast, and more butter.

Hearing the chickens in labor every morning while I lay comfortably in bed gave me a newfound appreciation for the incredible edible. I will not so hastily crack open an egg to eat with my leftover whatever, nor will I whip up 4 egg omelettes for myself on a whim. On the contrary, I have found that I am perfectly satisfied with one fresh, well-prepared egg.

After being served spaghetti one night, and southwestern-style chili the next, we could sense that they were attempting to cater to our “American” tastes. Finally we requested that they just cooked as they normally would, so we could experience how Dutch people ate.

One night we sprinkled bacon over stamppot, a root vegetable mash that Fenny made under one condition: that I not tell the neighbors. Apparently nobody eats stamppot during the summer. As I sat there sweating I understood why. Another night we ate the best meatballs ever, bigger than baseballs, laced with onions, wading in their own juices. Tasted like a really great burger. Served alongside what amounted to a cauliflower gratin: boiled cauliflower smothered in nutmeg scented white sauce. It seemed like beet sugar was sprinkled on everything, making it addictively good.

We were fortunate enough to visit just 2 weeks into herring season, so the pickled fish was at its freshest & sweetest. At first I was a little worried at how well the diced onions stuck to the sides of the fish even as I dangled it vertically by its tail. I expected it to be overly fishy, but it was very clean tasting, much like sashimi of mackerel. After a test nibble I quickly inhaled the entire fish in the manner of Heathcliff the Cat, and loved it so much that I requested it 3 days later.

The Dutch might have omega-rich herring fishing industry to thank for their cardiovascular health, but they can thank the dairy industry for their height. These people are giants. Standing in the center of Groningen city, where the population is homogenously Dutch, you really get the point. This was dairy country. And it showed. The Dutch surpassed the Americans in the 1950s in average height. The average height of a Dutchman is 6 foot 1 inch. Yet they couldn’t care less about basketball.

Dutch yogurt is rich, creamy, naturally sweet, less acidic than the yogurt we’re used to, and sipped through straws from Capri-Sun type container’s. It was this taste of quality yogurt that made me seek out quality American yogurts back home like Stonyfield Farms.

I miss air pudding, a bubbly custard that pours easily out of a carton and into a bowl of berries. I missed Hagelshlag (chocolate sprinkles we shook onto buttered toast), until a friend told me that you can get it at 99 Ranch Market. I also missed “stroopwafel”, syrup waffles traditionally softened just before eating over cups of steaming hot coffee or tea. I recently found miniature versions of the caramel sandwich cookies available at Trader Joe’s, and heard that Starbucks sells them now too.

I still have a bottle of jenever in my freezer, and haven’t yet found an occasion special enough to open it. The national liquor is the juniper-flavored precursor to gin. Many Americans mistakenly believe that this is Dutch “gin”, but in fact is something completely different. Ketel One started out as, and still is today, a jenever distillery.

When I came home sick one night, they served me shots of a liquor called Berenburg, which tasted remarkably like Jaegermeister. I was good as new the next morning. It could have been the herbs used in brewing the stuff. Or it could have been that the alcohol raised my body temperature just enough to kill whatever bug I had. Either way, getting completely wasted will forever be an option for treatment.

The Dutch don’t eat anything after 5:00 except yogurt or pudding. Many restaurants close around this time, making late night dining impossible. This took a few days for my stomach to get used to, but not as long to recognize the health benefits of the tradition. They claim that the secret to their health is the regular consumption of the herring, but it probably has more to do with their active lifestyle. In the U.S., when the elderly get too old to walk, they use wheelchairs or lie in bed. In Nederlands, they say that when the elderly get to old to walk, they ride bikes.