We can't call it a garden yet. A sandbox with a fence and a good amount of weeds. But still, the poppies and rapeseed brought color, the sun was shining, and if I squinted my eyes I could quite easily imagine people sitting at a table to eat, talk, drink, and laugh.
For her
We can't call it a garden yet. A sandbox with a fence and a good amount of weeds. But still, the poppies and rapeseed brought color, the sun was shining, and if I squinted my eyes I could quite easily imagine people sitting at a table to eat, talk, drink, and laugh.
Our new garden, which is yet to be landscaped, adjoins the French doors of the eat-in kitchen. This is one of the important reasons we chose this type of home in the Molenplein project. The entire ground floor is dedicated to cooking and eating. These are two things we love doing most, although I must honestly say that my husband is the one who enjoys cooking the most, while I am the one who mainly loves to eat. Every single day, he prepares a good meal for our family, and whenever possible, he cooks for friends, family, and a combination of the two: his cooking club.
We pictured it: as soon as the boxes are unpacked, we’ll have paella night in the garden. A tradition. Every summer, at the start of the holidays, my half-Spanish better half brings out his gigantic paella pan to serve a group of friends all the best of his heritage. Taste, smell, wine, love. The name 'paella', his father once told me, comes from 'para ella'. For her. Traditionally, paella was said to be a dish that men make for their wives. Secretly, I am glad that for us, it is the rule rather than the exception.
Eleven people were supposed to be there that evening. The pan was completely emptied. But the reality was that I had felt unwell earlier that afternoon and ended up in bed in my beautiful summer dress that evening. No paella for me. I lay in my new bedroom looking at the ceiling and, as it slowly grew dark, at the Long Jaap, which shone down on me in the distance. An added benefit of a new house that doesn't have curtains yet. I counted the beams, four short ones and one long one, while outside I heard the sounds of eating, talking, drinking, and laughing. In my half-sleep, I saw our guests toasting; two people huddled closer together, our children sat there cozily, enjoying the soccarat like true Spaniards—the crispy crust from the bottom of the pan. A divine treat, which only appears when enough has been eaten.
Of course, I would have liked to be there. It was a housewarming without a hostess. But if you have to get sick, how nice it is to be able to isolate yourself in a lovely new bedroom, while realizing that everything you envisioned has turned out well. We have a house in a lovely seaside town where we can entertain friends, and a kitchen to cook and serve for them. The kitchen had been tested, just like the bar and the climate-controlled cabinet, the garden and the paella pan. Oh, and the food processor. Our youngest made a Brooklyn Blackout Cake with his father for dessert. Three layers of chocolate heaven, of which I didn't get to see any. Or so I thought.
A day and a half after the party, I sat at the kitchen table. Carefully, I ate away my initial hunger with a cracker. There was no trace of the party left, except for the newly greased, gleamingly clean paella pan. My son stood beside me, eager. "We have something for you, Mom." From the fridge came a plastic container with the very last piece of chocolate cake. Especially for Mom. Para ella. Now the house was officially inaugurated.
YANAIKA SUMMERÂ
