Chinese Eggplant

I count myself among the luckiest of people because throughout my life I’ve been surrounded by the most wonderful, uplifting friends. Moving abroad can propose some pretty formidable obstacles. There are times when it would be completely reasonable to just throw hands and the air and scream “does anyone here understand me?”

For reasons I can’t justify, I am extremely blessed to have a tightly knit group of friends/family here. My roommate Andi and I have shared some pretty amazing adventures—from traveling Poland bottom to top (accidentally) to sharing a bottle of Lambrusco in a paddleboat on the Vltava to miles and miles (and miles) of half marathon training—she is my copilot in the whole cooking in Czech adventure.

Some of our best work comes from her beautiful Chinese heritage. Here’s our favorite, Chinese Eggplant:

Ingredients:

2 long Chinese eggplants, cubed

 1 1/2 tablespoons soy sauce

 1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

 1 tablespoon white sugar

 1 green chile pepper, chopped

 1 teaspoon cornstarch

 1/2 teaspoon chili oil, or to taste

 2 teaspoons salt

 2 tablespoons vegetable oil

Directions:

1) Place the eggplant cubes into a large bowl, and sprinkle with salt. Fill with enough water to cover, and let stand for 30 minutes. Rinse well, and drain on paper towels.

2) In a small bowl, stir together the soy sauce, red wine vinegar, sugar, chile pepper, cornstarch and chili oil. Set the sauce aside.

3) Heat the vegetable oil in a large skillet or wok over medium-high heat. Fry the eggplant until it is tender and begins to brown, 5 to 10 minutes. Pour in the sauce, and cook and stir until the sauce is thick and the eggplant is evenly coated. Serve immediately.

Veni Vidi Vici

Sitting here looking out the window at snow covered Praha, I keep sinking into daydreams of last weekend in Rome. You know those rare days when everything seems to work out just the way they should? We had three consecutive days like that in what is now one of my favorite cities in the world.

Upon finding out that Benedict was stepping down, I began to research when the conclave would begin and decided I must be in St. Peter’s Square to see that smoke. When it came down to it, they moved the conclave up and had chosen Pope Francis just a few days before our scheduled arrival. It worked out just fine.

Kirstie and I stumbled sleepily to the airport at 4am Friday and arrived in Roma in time to get a little lost, find a small restaurant outside the tourist center (best pasta ever) and hit the ground in search of some quality ruins. We found the Colosseum, allowed it to take our breath away for a minute or two and proceeded to walk around and around exploring and basking in the sun and antiquity.

Our entire trip proceeded in much the same way. We walked and talked and soaked up what felt like the warmth of summer (it was 50 degrees…). It was my second visit to Rome, yet every single second was new. People were so kind—we met so many friends who were eager to point us in the direction of “the best restaurant,” “the best part of town,” “the best cathedral,” et cetera.

We found many of these bests on our own; throughout the weekend we stumbled upon a huge changing of guards celebration at the President’s Palace, the arrival of Silvio Berlusconi (so many jocular Italians, so many political jabs) at the parliament offices, and of course plenty of the world’s best gelato.

What we didn’t get to experience, however, was a Vespa ride. Can you imagine? No one wanted to let two bright eyed American girls drive motorcycles in the lawless traffic of the world’s oldest city, and their only reason was that we’d never ridden one before. Rude.

We stayed out late Saturday night just taking everything in, walking with our new friend Alfonso, an archaeologist currently excavating the Appian Way. He gave us the grand tour through the Trastevere and the Old City, and took us to—guess what—“the best Italian restaurant.”

Sunday was my favorite day. I couldn’t even sleep thinking about getting to see our new Papa in real life. We rose with the sun and hit the road to the Vatican. We were waiting at the bus stop with a flutter of excited nuns when a transit officer came up and spoke to the lot of us in Italian, indicating that the bus would not be arriving. One of the sisters turned to us, questioned “San Pietra?” and gestured that we should follow them. 

The tiny little sisters (each of them was about half our size) took our hands and took off running to the nearby metro station. Sweetest/funniest moment of my life. They guided us through the metro, and when we were separated by the massive crowd, they stood on their tiptoes to make sure we knew where to hop off the car.

We all got off at the right station and weaved our way through the crowds. They led us all the way to St. Peter’s Square, kissed us, and then danced off in the other direction to celebrate mass with Pope Francis. We waited in the square for a couple of hours, the crowd growing in depth and spirit around us. Flags from every country around the world, Catholics, non-Catholics; all gathered for the same reason. Crazy, crazy experience being a part of something that much bigger than yourself. There was a little boy next to us, probably no more than two years old, cooing “Viva Papa Francesco!” adorably and inexhaustibly for the whole morning. The rest of the crowd was just as excited.

As long as I live I’ll never forget the feeling of being in that crowd and seeing that window open to the Vicar of Christ on earth. I think I still have chills.

After Papa Francesco’s greeting and praying of the Angelus, we joined the delighted crowd in a mass exodus. Kirstie and I strolled along the river until we found—wait for it—THE BEST RESTAURANT EVER. Le Cupole. Next time you’re in Roma, hit. it. up.  We shared our last pizza and bottle of wine and hit the ground with just enough time to make it to the airport. We arrived in Praha to a world of white and it took some serious self-discipline not to turn and RUN back to that airplane bound for sunny Roma.

Alas, it is good to be home, and really there’s no place quite as dear to any of us as good ol’ Praha.

The Merriest World

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”

J.R.R Tolkien

Preach, brother. Growing up, we ate dinner (and in fact most meals) as a family. Even in the days of football practice, piano lessons and club meetings, we waited until everyone could sit around the table together. In college, it was the same. This time I chose my family (or rather, my family chose me…thank you Kappa Delta), and we loved the sound of our house mother ringing that dinner bell that signaled a deep fried, smothered in butter, home cooked meal for upwards of 100 sisters each night. They’ll always be some of the happiest times in my memory.

Moving into “the real world” brought new goals and adopted family. I lived and worked in New Orleans, the food capitol of the world, probably. There’s no such thing as a bad restaurant in that town—it simply wouldn’t survive. My roommates and I quickly realized that eating out every night would result in three very large, very poor twentysomethings, so we decided that we’d take turns cooking and sharing meals on week nights.

I’m more grateful than ever that we did so not only for financial and waistline preservation purposes, but because now--living in Prague—cooking and grocery shopping is a constant challenge/learning experience. I’m so happy to have laid the groundwork for our culinary endeavors in a place where recipes are not written in what is quite possibly the most unreasonable language in the world and temperatures were in Fahrenheit.

Cooking is just as important (if not more) here in Europe. The purpose of shared meals is manifold; it helps us understand one another, it teaches us about different lifestyles and cultures, and as Tolkien said, it makes us much merrier indeed.

My friends and I have a running list of the things we cook and a list of ingredients (in English and Czech, hallelujah) that we need to recreate the meal. We live life a little more simply here—we miss lots of typical American ingredients (peanut butter, cilantro, chicken broth and Tony’s just to name a few), we don’t have crockpots and some of my friends even lack ovens. Hello and welcome to our real life Iron Chef challenge.

Scars

It’s a gloomy day in Praha, so I’m taking this opportunity to hole up with some coffee, my bff and our thoughts on last Sunday’s trip to Dresden, Germany (disclaimer: they’re about as dismal as the weather outside).

Ten of us departed Prague early Sunday morning bound for the capitol of Saxony and what was once one of the cultural, educational, political and economic centers of Germany and Europe. From the second we hopped off the train, it was evident that we had not done our research. We were immediately confronted with an extensive corridor; glassed in strip malls as far as we could see. We wandered toward a tower in the distance that looked more indicative of the old town we’d seen in pictures.

As we got closer to the centre, an eerie feeling fell over us. The whole town was empty and quiet. The main town square was absolutely massive—probably about the size of a football field—but no feet tread on its cobblestones. There was only an odd, crooked light post in the center with an inscription in German a few feet away. Kirstie took a picture and we made a mental note to translate it later.

We kept walking and discovered the buildings and monuments that put Dresden in the travel books. There were some gorgeous cathedrals, an opera house and a palace; but they were all locked against curious travelers.Going in, we knew that Dresden had been bombed during WWII. I suppose I just hadn’t considered the repercussions. I had one moment when it all clicked: the ugly, cold modern architecture juxtaposed harshly with centuries old buildings, the black char that characterizes the older ones, the emptiness, the feeling of complete desertion—WE did this. 

February 13-15, 1945. The United States and England blew Dresden to smithereens. I learned that the off kilter pole in the middle is a memorial to the 25,000 people (mostly civilians) that were killed in the bombing. When the war ended the communist East German government rebuilt the city in the socialist style—hence the cold, characterless buildings that comprise much of this historic city.

Since the reunification of Germany in the early 1990s, some of the beautiful buildings have been restored, and to be fair, the ones that survived are worth the trip to see.

I understand the role the US played in WWII, and of course I fully support our country. But experiencing the loss of humanity and the brokenness of this city first hand sort of rocked my world. I think we were all pretty happy to get back to Prague late that night. We spotted Zizkov tower from a distance and celebrated being back in our sweet city.

Home Sweet Home

Fun Fact: Dresden both invented and named the coffee filter.

King Cake, Y'all

My favorite culinary endeavor so far was one of my earliest. It was February, there was snow up to my knees, and everyone at home was dressing up for Mardi Gras balls, catching moonpies, and Instagramming pictures of their favorite hometown King Cakes. I was a little homesick. My tight knit group of expat friends were getting together for a potluck dinner, so I decided it was the perfect time to have a taste of home and introduce my new friends from around the world to the magic of Mobile (and New Orleans, I guess) and Mardi Gras.

I trekked from store to store in the snow to acquire all the necessary ingredients. I was still getting accustomed to a seemingly nonsensical language (it’s actually quite beautiful) and that the concept of an all-inclusive shopping venue hasn’t made its way over here yet. I miss Target.

There was a point when I almost surrendered. What kind of King Cake doesn’t have colored icing? No King Cake of mine. When I finally found it in a tiny corner potraviny (read: grocery), I actually squealed a little bit, and the shop keeper gave me one of the rarest gifts a Czech can give to a stranger—SHE SMILED.

The King Cake was happening. It took all day, and yes, baby Jesus was a peanut, but sure enough there was a purple, green and gold ring shaped confection filled with cream cheese and cinnamon at dinner that night. It was a wonderful liaison between home and my new life and friends here in Prague.

I combined a few different recipes to come up with the final product. Here’s a recipe for some Southern love, Mobile tradition, and the introduction of “y’all” to foreign vernacular.

Ingredients:

·        

1        1(16 oz) container of sour cream

·         1/3 C sugar

·         ¼ C butter

·         1 tsp Salt

·         2 (1/4 oz) envelopes dry active yeast

·         2 large eggs, lightly beaten

·         6 to 6 ½ C bread flour

·         2 (8 oz) packages cream cheese, softened

·         2 tsp vanilla extract

·         Cinnamon sugar

·         Powdered sugar

·         Juice from one lemon

·         Purple, green and gold tinted sparkling sugar crystals

·         ½ C warm water

      Directions

Melt sour cream, sugar, butter and salt in medium saucepan over low heat until combined. Set aside to cool.

Stir together yeast, 1/2 cup warm water, and 1 tablespoon sugar in a 1-cup glass measuring cup; let stand 5 minutes.

Beat sour cream mixture, yeast mixture, eggs, and 2 cups flour at medium speed with a heavy-duty electric stand mixer until smooth. Reduce speed to low, and gradually add enough remaining flour (4 to 4 1/2 cups) until a soft dough forms.

Turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface; knead until smooth and elastic (about 10 minutes). Place in a well-greased bowl, turning to grease top.

Cover and let rise in a warm place free from drafts, 1 hour or until dough is doubled in bulk.

Punch down dough, and divide in half. Roll each portion into a 22- x 12-inch rectangle. Beat 3/4 cup sugar, cream cheese, 1 egg, and vanilla at medium speed with an electric mixer until smooth. Spread cream cheese mixture evenly on each dough rectangle, leaving 1-inch borders.

Roll up each dough rectangle, jelly-roll fashion, starting at 1 long side. Place one dough roll, seam side down, on a lightly greased baking sheet. Bring ends of roll together to form an oval ring, moistening and pinching edges together to seal. Repeat with second dough roll. Place a coffee can in the middle so as to preserve the integrity of the ring.

Cover and let rise in a warm place (85°), free from drafts, 20 to 30 minutes or until doubled in bulk.

Bake at 375° for 14 to 16 minutes or until golden, and then allow to cool for at least 10 minutes.

While the cake cools, whip up your glaze: stir together powdered sugar, butter, lemon juice and vanilla extract. Stir in milk two tablespoons at a time until it is desired consistency.

Spread glaze over cooled cake, top with colored sugar and laissez les bon temps rouler!

Recipe sources: http://www.southernliving.com/food/holidays-occasions/a-salute-to-king-cake-00400000007599/

http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/emeril-lagasse/king-cake-recipe/index.html

Fine Print

Saturday saw the first harbinger of spring in Prague! For the first time in two months, the sun shone resplendently for an entire day. The final snowcastles from last week’s blizzard melted into the cobblestones and everyone in the entire city seemed giddy.

We couldn’t wait to spend every minute in the precious sunlight. Lindsay had a book that would lead us along a hop on/hop off tram 22 tour of the city and tell us about everything along the way. All day long we basked in the sunshine—from the National Theatre to the Victims of Communism Memorial to the Lennon Wall, we laughed like children and felt as if we were seeing the city anew, falling in love all over again.  

It was the perfect day, until Lindsay looked down and realized her phone was missing. Assuming she must’ve left it on the tram, we used the Find My iPhone app to track it down. We felt like we were in a high intensity spy movie as we split up to track down the phone; Lindsay and Kat at home refreshing the tracking device while the rest of us sprinted past backpack laden tourists and elated, pink cheeked locals on the metro escalators.

We never found the phone. What we did find, returning to our guidebook a few hours later, was a small caveat at the bottom: “Be hyperaware of your surroundings on the 22 trams as thieves and pickpockets are more abundant here than anywhere else in the city.” Noted.

Bustling Charles Bridge

Love Locks in Lesser Town