It's Thanksgiving - Please Pass the Chicken

As Americans, living in The Netherlands on Thanksgiving Day is a bit surreal.

Absent are the omnipresent Thanksgiving decorations that adorn the schools, shopping malls and public places back in the States.

And the Dutch don't exactly get fired up about Pilgrims, despite the history of Pilgrim leaders living in Holland after fleeing England and before settling in Massachusetts.

(Truth be told, I didn't actually remember that - I just pulled it from Wikipedia. Josy, when reading this, couldn't believe my ignorance - apparently, this historical nugget isn't lost on Massachusetts natives like her.)

The day itself comes as something of an afterthought. A workday not unlike any other November workday. Oh, but wait, it's Thanksgiving - shouldn't we celebrate...?

While we'd talked for weeks about doing something special on Thanksgiving weekend, plans had a way unraveling the closer we got to the day itself. The hot idea of heading to Paris and EuroDisney for the first time got derailed when French train workers went on strike and highways turned into parking lots. Josy and I got preoccupied with work. The kids got sick. And, finally, Thanksgiving arrived and oh, look at the time, it's 4:30 in the afternoon.

I did the only thing a self-respecting Yank could do in this situation. I immediately headed to the store to buy the closest thing they'd have to a Thanksgiving dinner.

I waited patiently while Dutch shoppers at the meat counter ordered ahead of me. What on earth was that? Filet americain? God knows how they came to name this raw ground beef delicacy, eaten uncooked, after a country where nobody in their right mind would risk a slow, painful death by e.coli. To each their own - Josy loves the stuff.

Then again, she also can't get enough of drop, the Dutch candy that tastes a bit like American black licorice but roughly 1.75 trillion times more concentrated. And it comes in a spectrum of varieties, from the milder Really-Incredible-Horse-lick-Salty to the more extreme So-Salty-You'll-Shrivel-Up-Like-a-Slug-No-Really. Needless to say, I prefer red licorice.

My turn came. When I asked for a whole chicken, the clerk looked at me with a smile and asked if I might prefer turkey. Turkey? I nearly did a double take. They had turkey?

Maybe this shouldn't have been such a surprise in an area known for expats. But just because they had expacts, they didn't keep the stores open past 6pm or bother to stock more than one or two brands of any one item. Yet, turkey?

Alas, the smallest option was a 2.9kg bird that would probably take 3 hours to cook. Way longer than the kids would ever stand to eat. And no whole chickens remained. Chicken legs and thighs it would have to be.

Somehow, we managed to pull the key ingredients together. Stove-Top(TM) Stuffing. Cranberry sauce made from fresh cranberries. Pumpkin pie and crust - all of which I made from scratch because, well, they might stock turkey here on Thanksgiving but don't get your hopes up about pie crusts.

The Pilgrims would've been proud. If they'd ever bought in to the whole Thanksgiving mythology that a budding nation eventually fostered.

And the kids seemed to enjoy it, too. The pie, mostly. After downing his first piece in roughly 0.2 seconds, Ben sat back and appeared to gather his thoughts for a moment. "Daddy, can we really, really eat the whole pie tonight?"

Top 10 Memories from Our Summer Vacation

10. Rain, rain, go away.

The sun never shines on the 4th of July in Seattle. When it did this year, that should've been our first warning. When two weeks of sunny and even hot weather followed, that should've been our second warning. By the time we flew in from Amsterdam on July 12th and headed out camping at Fort Flagler with Matt's dad and sister Wendy on the 16th, the rains returned. At least our new tent held up and we could take shelter in Grandpa Dean's camper trailer.

9. Seeing old friends.

Matt's 20-year high school reunion took place two days after we arrived in Seattle. Recovering from jet lag is one thing when traveling alone. When traveling with kids in tow, it takes on a whole new meaning. Extended sleep deprivation did wonders for memory ("What's your name again?") and made a fun but already surreal experience even more surreal.

8. Can you hear me now?

As fate would have it, our trip coincided with Matt's company closing an investment round. Rather than taking advantage of the periodic "sunbreaks" to stroll on the beach, fly kites or just hang out with family, Matt was instead on his phone and laptop for hours each day. His makeshift "office" -- a covered picnic shelter with unobstructed views (no walls), fresh air (exposure to rain) and a feeling of being at one with nature (bird droppings everywhere).

7. Wendy's graduation party.

Big Sistah just graduated with a mastah's degree in psychology of animal behavior. Threw a blowout party for family and friends at her Vashon Island log cabin retreat. By also spending the night there with Ben and Sophie, we gave her new fodder for animal behavior observations...

6. Wildlife.

Deer near the campground. Bald eagles overhead. And a visit to the Sequim Game Park, which is filled with a diverse yet rather beleaguered-looking array of animals - from roaming buffalo that sidle up to your car to peacocks that flash their feathers like you're the hottest bird that ever happened to drive by their roost. One llama in particular took a special liking to Grandpa, or at least to his bread handouts.

5. Ben Franklin would be proud.

Grandpa treated Ben and Sophie to their first kites. Had good winds one afternoon. Of course, they were spurred on partly by a large thunderstorm that was passing some miles to the west. At one point, it seemed the thunderhead was getting too close for comfort and we made a quick dash for the car. But the foreboding, dark storm mainly just provided an impressive backdrop.

4. Please, sir, may I have s'mores?

Few things motivate children more than food. And when it comes to camping food, there's nothing that competes with the combination of graham crackers, chocolate and roasted marshmallows. Don't want to clean up those toys? Don't forget what you can have tonight if you do. Not gonna finish your breakfast? Remember the s'mores. Don't want to nap? Don't forget what good nappers get at the campfire later...

3. Daddy, why do you have to be on the phone all the time?

This is really just more of #8 above. But it's a question no parent wants to hear. One that unleashes feelings of guilt without end and fears of childhood scars. Visions of future counseling sessions in which the then grown-up child wrestles with deep-seeded feelings of abandonment by distant parents who were preoccupied with work, even on vacation. Parents who later develop odd-shaped tumors on the sides of their heads from over-exposure to mobile phone transmissions.

2. Who needs Tylenol PM when you've got legal documents to review?

The sheer mind-numbing properties of a well-drafted stock purchase agreement cannot be overstated. Anyone with insomnia or restless leg syndrome, or who drank too much coffee late in the day only needs to peruse a legal document of this kind to experience an immediate and overpowering urge to close one's eyes and enjoy a fast track to REM sleep.

1. Someday, we'll have a real vacation.

Despite these endless complaints, there were more than a few wonderful moments and family bonding times. More s'mores around the campsite at Grandpa's house, countless hours of fun with two electric remote-control cars Grandpa gave Ben and Sophie, and unbridled frolicking on Grandpa's front lawn. Next time, we'll have even more of these moments...

Who's Bigger Now?

Sophie turned 3 on May 7. In a testament to our uncanny inability to plan ahead more than a half hour, we threw a momentous celebration consisting of Sophie, Ben, Josy and myself. The nice thing about being 3 is that birthday expectations are pretty much a blank slate.

She had a blast.

The highlight of the day consisted of a trip to the local bike store where Ms. Sophie got to pick out her very own, first-ever bicycle. A purplish-pinkish girly-girl model with training wheels fit the bill.

Ben proceeded to ask her every couple minutes if he could ride it. "Noooo, Ben!" she'd shout, gripping her new fiets ("feets," or bicycle) with unprecedented determination.

Sophie managed to ride the bike for the entire 10-block distance back home. At first needing a hand on the back for stability. But after 3 blocks, she only needed the faintest touch from a finger on her shoulder for the appearance of reassurance.

On the last block before home, I managed to surreptitiously remove my finger from her shoulder. Almost without knowing it, Sophie was riding her "big girl" bike all by herself.

Not to be outdone, upon arrival at the house and after further refusals by Sophie to let him take her new vehicle for a spin, Ben proclaimed that he wanted us to take the training wheels off his bike.

We were pretty sure he was ready. For the past couple months, he'd been riding his bike in such a way that his training wheels wouldn't touch the ground, except for going around corners. This often resulted in him swerving unpredictably in persistent efforts to keep the training wheels aloft while going over uneven ground. And, on this day, after his fifth or sixth request, we decided he was serious.

Ben took to his training wheel-less bike like a fish to water. Nearly fell a couple times when mounting the bike or coming to a stop. But otherwise looked like he'd always been riding in this "big boy" way.

I took him for a short ride up the neighborhood canal to check out some wild ducklings that had just hatched. We passed Josy and Sophie out on the sidewalk. From the look on Josy's face, I could tell that Sophie had been fussing. It was well past her naptime.

Only the joy of riding her new bike had kept Sophie going. But even the smooth sidewalk had become a rocky road as Sophie fought increasing fatigue while struggling to keep her balance.

That said, the power of sibling rivalry knows few bounds. Sophie took one look at Ben on his bike and said, without hesitation, "I want my training wheels off, too!"

Bored of the Flies

There's only a handful left. Bodies are scattered everywhere. Tiny, stiff reminders of the buzzing annoyances that have plagued our ground floor kitchen/dining room/living room all week long.

It all began last weekend. We started noticing an unusual number of flies indoors. The weather had been sunny and warm for weeks, and we chalked up the flies' presence to having left our windows open without screens.

And then their numbers started to rise. Dramatically.

Monday, Tuesday - Maybe a couple dozen, mainly on the south end of our ground floor. Congregating near the large foot-to-ceiling window. No obvious sign of where they were coming from. No rotting fruit on the counter. No open food containers. No signs of them in the cupboards or pantry. A mystery. Rains had returned, deterring us from opening the windows and doors to shoo the rascals outdoors.

Wednesday - Our housecleaner arrived and was totally grossed out. Somewhere between 60-80 flies had taken up residence along the southern window and the window of the kitchen door. Her face paled when I asked if she'd mind just vacuuming them up. Bless her heart, she went ahead and "hoovered" them, sucking up dozens into the cramped dark coffin of the vacuum bag, buried alive.

Friday - Desperation began to set in. Despite the thorough housecleaning, the problem had gotten worse. Much worse. Literally, more than 100 flies covered the windows and curtains.

Two school friends of Ben came over to play. They raised more than one eyebrow in amazement at the peppered pattern of flies covering the window glass and curtains. I started mulling over various ways I might explain all this to their mother when she returned to pick them up. I could just see word getting around - "The Eldridges... Nice family. Shame about all the flies, though..."

I called an exterminator, wondering to myself why I hadn't done so sooner. But after describing the problem, he said it was almost certainly due to having a dead animal somewhere under the house or in the nooks and crannies where the heating pipes run. He advised calling a plumber or heating system installer instead.

The exterminator's opinion echoed that of our landlord's father, whom I'd called earlier. And it occurred to me that rather than hire someone to rip up floorboards and trace our heating pipes into the nether reaches of our Netherlands' abode, the better solution might just be a waiting game. After all, there was no smell whatsoever - whatever dead critter was ensconced in hard to reach places was certainly so tucked away that the search would cost an arm and a leg to find it. And the flies just might die off after their maggots had finished devouring the nourishing corpse.

This wasn't an easy decision. The plague had reached nearly Biblical proportions. It was just so disgusting, words can hardly express the feeling of walking downstairs and into the presence of more than a hundred nasty flying varmints.

But fortunately the weather cleared up just enough to open the sliding door of the large window, and the kitchen door. Waving my hands and shouting like a madman, I managed to usher the vast majority of flies outside, to infinity and beyond.

And the strategy seemed to work. By evening, only a half dozen flies could be seen. This morning, they'd declined to one or two.

All the fun of a trip to the garbage dump, but without the garbage, the stench or the price of admission.

An Unexpected Visit from Mom

Mom stopped by the other night.

Josy and I were in a house somewhere along the west side of Hood Canal, packing our things. We were about to move. We were either relocating or just gathering everything up after a long weekend.

For some reason, I needed to go to go uphill through the town. To get something out of the car or pick up something at the store. Josy continued putting things in our bags while I headed out.

The small town was laid out not unlike the hillside smattering of homes, hotels and roads near the ferry landing on Orcas Island. Our house was at the bottom of the hill, near the water.

I walked outside and up the steep roadway. Not far ahead in the distance, just beyond the shops and cafes that lined the street, and a forested hillside immediately beyond, the Olympic Mountains rose high in the air. This was one of those quaint towns that had both sea-level waterfront and a mountain range in its backyard.

The weather was great. Not a cloud in the sky. Warm. One of those picture-perfect Pacific Northwest days that Seattlites long for during those long, grey, wet winter days and relish with zeal in the summertime.

As I passed by an outdoor café with umbrellas shading small round tables with bar stools, I saw Mom and Dad. They had decided to surprise us. Our eyes met and they both had big smiles on their faces.

I walked up to greet them, a feeling of happiness rising up at the unexpected visit. We shared the moment with big grins all around.

A second passed and I realized this must be a dream. After all, Mom had died just over a year ago.

She looked fantastic. Like she did the year before she got sick. I told her so and she just smiled.

I looked at Dad and he was smiling too. As I turned my eyes back to Mom, she was no longer there.

I glanced back at Dad. Instantly, we both knew that Mom wasn’t here and yet had been here.

The main feeling at this moment was not one of sadness. Instead, there was an overriding sense of warmth tinged with a hint of longing.

It was so nice to see her.

Not long after moving to The Netherlands, I’d get the impulse every now and then to give Mom a call. As if time had gone by and somehow I’d forgotten to pick up the phone and check in with her.

This cognitive dissonance always surprised me. The sense, all at the same time, that I needed to give her a call and yet I knew she’d been dead nearly a year.

For months, the urge to call her would hit me. Not unlike other times when I’d lived overseas and would make the trans-Atlantic update every week or so.

And the realization she was dead would always follow, by roughly a second, the desire to call. There would be this fleeting moment in which I missed her, was looking forward to catching up and didn’t yet know she wasn’t there anymore.

While reality would hit me with sadness, the brief surreality in which Mom was still alive would leave a lingering aftertaste of happiness.

I would come to treasure these moments, despite their reminders of grief.

Nowadays, about five months after the anniversary of her death, those moments happen less and less often.

But her surprise appearance the other night reminded me how much I loved her. And how much I love her still.

What’s in a Game

When our friend Leslie visited back in the fall, she introduced Ben and Sophie to the wonders of the “I Spy…” game. Ben’s figured it out. Sophie’s invented her own unique variation.

The latest edition of “I Spy…” unfolded at dinner the other night while Josy was working late at the office. It began the way the game is supposed to be played:

Ben: “I spy…with my little eye…something blue.” His eyes fix on the ball outside on the patio. I pretend not to notice.

Sophie: “Is it…the plate?”

Ben: “No.”

Matt: “Is it the chair?”

Ben: “No.”

Sophie: Looking outside, “Is it the ball?”

Ben: “Yeah, that’s it!”

And so the game goes. The person who starts picks an object in the room, tells the color of it, and then the others have to guess which object it is.

But Sophie has her own way of playing…

Sophie: Her eyes wandering around the room, “I spy…with my little eye…something purple.” Her eyes continue to wander.

Ben: “Is it…the balloon?”

Sophie: Mulling it over, eyes scanning the kitchen and moving toward the living room…”No...”

Matt: “Is it your stockings?”

Sophie: Looking around the dining room, “…No…It’s round and there are animals in it and it’s got triangles…”

Ben: “Is it the bowl?”

Sophie: Still looking…“No.”

Ben: Pointing to the bookshelf, “Is it the book up there?” There’s nothing on the shelf that’s round, has animals or has triangles.

Sophie: Turning around to see the bookshelf for the first time, “Yeah, that’s it!”

Ben: Starting to get bored, “Let’s play Simon Says!” We had just introduced them to Simon Says a few days earlier.

Sophie: “Yeah!”

Ben: In a clearly older sibling, I’m-in-charge way, “Okay, I’ll start.”

“Simon says…Touch your nose.” Everyone touches their nose.

“Simon says…touch your ears.” Everyone touches their ears.

“Simon didn’t say touch your ears!” says Ben.

Matt: “Yes he did, Ben.”

Ben: “No, he didn’t.”

Matt: “Yes he did.”

Ben: “NO! He didn’t!”

Matt: “Ben, here, I’ll show you how it goes…”

Sophie: “It’s my turn! My turn!”

Matt: “Okay…”

Sophie: “Simon says…touch your nose.” Everyone touches their nose.

“Simon didn’t say touch your nose.”

Matt: “Yes, he did Sophie. You just said, ‘Simon says touch your nose.’” I demonstrate the game a few times, taking pains to obviously show when Simon says and when Simon doesn’t say. “The trick,” I tell them, “is when you tell people to do something but don’t say ‘Simon says’ first. You want to trick them.”

Ben: Triumphantly, “Okay, my turn! Simon says…touch your arm.” Everyone touches their arm.

“Simon didn’t say touch your arm.”

Sophie: “I want to play the ‘I spy…’ game.”

Something tells me it’s too soon for Monopoly or chess…

Late Winter's Weekend in Berlin

While I was away on a business trip, Josy and the kids hopped a train for a long weekend with her brother Marnix, his wife Lucy and daughters Helene and Lizzie. Much fun was had by all, as this short photo-movie will attest.

The Pied Pooper of Hamelin

Had a relaxing long weekend getaway with Josy's brother and his family the other day. After a bit of Internet sleuthing to find a location in between Amsterdam and their home in Berlin, we settled on a ferienwohnung ("fairy-en-voh-noong" or vacation rental house) in northwest Germany. In a little town called Molbergen.

Rolled in after dark on a Friday evening. Passed through a picture-perfect, quaint German village just before reaching our destination. The one stoplight in town brought momentary confusion, as each part of the intersection had its own stop sign as well. Does one stop no matter what? Or just go with what the light says? If the latter, then why the need for stop signs? We cautiously approached the intersection, noticed that other cars just obeyed the light, and did the same.

Not far from Molbergen is the town of Hamelin, the setting for the Grimm's fairy tale about the Pied Piper. No rodents spotted en route. Perhaps no surprise, since the Pied Piper had lured all the rats away and supposedly drowned them in a river. Or had he merely escorted them beyond city limits, to the chagrin of nearby villages that became new homes for the vermin? Unsuspecting hamlets like, oh I dunno...Molbergen?

The vacation house was part of a larger complex of several dozen houses in a semi-enclosed park-like area, complete with restaurant, gift shop and swimming pool. Neatly-kept grounds and a large playground signaled that this place might not be too bad.

Lovely setting.

But then we opened the car doors and it hit us. The unmistakable, potent odor of cow manure. And not just a whiff. An overwhelming wall of stink. There must have been a large dairy farm nearby, or at least not far away upwind.

Made the industrial "Aroma of Tacoma" back home seem like a fresh ocean breeze by comparison.

Fortunately, between the super-insulated German construction of the vacation house and the rain that started that evening and lasted the weekend, we soon forgot the secret eau de cowlette that had greeted us so unceremoniously.

All in all, a great weekend. Kids had a blast together. Lots of time in the pool. And nice catching up with Josy's brother Marnix and his wife Lucy. (Photo-movie here.)

We made sure not to let the kids wander off with any strangers playing musical instruments.

And we never did see any rats. But that bovine odor was so powerful, its source must have been massive in scope. So perhaps it shouldn't be news to anyone that the area might have its share of rodents. What with all those tasty cow pies to choose from...

Cleanliness, with All Due Gravity

I’ve resisted the temptation to tell the story of the washing machine. Not because it’s unworthy of telling. But because so many expats come to Holland and end up complaining about this random thing or that, which is different from The Way Things Are Back Home. And you just have to wonder if any of them have ever ventured beyond their borders before, to discover the world out there where people Do Things Differently.

The washing machine story, though, has grown from a mere Cultural Difference to an Unmistakable Bizarreness. And the impulse to relate the tale has shifted from Quaint Curiosity to Downright Moral Obligation.

The washing machine, you see, is a thing unto itself. It’s a German-made Bosch Something-or-Other, model number WOL-Whatever. Not unlike many other European washing machines, our trusty Bosch is compact, has a centrifuge drum that rotates through a central area that fills with water for pre-rinsing, washing, rinsing and spin-dry. It tends to use far less water than its U.S.-made counterparts, both due to its smaller size and design.

Thing is, the Bosch comes with several other Features that elude its marketing materials or owner’s manual:

1. The I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-a-Jackhammer feature

After the final rinse cycle, the Bosch begins the spin cycle to force water from the clothes inside. The spin utilizes the machine’s centrifuge function, whereby the drum containing the clothes rotates at high speed like a hamster wheel and the water is effectively compelled out.

The unadvertised Feature here is that, once the spin cycle starts, the machine literally begins an ever-escalating process of bouncing, rattling and whopping in place. The Bosch’s four tiny leg supports slam with increasing frequency and force on the floor tiles, generating an incessant, rapid, whamming din that’s something of a cross between a jackhammer and automatic small arms fire.

As the parents of small children, it’s not unusual for Josy and me to need to throw in a load of laundry later in the evening. Or to multitask while working in the home office, in the room next door to the Bosch. And, needless to say, firing up a jackhammer at 10pm is a wonderful way to build close ties with your neighbors. It’s also quite handy for background noise while on the phone for work – “Matt, good to hear from you. Say, how’s that remodel going…?”

So we figured we’d do something about it...

2. The “Hey-ho, Weigh the Thing Down!” feature

Had no idea what to do, really, until we caught sight of a large concrete block in the attic. “Look, honey, a large concrete block. Seems odd they’d store a large concrete block up here on the top floor. Now, what on earth would this be used for... Hey, wait a minute!”

After a bit of trial and error, we seem to have largely perfected our Bosch stabilizing mechanism. The method goes something like this. Lay a plastic non-skid pad on top of the washing machine. Place the lid of the wicker laundry hamper upside-down on top of the pad. Inside the lid, gently heave one spare concrete block weighing approximately 30 pounds.

Be sure to adjust the washing machine’s quirky centrifuge cycle so that it rotates at 800 rpm. The danger here is that the higher 900, 1000 or 1200 rpm settings have been proven to result in the non-skid pad losing its non-skiddiness.

In turn, lack of non-skiddidity causes the upside-down wicker hamper lid to wiggle off the washing machine. The lid flips in midair. And the concrete block plummets to the unsuspecting tile floor below. An unmistakable nick in one tile bears testament to early quality assurance testing of this method.

But we’ve got it all figured out now. Slow rpm’s. Nice and easy. After all, who wouldn’t want the ability to control with surgical precision how fast their washing machine spins?

3. The “Crash Cart to the Laundry Room – The Washer’s Died Again!” feature

Every now and then, the machine just dies. All its lights go off. Its motion stops. And it becomes fully unresponsive. Did I mention that it also locks shut, effectively trapping any clothes inside, regardless of how far along the wash cycle its gone?

The first time this happened, we were shocked but also a bit relieved. Finally, we could have a mechanic come troubleshoot the crazy machine, at the landlord’s expense. Who knows, maybe they’d just haul the thing away. Well, no luck.

I called the local Bosch service center, clumsily navigated through the endless phone tree in Dutch, pressing “1” and “2” and “0” until I eventually managed to reach a human being, described the problem and made an appointment.

Just as I was about to get off the phone with the appointment scheduler, she asked nonchalantly, “Meneer (“muh-near” or sir), have you tried resetting the machine?”

Resetting the machine?

A washing machine that needs to be reset?

What was she talking about? Rebooting? It’s not like the thing was running Windows Vista.

I asked what she meant. She explained the highly complex reset process. While the quantum physics and molecular biology that underlies this action would require hours to fully explain in layman’s terms, let me attempt to paraphrase. Step 1: Unplug the machine and wait 15 minutes. Step 2: Plug the machine back in and run a new load. Step 3: Hey, look, there is no step 3.

To our dismay, it worked. Dashed were the dreams of getting a mechanic to validate on site that our machine had Features beyond what it should, all on our landlord’s tab. And the scheduler was right about everything except the 15 minutes. It actually took more like an hour. But, hey, who’s counting?

This reset process has continued to come in handy. And, with increasing frequency, the machine has needed to be rebooted several times in the last month. Who knows, if this pattern keeps up, maybe we’ll get our wish for a freebie on-site mechanic after all.

4. The “Hey, Man, I’m on European Time” feature

Last but not least, as many folks who’ve lived in Europe will tell you, European washing machines tend to take a wee bit longer than their counterparts in the New World. Sometimes up to four times as long. You think I’m kidding.

Imagine if you will… It’s the weekend. The kids are going nuts from being held captive indoors all morning by their cruel and unusual parents. You’ve made breakfast, tidied a bit around the house and just need to do a couple quick loads of laundry before taking the rugrats out to the park to let them blow off some steam. Maybe throw in a load, shower and then throw in another one. Good plan, right?

You start the load, shower, get dressed, return to the laundry room and notice the load’s still going. Well, fine, it’s just being thorough. Sure.

You spend some quality time with the kids. Read a story. Turn on some a CD of kids music with songs so catchy you’ll end up humming them all week, no matter how you try to shake them. Make a snack. And check the laundry again.

Washer’s still going.

An hour goes by and the wash is done at last. Good thing you put the machine on the “Snel” (fast) setting. The other settings actually take longer.

Because with a machine with this many Features, who wouldn’t want to savor every moment?

In a strange adaptation of The Stockholm Syndrome, whereby hostages develop empathy for their captors, we’re starting to feel a creeping fondness for the old Bosch. Never before have we had such an involved relationship with our washing machine. And even though it forces us to lay concrete on top of it in an upside-down wicker basket lid, unplug its power cord every week, and wait a full hour for each wash load to get done, these are the things that patterns are made of.

Patterns lead to habit. Habit leads to comfort. Comfort leads to the Dark Side.

Maybe we need to bring it back to Seattle with us.

Yes, Mr. U.S. Customs Officer? What is this machine among our household goods? Why, that’s a Bosch WOL-Whatever, compact, water-efficient washing machine. It’s quite something, really. Let me just tell you about its Features…

Four's Company

The kids are sad.

Today, cousins Helene and Lizzie, along with their mom, Lucy, boarded a train back home to Berlin. They'd stayed for an exuberant, fun-filled week with us in Amstelveen. Playtime lasted for seven days, interruped only by sleep, Ben going to school and Sophie going to her peuterspeelzaal (poh-ter-spayl-zahl) or toddler play group.

Marnix, Josy's brother and Lucy's husband, was in Boston visiting Oma. And the week coincided with a school vacation for Helene, so they decided why not spend the week in Holland so the kids could all hang out. What a great time it was, indeed.

It's quite a sight to see all four of these kids playing so nicely together. Rather than the unbridled chaos one might expect when four children are left to their own devices, there's actually a harmonic convergence of sorts where they all seem to entertain each other and just have fun. For us parents, it was a breeze. No more were there the periodic fussings and demandings of attention from mommy or daddy. Nah, forget mom and dad -- there are cousins to play with.

A highlight was going together to the Nemo museum in Amsterdam. More a reference to Captain Nemo than the animated clown fish, it appears. Nemo is a hands-on science museum for kids, with all manner of crazy experiments and games and distractions. Bubbles. Static electricity. And a ball factory where kids insert the spheres into Jetson-like tubes and can then watch them on conveyor belts going all throughout the intricate contraption and eventually ending up back in the production supply queue in front of the kids, ready for re-insertion in the tubes. (See the picture-movie here.)

Not sure when the next visit among the cousins will be. Maybe in a couple weeks. Maybe next month. Whenever it is, if you ask Helene, Ben, Sophie or Lizzie, it can't come a day too soon.

Winter...Finally!

At long last, we got some snow! Despite a weather forecast that called for partly cloudy and a possibility of rain, the white flakes started descending late morning and continued through the afternoon yesterday. After dumping up to 8 inches on England, the storm front deposited a leftover inch or so here in The Netherlands.

One of the local swans, possibly freaked out by the fluffy deluge, sought refuge next to a faux elf who's forever fishing in the nearby canal.

Ben got to ride home from school. Any unease with biking on snow soon passed and was replaced by increasing offroad experimentation.

With admirable resourcefulness, and with visiting cousin Helene offering guidance from her more comfortable position inside the dining room window, Ben and Sophie together managed to lump together a portly, diminutive snowman from the meager snowfall in the back yard. When handed a carrot for the snowman's nose, Ben promptly broke it in two. So, we compensated by branding the frosty gent as our beloved Alien Snowman -- the carrots being his two eye-antennae.

It's all melted by today. But for a few lingering lumps in the back yard, the slowly ebbing reminder of the Big Blizzard.

Did I mention that Josy chose today, at my enthusiastic urging, to ride her bike to work for the first time...? ; )