Zen

No more unpacking as of today! Not that there aren't plenty of boxes still waiting to be explored, but we're going on holiday! Two weeks of al fresco fun awaits us.

Only last week did we finally get around to booking a French shoebox that sort of sleeps four people. You only need to fold away the entire kitchenette, hoist down a bed, fold out another bed in front of the bathroom door and Bob is your uncle. A call of nature during the long mosquito filled nights will offer an interesting choice: you either pee in the measuring jug - don't ever use it for anything else! - or from the balcony.
Anyway it is all going to be just wonderful, as we are meeting up with some dear friends that we met whilst living in England almost a decade ago. The children can't wait to catch up with their Mancunian mates and frankly, neither can I. I absolutely adore our (almost) annual cake eating, wine drinking, beach combing, cycle riding days together.
But first we're going to get ourselves reacquainted with our sailing boat. We bought her a lifetime ago, years before we started a family, together with equally watersports-minded friends. We used to spend most weekends and holidays sailing. And even after the children were born we just added little hammocks, a potty, duplo blocks and tiny life jackets to the ship's inventory and carried on as usual.
It's been exactly nine years since we last set foot on our boat, so I am a little apprehensive. Although we've had many, many lovely days aboard, in my post-move stressed state, I can only remember husband W. shouting and myself shrieking because we forgot to reef the sails before setting off in rough weather, or me steering the boat to the left, while he kept yelling 'right', 'right'.
The weather however looks perfect for the next couple of days: mediterranean temperatures and very little wind. And of course the children are twelve and ten, instead of two and four and that surely
must make a difference. Staring at the horizon on a gently rocking sail boat I am sure will be just what the doctor ordered to get us all into a state in which we can tackle new schools, new jobs, a new house and a non existing social life.
In order to take full advantage of the possibility that I might actually relax this coming fortnight, I am going to try to live a Wifi free life. Trying to post a blog from the only harbour with a hotspot in a fifty mile radius, or a Mc Donalds along a French motorway, isn't going to get me in the zen like state that I will be working towards over the next fourteen days.
So until the 5th of August (at least) it is going to be dead quiet on the blog front. For anyone who in the meantime comes knocking at my virtual door, I will just leave two words: gone sailing.

Moving

We weren't going to sort through all our worldly possessions before the move. God no, that would be such a waste of time. Or so we thought.

Four days, a purple toe and some painful lessons later I look out over my new garden, filled from hedge to hedge with furniture. Bookcases, tables and nondescript shelving units that we could have dealt with before we had them all loaded into a truck. But really, we should have chucked out most of the stuff years ago
It's a nice enough house, our new place in the Netherlands, but it isn't very big. Or, more to the point, we've become quite spoiled, living in some very nice houses and appartments abroad, courtesy of our expat status. The fact that all of our foreign living quarters came with spacious basements, meant that getting rid of surplus furniture never seemed all that urgent.
Panick strikes Wednesday afternoon, when shortly after inspecting the new house, the massive removal lorry turns into our street. It finally dawns on me that measuring your new space and trying to fit your existing furniture into that space, is something you need to do weeks, or - even better - months before you move.
As it turns out we are bent over the hastily sketched floor plans till well past our bed time. At long last husband W. declares it is all going to be just fine and he is going to go to bed. Within minutes a familiar snoring exudes the new master bedroom. I on the other hand, lay awake for hours and when I finally doze off I have the most disturbing dreams featuring loads of furniture and a merry-go-round.
After a quick peck on the cheek, W. goes off the work early the next morning, leaving me and my mother in law, who - unaware of impending disaster - has kindly offered her support, to deal with a couple of German speaking movers and precisely 273 boxes.
The first hour or so of carrying stuff into the new house is relatively uneventful as the movers work their way through piles of boxes filled with books, plates, bowls, glasses and kitchen utensils. Our bookshelves fit, that much I know, so as a result, the books will all find somewhere to live. And the kitchen, the lovely new kitchen, is way bigger than the little Swiss galley kitchen. Finally I can fill three cupboards with tupperware, without feeling the slightest bit exessive.
Just as I start to relax a little bit, the movers come rushing in with scores of boxes labeled with the ominous 'Keller' (basement). Since we don't have a basement in the new house, we designated one of the bedrooms as (permanent?) storage space, deliberately overlooking the fact that this room is half the size of our former Swiss basement.
When this room is filled to the brim, I have to change tactics. The garden shed, I decide, will make another fantastic storage space. I could even lock the door and throw away the key. I can't imagine that I will ever have the slightest urge to look inside boxes and boxes of stuff that has been breeding in our various basements for the past eight years.
After the movers fill the shed, I send them two flights of very steep stairs up to a tiny bedroom in the attic. About ten boxes filled with fabric, pretty ribbons, buttons and other treasures find their way up there. I know I need to sort through my fabric stash and throw some of it away, but really life is too short to not give in to one or two addictions. Buying fabric is my addiction of choice. I am a bit of a magpie, what can I say?
By three in the afternoon, the constant decision making is taking it's toll. I can't think where the movers could possibly put down any more boxes, let alone two beds designed to go into guest rooms we no longer possess,  an old dining room table, four Ikea bookcases, six garden chairs, a coffee table, two carpets and an assortment of brightly coloured hat boxes that I haven't opened for the last three years. I let the men put it all down in the garden. Credit to them, they don't bat an eyelit.
Four days of absolutely glorious weather later (it must be the best summer since Napoleon invaded the Netherlands) and the furniture is still piled up high in the garden, spoiling the tiny, but once very pretty lawn. I have put all my cards on the local second hand furniture store who are despatching a few men and (hopefully a large) van. In order to tempt them to take my scruffy decade old Ikea furniture, I make husband W. carry most of the things back into the darkest part of the house. There I treat all the furniture with a bit of soapy water and/or a vacuum cleaner. It doesn't look half bad.
As I see it the second hand furniture shop assistants either take it, or we'll have to wait till New Year's eve when we can spray the stuff with petrol and strike a match or two.

Where there is smoke, there is fire

Just before leaving Switzerland, I am finally completely on board with the Swiss national hobby: grilling sausages. My technique though still leaves a lot to be desired.

Today, again, I'll go up a mountain with good friends L. and S. packed with sausages in all shapes and sizes. And tons of highly toxic fire starter cubes, extra long and fat matches, foil grill trays, barbeque tongs and between us about eight Swiss army knifes. We pack it into the funicular and up we go. A ten minute stroll brings us to the nearest grill pit. Luckily there is a forest to explore, so within seconds we have lost all ten of our children. Utter bliss!
Before we even contemplate unpacking all our bbq tools, we are put to shame by three very fit middle-aged Swiss, who no doubt spend the last three hours hiking up and are now sharpening sticks with their pocket knifes, so they can spear the ubiquitous sausages on, ready to be grilled. While two of them are busy with the stick sharpening, the third is lighting a fire. It all happens so fast! I am desperate for a replay, so I can watch an learn. But allthough there is probably a (weather) webcam around somewhere, I still haven't worked out how to watch that from the top of a mountain. Anyway, within twenty minutes or so the Swiss hikers have finished eating and are ready for the descend.
In absence of husband W., who normally doesn't let me go near a BBQ or fire place, I am thrilled to be let loose in nature with a box of matches on such a regular basis (the kids and I have barbequed at least five times over the last two weeks). And thanks to the small fortune I spent on 'fire lighting solutions', I am getting really rather good at lighting fires.
As is turns out it's not my lucky day. A young Swiss guy who is taking his two grannies out for a picknick, allready has a roaring fire going. Since he and his elderly companions had their fill of sausages, he insists that we use his grill pit. So now all we need to do is sit around and stuff ourselves with paprika crisps and bread, while we wait for our assortment of meat to sizzle.
We have such a wide variety of sausages on the BBQ (big fat white 'Kalbsbratwursten', tiny chipolata's, Walter Fritz's famous Wurst - we love the package! - and fiery red merquez type sausages), that it feels as if we cleared the processed meat counter, but then friend L. reveals that we managed to completely miss Switzerland most loved sausage: the cervelat. Phone in hand, she fills us in on the details.
Orginally made from beef and pig brains, the Swiss nowadays produce 160 million cervelats annually, although by the end of the 19th century they stopped filling them with brains. That's allready a lot to take in, but L. is just getting up some steam. ,,The Swiss", she starts with a devious smile,  ,,couldn't source enough casing 'material' for their sausages locally, so moved on to using Brazilian zebu intestines some twenty years ago".
Undeterred by my shrieks of horror L. continues with the 'cervelat' saga. And - credit where credit's due - I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Because, poor Swiss, in 2006 the EU banned the import of animal parts from Brazil in an attempt to stop the spreading of mad cow disease.
Quickly the Swiss set up a 'Cervelat Task Force' (really, you can't make this up).The sausage crisis was apparantly even subject of a parliamentary debate as cervelats are such an important part of a Swiss childhood that people stopped having babies altogether (I did make that up, by the way). It wasn't until a few years ago that the special task force cunningly managed to solve the cervelat upset, bij sourcing all sorts of (bovine) intestines from Uruguay, Argentina and Paraguay.
I am sooooo pleased that I could share this. Sausage anyone?

Shopping spree

I really am quite a sensible shopper. I don't buy heaps of clothes that I never wear - although I might leave a new top in the wardrobe for a season or two before I let myself put in on, but that's a different story altogether - and I manage to prepare the majority of the food I buy before it gets (too) mouldy. But get me into Lidl and all my level headedness goes straight out the window.

So I don't allow myself too many trips to the discount supermarket, but since my day today is filled driving the children to-and-fro swimming pools, friend's houses and sport clubs, Lidl really is on my way. I don't actually pass Lidl, unless I make a little detour, but on the basis that the children won't notice - I could drive them to France as long as I make sure the batteries of their i-pods are full - I decide to go for it.
As soon as I am in the door I find myself stocking up on fake mars bars, obscure looking chocolates and bags full of garish sweets that I would normally never buy. It is the distinct eastern european feel of the packaging that I find completely irresistable.
I don't really care for the vegetables, or the meat, but I do like the baffling selection of joghurts and joghurty drinks. I take one of each flavour, so about thirty or so little joghurts in total. On to the tomato juice, a glass of which is considered a very healthy breakfast by  husband W, and the tinned goulash soup, that sustains us on many an empty fridge day.
The food shopping over, I can finally turn my attention to the non-food isles. This weeks offering doesn't disappoint. There is a wondrous high pressure cleaning device for the kitchen and bathroom ('tough on limescale'), a wide selection of foldable plastic storage boxes of which you can never get enough, an 'easy baby food heater' and a cyclist's mankini that would come in very handy one day for some theme party. And then there is the laminator again.
I bought the exact same one four months ago and still haven't taken the thing out of it's box. Because, seriously what could I possibly want to laminate? But since the laminating pouches are on sale now, I throw a few packets into my trolley, together with some permanent markers and a packet of miracle
fertilizer that will transform my lawn overnight!
The products at Lidl are, without exception - dirt cheap. Just looking at the price creates an instant need. You would be insane not to buy a paper shredder for fifteen quid, or a wet suit for even less. You might never get the chance again and on the off chance that one day you might actually need a shredder, or want to take up body boarding, you'd better buy now.
I come home, feeling really pleased with the laminating sheets and permanent markers, which I hastily throw into the nearest cupboard so none of my family members will get a chance to comment. Because I know all too well that after the flush of excitement dies down, I too will struggle with the fact that the permanent markers and laminating pouches landed right next to my last Lidl visit's yield (a massive box of fine liners, thirty rolls of sellotape, a staple remover, an electric pencil sharpener and a stack of note pads). Not to mention the unopened paper shredder that I know is also lurking in there somewhere.
If husband W., the children and I ever get stuck in our house due to excessive snow, a heat wave, or other global warming related freak weather events that are no doubt going to be all too common in the future, we at least will be able to take countless notes, feed the useless ones to our shredder and laminate stuff worth keeping. Scientists the world over, that will no doubt come to rely heavily upon our data, will thank me for my shrewd shopping. Stocking up on office supplies instead of tins of baked beans.