Pardon.
Je m’excuse.
Sorry - not sorry - I took so long.
I was digesting.
A work play sandwich. Four-to-six weeks living and working in places old and new to me. Play, work, work, play.
Isn’t it interesting, the question…
Business or Pleasure?
Are you working or playing?
I guess I find it interesting that, in both instances, the question begins with work.
My answer is usually - bit of both.
This week, my Hūset Lovelies, it’s best explained as a Sandwich.
Last we dined (back in June cringe-cringe), I shared my run-in with Ole Stony - my kidney stone. Troublesome sort, it really buggered up my travel plans. You know, those tie-up-loose-ends type of things you have to do the week before you leave for a month?
Indeed, I thought I’d write daily during my travels. I believed I’d fill up pages upon pages of Hūset musings for you. In fact, I did not. Write for you, that is. I lived. I breathed. I walked. I trained. I planed. I soaked it all in. The life I had, the life I have.
What a great time to digress…
The Sandwich Thing
Years and years ago, when my kids were little and we made the twice-annual pilgrimage - home from home and home to home - from our little dot of a village in France, through a stopover to recharge with friends in London and then onward to Chicago and Wisconsin, I recall we had an International Sandwich Adventure.
Let me explain better.
In the span of 24 hours, I and my three little ones ate on the go. We ate the only thing we could all easily agree upon: The humble ham sandwich.
Three times.
Aș we left our village, we stopped at the boulangérie and (wait, it’s funny as I write this, through my now re-American-ed lens, as if we stopped & shopped, as if we went through the drive thru. We didn’t. Ever, actually. Except once in a while ‘McDo’ (McDonalds). I simply recall that, on this occasion, with three children under 7, driving five hours plus a ferry or Chunnel crossing from Calais to Dover on my own… I might have pulled The Convenience Card and not made nor packed a picnic.
So, we all got baguettes.
“Jambon beurre, s’il vous plaît.”
“Jambon fromage pour moi!”
Ham Sandwiches, some with cheese, some without. All with butter. Each on a crusty baguette.
Munching along the motorway. The crust, the crunch, the joy with absolutely no carb nor gluten fears at that stage. Just humming and chumming as we all enjoyed the simple joy of a French baguette stuffed with goodness and yum.
Fast forward to London. Half a day later, maybe it was dinner time?
How to feed a starving young family of travellers?
Ham & Cheese Toasties, of course.
British Ones.
We found ourselves amongst friends who happened to have a new toy: A Toasty Maker. Showing off their wares, they treated us each to our Toasty of Choice: Ham, Ham & Butter, Ham & Butter & Cheese.
“Make mine whole grain, seedy, please!”
“White farmhouse.”
“Can you put mine on a Bap or Bun?“
Of course. Have Toasty Maker, will deliver.
(This was 2010, pre-sourdough craze.)
Ride the Sandwich Wave we did.
Par hasard (by chance)…
It continued all the way across The Pond.
We found ourselves in Wisconsin a mere 24 hours later at home with Mimi and Poppa.
How to great weary travelers?
“Poppa is getting Subs. What do you want?”
‘Subs? What are Subs?’ The Franco-philed Half-British little kids implored to me but nodded to Mimi at the same time.
Ham and Cheese, of course.
I cannot tell a lie, this is awfully close to what actually happened.
24 hours of Cross-Channel and Trans-Atlantic travel meals.
Happy Meals.
Three versions of ham and cheese and bread. There are many more, but I recall to this day how delicious each version tasted. Not because I was tired and hungry, but because of the love and simple adherence to culture that each version provided.
The Baguette.
The Toasty.
The Sub.
Spread with butter that everyone secretly adores.
Dressed in ham: one thick slice in France. A few thin layers in England. Load ‘em up ‘til they are at least an inch thick in the US of A.
Cheese of choice? The French prefer Emmental. Mature Cheddar say the Brits. Always a choice for the Yanks… American? Mozzarella? Provolone? Colby is a favorite in the midwest. Colby Jack for those who dial it up.
For my tired kids, all they knew was that it was a Safe Sandwich.
The years have passed and we enjoy sandwiches a little less, but here and now, I play homage to The Sandwich I know made my Mom’s heart sing…
The Danish Open Faced.
During one beautiful week this July, I tasted again and again, the joys of Smørrebrød - Danish open sandwiches - a staple of their cuisine.
The National Dish!
Can I pronounce it? No, I cannot. I can simply enjoy…
Rugbrød. Brown & beautiful rye bread - joyfully holding the treats that sit atop.
The main component - usually fishy, often meaty.
Garnishes - the visual treat, the herby wonder that lifts & balances the flavors.
Each day, as I munched my way through sandwiches full of names I could not say, I ate them in loving memory of Mom. My Danish-Swedish Mom that never got to visit those lands; Her Homelands. I wore her cashmere sweater around my shoulders. The last thing I have that still smells of her.
Oh, wait. Talking of Denmark and Food, how can I not mention Cinnamon Buns. I chose the One-a-Day-Plan, because, who wouldn’t?
Not surprisingly, I did make a few visits to THE LOO during my travels…
I was The One snapping photos in public restrooms across Europe. While others are endlessly texting away on those seats of shame, taking longer than their allotted slot - while others wait standing and queuing politely in crossed legs - I did take a few interesting snaps to weave into our time together.
But today, I don’t want to overshadow the joy of the return to the table together. Something to look forward to in the weeks and months to come.
Ha. Pictures of Toilets! Yes.
So, my friends…
Indeed. I had these thoughts & back in July, I wrote these words about sandwiches one month after I took a break from this table, from my Hūset writings.
Then, I took another break, another work-play-work trip in August. Each time, assuming I would know what to say when I came back. As if I had a Plan, a Menu, an Order of Service. Come to find out, I didn’t - other than to serve up every week. Then I stopped and, well I’ll admit it’s difficult to come back after a long interlude and know what to say other than…
“Sorry, I was digesting.”
This summer, I spent an unexpected amount of time living, being, exploring and working: in Europe, in the UK. My Olde Home, a stomping ground - if you will. I found myself so very comfortable in a Goldilocks sort of way. However, I was actually cozy in all of the chairs and all of the beds. Through a series of circumstances, I found myself on sofas, beds and sofa-beds in the homes of friends old and new. I perched at kitchen tables and far flung offices, dens and sheds. Working, writing and planning in early mornings before everyone woke. Sharing a cup of coffee or tea, in multiple formats with each friend and grown-up child of friend as they woke to start their days too.
Yes, mine was a summer of tasting. Toasting. Talking. Listening.
Joining up the dots.
My life here. My life there.
The sharing of ideas and thoughts over food. So much more to come as I find my place on these pages - at this Hūset Table - once again. Thanks for your patience, thanks for reaching out to find out whether Ole Stony got the best of me, whether I’d come back to the table to share with you again.
Indeed, I will. Indeed, I am.
But, I am evolving. Finding the best day to write and share. I might flutter a bit as I do. Today, our Hūset meal is on Sunday.
I’m not so sure that Thursday publishing works for me anymore.
Hmm. we’ll see.
As I sign-off, I’m sharing this sweet image of the Danish flag. At a time when flags are - for reasons we cannot explain, but we can just feel - causing an emotive stir one way or another, I share this one that seems (for little ole me from afar) to simply bring joy.
In each of my many visits to this beautiful, seemingly peaceful country of Denmark, I notice the simple use of the flag - to greet loved ones at the airport, to celebrate a birthday or special moment, to mark the dawn of a new day - not for patriotism, but instead, as a universal symbol of happiness.
I choose happiness.
I choose to share that happy, that hope, & my continued curiosity with you - my loved, my few, my new. My readers and fellow round-the-table-rs, my Hūset readers.
Thanks for your patience, I’m back.
ABBY
Super to have you back. Rather like Frederike, I don’t care which day, it’s just always a joy to hear your voice
So happy your back!! Whether on a Thursday or any day of the week.
Sharing your love for the sandwich❤️