We went to Amsterdam for my birthday weekend, and we each got to do something fun and Dutch. I ate herring, and Rita took a bike ride along the Amstel river. I went on the bike ride too. Rita did not eat the herring. I bought it at a little stand that was doing a brisk business. At the last minute I was tempted by the fried version but decided to stick with the lightly pickled one. It was delish! As is always the case with tasty food, the secret is fat.

On Saturday morning we rented those big black Dutch bikes and rode through town and south to Oudekerk aan de Amstel. The dedicated bike paths and lanes were great, but the bike! Woof! Think of trying to pedal a Ford Excursion stuck in low gear and you're about there. Now I know why the Dutch ride these things at breakneck speeds: to make it easier to climb the bazillions of little hills that are canal bridge.

You know you're in Belgium when...

The 12-year-old altar girl helps polish off the communion wine.

Then and Now

If you don't have kids or your kids aren't old enough to mock you yet, think back to when you made fun of the silly things your pathetic old mom or dad used to say. One of the things I say that my girls like to make fun of is, "One day those trees will make some nice shade." Well, girls, here is our Grand' Place in 1894 at the dedication of the new kiosk. For the event, they planted a bunch of new linden trees.

Those same lindens 115 years later. Same kiosk too.

David discovers the blogosphere…finally

This picture slays me. It's a little hard to grasp in one glance, so here's a hint: the guy in the middle is the punch line. I took it from The Talking Mirror, a blog written by two conservative, mainstream Christians that I find funny, even if I am too old and too far away to get some of their pop culture references. They do a little ranting, but I've taken to reading it anyways. I recommend the post on meeting girls in church and the one on praise music.

This photo first appeared on a blog called BuzzFlash, which bills itself as progressive. Forgive me if everybody already knows all these sites. I'm late to the party.

What is an American?

Our neighbors are not Belgian…or so the husband tells us. They were both born here in the late 40s. His parents were recently arrived from Italy, hers from Czechoslovakia. There was a lot of that then because this was a coal mining and industrial area that needed lots of labor, so people came here from all the depressed, bombed-out parts of Europe. Then the coal played out, the industry moved to China, and now everyone is unemployed--except the Italians. They all opened restaurants. Rita calls Italian the European food. There are Italian restaurants everywhere. And in Italy itself, that's all there is.

But back to our neighbor. Despite being born and raised here, he still considers himself Italian. The other night he was pouring me a wine he described as being from where he's from: "C'est un vin de chez nous." It was the Italian wine prosecco.

The first time we had them over, before we understood this refusal to just accept being Belgian, Rita was describing her Austro-Germanic roots, and Marco asked, "Then what are you?" And Rita, a bit nonplussed, said, "Well, I'm an American!" I was proud of her.

I don't know about you, but it makes me appreciate what we have. We take all comers, and all we ask is that you agree to say that you're an American and accept that you have the right to pursue happiness.

And you guys all thought we'd go over to the dark side on our Big Belgian Adventure.

300 years later

Big goings-on around here this week in preparation for Friday's 300th anniversary of the Battle of Malplaquet, the bloodiest engagement of the 18th century. It was part of the War of Spanish Succession, which was in no small measure a big land grab by France and Louis XIV. It was only in the late 19th century that France turned into a victim. The battlefield is on the French border, just a few miles south of us. In typical fashion, the Belgians are marking the event with a commemorative drama and a special bread, sausage, and beer (you knew that was coming).

In case you don't feel like clicking on the link, 32,000 men died in the 1-day battle between the French and an allied force of British, Low Lands, and Austrian troops. The Allies lost almost one-fourth of their men dead. Also killed were 57 civilians at morning mass.

It seems that 11 September has always been a bad day.

Only in Belgium

Or…the rest of the story on the beer ice cream.

Yes, it really tasted like beer, hops mostly. I got it at the Maredsous Abbey, which brews beer and has a big welcome center/cafeteria/gift shop/religious articles store/ice cream parlor where the monks hawk all their wares: beer, bread, cheese, sausage (very tasty!), patés, crucifixes, rosaries, medals, saint statues, CDs, books, etc. Oh, and they're monks, too. They used the 8% brown beer for the ice cream. They also have a speculoos-flavored ice cream that should interest anyone who's ever had coffee in Belgium. The brewery is commercially run but supervised by the monks and run for the benefit of the abbey and its works. It produces the standard three varieties that most Belgian beermakers brew: a blond, a brown, and a you'll-never-make-it-to-mass-on-time triple, weighing in at 10% alcohol.

The church had a little exhibit on Father Damien, a Belgian missionary who served lepers in Hawaii. Even many of us non-Catholics have heard of him. His connection to the abbey is that he stopped there to worship on his way to Bremen, whence he left for Hawaii. So they're just like us: we have "George Washington slept here"; Belgian monks have "Father Damien prayed here."