Getting married in Belgium, Part II

This is a follow-up to an earlier post about my wedding, which took place last summer. I always meant to write another post about getting married here but somehow never got around to it--until now. Since our one-year anniversary is just around the corner, I figured I shouldn't wait any longer to write it!

One of the strangest things for me (as an American) to wrap my head around was the Belgian custom of inviting different people to different wedding events.

Where I come from, a wedding is considered a single event comprised of different activities, to which all guests are invited and expected to attend. The usual sequence goes something like this: wedding service (civil or religious) followed by wedding reception, either at the same venue or a different location. The reception usually involves drinks (champagne), then a formal dinner, and finally dancing.

The creation of the guest list is a complicated and tortuous affair, made even more difficult by budget concerns when providing dinner and drinks for everyone on the list. The final guest list has to include a carefully calibrated mixture of close friends, casual friends, immediate family, distant relatives, co-workers and professional acquaintances of both the bride and the groom, and perhaps the parents as well.

Here in Belgium, it is customary to have a different guest list for each wedding activity. For instance, pretty much everyone is invited to attend the civil ceremony; there's no cost to the couple and because it takes place in a public venue (at city hall) anyone can show up and watch. On the other hand, if there's going to be another ceremony (in a church) only close friends and family might be invited and expected to attend. In general, people outside the couple's immediate circle are happy to skip the church ceremony.

Then there might be two or three different celebratory events after the ceremony (or ceremonies). First, a champagne reception for the people invited to the church ceremony. Then a formal dinner for just the immediate family and closest friends. And finally an evening party with music and dancing for the wider circle of friends, acquaintances and other relatives. (At the evening party, there will often be a casual buffet served late in the evening with sandwiches or snacks.)

Breaking the wedding up into different events (sometimes taking place over two or more days) has two advantages: First of all, you can tailor the guest list to the event, limiting the more intimate events to your inner circle of family and friends and including everyone else in a big dance party. Secondly, it saves money since you're not expected or obliged to provide a formal, sit-down dinner to all of your guests--which is often the biggest wedding expense. It's a very practical system.

However, I just couldn't do it. To me it felt rude to exclude some of my guests from certain events. I couldn't bring myself to invite people to my wedding service and then tell them to get lost for a few hours while I went to a nice dinner with my family and closest friends, even though my husband assured me that no Belgian would take offense.

In the end, because our second ceremony took place in the same location (an old, renovated farmhouse) where we had the reception and party, it didn't make sense to break up the guest list anyway. Everyone who came to the ceremony stayed for the champagne reception, sit-down dinner and dancing. And because I had family and friends coming from the United States and England, having our guests spend the whole day together gave everyone the chance to get to know each other.

Some of our Belgian friends couldn't make it to the ceremony since it was on a Friday afternoon and they had to work, so they just showed up during dinner. I found that strange. In America, either you come to the wedding or you don't. You don't accept part of the invitation and you definitely don't skip the wedding ceremony itself. I'm pretty sure Emily Post would not approve, but then she's not Belgian.

I was used to thinking of the wedding ceremony as the most important part of the wedding and my job as guest was to witness and support the couple during this momentous and romantic event. Here, the ceremony is considered a boring formality, and the guest's role is to help celebrate afterwards. Perhaps this is because civil and Catholic weddings tend to be rather formulaic and impersonal, whereas we Americans put a lot of emphasis on customizing the wedding ceremony to reflect the couple's personality and beliefs.

In the end, our wedding day was a reflection of our marriage and ourselves: a combination of American and Belgian influences and traditions. The civil ceremony was in Dutch and the religious ceremony was in English. We sang songs and had readings in both languages. We served Flemish food for dinner and had an American-style tiered wedding cake. The DJ played both Belgian and American music, and the dance floor was full all night long.

It was everything I wanted our wedding to be, and it was perfect.

White Gold Time

It's asparagus season in Belgium, which means that the markets (both supermarkets and outdoor markets) are overflowing with piles of white asparagus. In Flemish, it's also known as wit goud or “white gold,” because it's expensive and coveted.

Where I come from, I'd only seen white asparagus in glass jars. Fresh asparagus was always green, and in California it's available year-round. (Here, you can find green asparagus but it doesn't inspire the fervent devotion that the white variety enjoys. The white stuff is actually the same plant, but cultivated underground so it doesn't turn green.)

White asparagus is available in different sizes ranging from pencil-thin to great, thick stalks several centimeters in diameter. The thicker stalks have to be peeled before cooking, leaving just the tender, inner flesh. White asparagus is prized for its delicate flavor, considered sweeter then regular asparagus. It's usually boiled and served with a sauce, although it also turns up in soups and other dishes.

Many Belgian restaurants feature special asparagus menus during asparagus season, giving the true aficionado the chance to eat appetizers, main dishes and even desserts made with the beloved stuff. I recently ordered steamed cod served with asparagus and sea vegetables off the asparagus menu at a local brasserie.

My favorite way to eat this springtime treat is also one of the simplest: Asperges vlaamse wijze or asperges flamande. “Flemish-style asparagus” is just peeled and cooked asparagus spears topped with diced hard-boiled egg, clarified butter and fresh parsley. This classic dish is easy to find in Belgian restaurants this time of year, but it's also easy to make at home.

Belgians don't benefit from the warm, sunny growing climate of California, so the regular diet is heavy on potatoes, leeks, cabbages and carrots—what are usually considered “winter vegetables.” So perhaps that's why the annual appearance of white asparagus creates such excitement. It's only available for a short time, and then it's back to potatoes and cabbage. Until next spring.

Hungry? Eat a sandwich!

Today I want to talk about something near and dear to every Belgian's heart (at least in Flanders... I don't know if it's the same in Wallonia). Something that is essential to the Flemish character, something ingrained in the Flemish consciousness and necessary to every Flemish person's well-being.

I'm not talking about family, or cycling, or even beer. No, I'm talking about sandwiches.

The Flemish love sandwiches. A friend of mine (who's not Flemish) says that they're sandwich-obsessed. She may have a point. They sure do eat a lot of them.

At this point, I have to clarify my use of the word “sandwich.” Where I come from, a sandwich is any hand-held food item involving two pieces of bread with something in between. It could be a BLT, egg salad on sourdough, a turkey club, peanut butter and jelly on whole wheat, a Reuben, an Italian sub, or any variation of bread+not bread+bread you can imagine.

Here in Flanders, there are different names for different kinds of sandwiches. First of all, a “sandwich” in Flemish parlance isn't a sandwich at all. It's a soft, oval-shaped roll, kind of like a dinner roll, that's often used to make a kind of mini-sandwich. But to be perfectly clear, it's the bread itself that's called a sandwich. Confusing, isn't it?

Then you have the most basic type of sandwich: two slices of bread with something in between. This is what's known around here as a boterham. As the name suggests, it's usually made with butter (never mayonnaise!) and a thin slice of deli meat, like ham or chicken. Or maybe cheese. But a boterham has just one ingredient other than bread and butter! You do not put lettuce, tomatoes, pickles or anything else on your boterham.

I remember when I first came to Belgium, I thought that a boterham was a sad and boring excuse for a sandwich. It's so thin! And it's mostly bread! It's a sign of how long I've been here that I now view them as perfectly normal. My husband eats a boterham every day for breakfast, and another two for lunch. If I had to eat a boterham twice a day every day, I'd probably slit my wrists.

If you want a sandwich with more than one ingredient, what you want is a broodje. Now, a broodje (literally “little bread”) is technically a small baguette (or stokbrood in Dutch), so to be correct, what you want is a belegde broodje, or “filled little bread.” The most basic kind is a smos, which is shorthand for lettuce, tomato, cucumber, sliced egg and mayonnaise. I prefer a smos-kaas-hesp, which is a smos with ham and cheese.

But there are many other kinds of broodjes, and this is the kind of sandwich you will most likely purchase at a café or lunch counter. It's the standard quick meal when you're out and about, and they're usually fresh and quite good.

However, I must warn you about one type of sandwich filling you might encounter in a broodje. It's something called Américain, which is horribly misleading and actually rather mean. As an American, I object strenuously to this misnomer, which is used to describe raw ground beef.First of all, no American is going to eat raw ground beef. Ewww! And second of all... why call it something that makes me think it's from America? Which it certainly is not.

Besides boterhammen and broodjes, you also have the many variations on grilled cheese sandwiches, which are Belgian menu staples. There's the croque monsieur (grilled ham and cheese), croque madame (with an egg on top), croque Hawaii (pineapple ring on top) and croque Bolognaise (covered with—you guessed it—Bolognaise sauce). There are others besides.

Anyway, you get the idea. There are lots of sandwiches being eaten in Flanders. I know I've eaten more sandwiches since coming to Belgium than I had eaten back in the U.S. since leaving elementary school. More than fries, more than mussels or waffles, I have to say that the sandwich is really the national dish. 

(A version of this post appears on the website for Fans of Flanders, an English-language TV program aimed at expats living in Belgium. I'm honored to be one of their regular guest bloggers!)

A Crock-Pot in every kitchen

One of the hardest things about moving to a country on the other side of the ocean is getting rid of all your stuff. To this day, I sometimes think about things that I sold or gave away and wish I still had them. Some things I thought I wouldn't need again; others, I thought I could always replace if it turned out I did need them.

Once I moved in with the Belgian who's now my husband and started cooking again, I had to get used to a new kitchen, his pots and pans, and the mysteries of the Belgian grocery store--not to mention using the metric system for measurements. Everything was different. Time and time again, I found myself wishing I had my old potato ricer, or my old garlic press, or my set of nesting glass mixing bowls.

One of the things I missed the most was my Crock-Pot (the original slow cooker). I had an old one that belonged to my mother and probably dated from the mid-1970's. It, like all of my kitchen wares, stayed in Los Angeles with one of my friends. (To this day, I can spot my former belongings when I walk into a friend's house. "Hey, isn't that one of my coffee mugs?")

This is what my old Crock-Pot looked like

I started looking around for a new one... and quickly discovered that Belgians don't use slow cookers. They're hard to find, and the ones you do find (in specialty kitchen stores) tend to be expensive. Walk into any electronics store here and you will see two dozen home fryers... but not a single Crock-Pot. For the record, I never knew anyone in the Unites States who owned a deep fryer. But anyone who cooks is sure to own a Crock-Pot. Or two.

I find this absence of slow cookers puzzling considering the Belgian love of soups and stews. These days, people are getting creative and making all kinds of exotic things in their Crock-Pots: chicken mole, bread pudding, Chinese barbecue pork. But the Crock-Pot was made for dishes that need long cooking times, like your classic boeuf carbonnade or stoofvlees, a Belgian menu staple.

When I've asked people around here why they don't use slow cookers, I first have to explain what it is. And then I have to try and convince them that it's useful to be able to assemble your stew or soup, put it in the pot, turn it on and leave it for hours. Americans love the convenience of being able to cook something while they're at work, or sleeping, or out watching a softball game or a movie.

Belgians just can't seem to see the point. They're perfectly happy cooking their soups and stews on the stove, or in the oven, tending the fire and checking the pot for hours. At least, that's what they tell me. I suspect that if they actually had a Crock-Pot, and learned how to use it, they'd love it just as much as we Americans do.

This is what a fancy new Crock-Pot looks like

My Belgian husband couldn't understand why I was obsessed with buying a Crock-Pot. That is, until our most recent trip to Los Angeles.

We threw a Hawaiian-themed party for friends who couldn't make it to our wedding last year, and two of my friends volunteered to make kalua pork. For those of you who have never tasted kalua pork, let me tell you that it's one of the tastiest things you can do to a pig, and the Crock-Pot is the perfect tool for making it at home. Traditionally, kalua pork was made by roasting a whole pig in an underground firepit. The Crock-Pot is much easier.

Once my husband had tasted kalua pork, he was very motivated to buy a slow cooker when we got home. (The Crock-Pot brand isn't available here.) Luckily, the Aldi (a German discount grocery chain) near our house had them for a limited time and I picked one up for only 25 € the week we got back. I have great plans for it, starting with chicken mole and kalua pork. But I'm also planning to cook Belgian dishes in it too.

So begins my campaign to convert an entire country to the joys of the slow cooker.

My daily source of exasperation

It's the little things that drive you crazy.

As an expat living in a foreign land, I can accept a wide range of strange and unfamiliar practices that fall under the heading “Cultural Differences.” I understand that people here have their own customs and habits, and that it is up to me, as an outsider, to adapt and assimilate.

However, there are some things that I simply cannot accept—things that I view not as cultural differences born of this country's unique history, language or traditions, but as serious errors. Yes, it's true: There are a few things about life in Flanders that are just plain wrong.

Take TV, for instance. One of my pet peeves is the mysterious logic behind television programming. Flemish TV channels carry a lot of American shows, which is great—until you realize that they're showing episodes from last season. Or maybe it's the current season, but the episodes are several months old, so you end up watching the Christmas episode of “Castle” in February.

Often there seems to be no logic at all to the scheduling or programming of shows. They'll show the previous season of “Bones,” and then when it's over, start again with episodes that are 4 years old. For no apparent reason. Shows regularly jump from one time slot to another, or from one day of the week to another, without warning.

There's no respect for the intrinsic structure and rhythm of your typical TV show. A one-hour drama is built around commercial breaks at specific times, with one scene ending at the cut and another picking up after the lead-in. Flemish broadcasters run right through the break, and then insert a commercial somewhere else in the episode, usually at the worst possible moment, mid-scene or even mid-sentence.

Here's another thing that I find maddening: TV shows don't start and end on the hour or half-hour like they do in the US! Each channel has its own schedule with shows starting and ending at completely random times that are completely different from all the other channels. Nowadays, with DVRs, it's easy enough to record one show and watch another, but how did this system ever come to be in the first place?

And I have the distinct impression that the start and end times listed on the channel guide are just suggestions. Nothing ever seems to start at the time it's supposed to.

Maybe it's the fact that I used to work in the entertainment industry, or the fact that I'm addicted to TV (can you tell?) that makes me so particular about how my favorite shows are presented. Or maybe it's part of my greater frustration over being a slave to television broadcasters in the first place.

By the time I left the US three years ago, I was watching less and less TV on my television and more TV shows online. After coming to Belgium, I soon found that all of the digital content I was used to streaming live on my computer was now unavailable to me. Three years later, nothing has changed. Digital content from the US is still blocked in Belgium.

So I'm stuck watching TV shows on TV... when I can figure out what times they're on. One good thing about watching TV in Flanders: American shows are all subtitled, not dubbed. We also get the Walloon channels from our cable provider, but I simply cannot bring myself to watch American shows with the actors' voices dubbed into French!

(A version of this post also appeared on the website for Fans of Flanders, the English-language TV show for and about expats in Flanders. I'm honored to be one of their guest bloggers--and I even watch the show on TV.)

Carnaval time in Flanders!

Today is Ash Wednesday, the start of the Christian season of Lent, a period of penitence and fasting leading up to Easter. In New Orleans, Louisiana, the day before Ash Wednesday is celebrated with Mardi Gras (“Fat Tuesday” in French)--North America's only indigenous Carnival. In our mostly Protestant country, Carnival traditions never took hold anywhere else.

Here in Catholic Belgium, Carnaval (spelled slightly differently) is part of the culture. It doesn't seem to be celebrated everywhere, but there are local Carnaval festivities scattered all over the country. The most famous ones are in Aalst (Flanders) and Binche (Wallonia). Where I live, in Limburg province, there is a long history of Carnaval traditions which are tied to the neighboring regions of Dutch Limburg and the German Rhineland.

 On Monday, I experienced my first Flemish Carnaval in my husband's home village. Vroenhoven is located just over the border from Maastricht, which is probably the Netherlands' most famous Carnaval city, boasting the most outrageous parties and parades. Most of the villages in the area have their own home-grown Carnaval parade, led by local organizations who elect a Prince of Carnaval every year.

This year, the Vroenhoven stoet (“parade” in the local dialect) was organized together with the parade in Wolder, the Dutch village on the other side of the canal separating Belgium from the Netherlands. The joint parade started in one village and then made its way over the border to the other village and back again. A truly international celebration!

In America, we're used to images of scantily-clad Carnivale dancers in Rio de Janeiro, or slightly-more-covered revelers at Mardi Gras. The reality of Carnaval in Belgium couldn't be more different: Everyone is bundled up against the cold, and the most popular Carnaval accessories are big, funny hats (good for keeping your head warm), and scarves, gloves and legwarmers in traditional Carnaval colors of red, yellow and green.

Carnaval in Vroenhoven has a distinctly rural flavor, with all the parade floats constructed on farm trailers pulled by huge tractors. Each parade float had its own theme, with costumed revelers either riding on top or walking alongside. I wasn't prepared for the shower of candy and other goodies that were thrown into the crowd, but the children standing next to me came with big shopping bags which were soon full to bursting.

My husband grew up participating in the parade, wearing a different costume every year from the time he was a wee child. Our two-year-old niece is too young yet, but I look forward to the day when she'll take her place in the annual Carnaval parade. And next year, I'll be sure to bring a big bag so that I can help her gather up the candy.

Get that baby a borrel!

I recently attended my first baby borrel, a party given by the parents a few months after the birth of a Flemish child. (A borrel is a drink so it's basically a party to toast the arrival of said baby.) Apparently they can range from rather modest affairs to all-out extravaganzas, much like a wedding. This one fell into the latter category.

It was held not at the family's house but at a rented hall, for reasons that became apparent once I saw how many people had been invited. There were easily a hundred family members and friends, with their children, present. Like a wedding, there was a bar serving beer, wine and soft drinks. The room was filled with long tables decorated in theme colors, and there was a table for presents.

The baby in his carriage, along with his parents, was stationed by the entrance to welcome his guests. He seemed unperturbed by all the attention. An uncle hovered nearby, ready with his camera to take pictures of everyone. After admiring the baby and congratulating the parents, guests seated themselves at the tables with other friends, co-workers and family members.

An even longer table held a stupendous array of cakes and sweets, with a couple of token trays stacked with fancy sandwiches. Hardly anyone touched the sandwiches. Like everyone else, I went straight for the cake. Fancy decorated cakes made with sponge cake and layers of buttercream and whipped cream. There were bundt cakes, different types of vlaai (a kind of pie), two kinds of chocolate mousse, tiramisu served in individual glasses, and cookies.

For the kids, there was a separate table where they could decorate mini-cupcakes and cake pops. There was a clown making balloon animals and someone else doing face painting.

The father circulated throughout the room with a tray of little plastic shot glasses containing limoncello and a very strong local liqueur made from sour cherries--in case the wine and beer weren't enough. In the middle of the afternoon, I might add.

The baby borrel is a relatively new tradition in Flanders. The old custom was for friends and family to come to the hospital to see the baby right after the birth, or to drop by the house in the weeks following. Eventually, the constant stream of visitors got to be too much and someone had the idea to throw one big party where the new baby could be introduced to the family's wider social circle.

Where I come from, we have something called a baby shower (presumably because the mother-to-be is "showered" with gifts). It's usually held 6-8 weeks before the birth and is a more intimate affair, with only a few female relatives and close female friends in attendance. Rather than welcoming a new child, the focus is on preparing and supporting the new mother.

The Flemish, being a deeply pragmatic and cautious people, find it strange that you would have a party for a baby before the birth. After all, things can and do go wrong in the weeks leading up to the delivery, during childbirth, and even afterwards--although no one likes to think about that possibility.

I guess Americans are just naturally optimistic. We would rather act as though everything will be fine--and in most cases, it is. The Flemish, on the other hand, would rather wait a few months and then celebrate once it's clear that everyone really is fine. And once the mother has had a chance to recover a bit and appear in public looking her best!