The Christmas Market is open in the Vrijthof this evening under clear skies: nice to revisit the Gluhwijn and Krakauer, skaters and SkyWheel again.
And a Cedar Falls Expat in a reindeer sweater.
Archives for December 2014
Back across the Channel
‘back in the apartment in Maastricht for the week, Christmas Ball out and the Dutch Star lit. Beyond the star, lights are shining along the ‘skade and across the Stone Bridge. There are few signs of Christmas Markets outside of the Vrijthof, but workmen are bringing in huts and decorating trees, so there may yet be celebrations.
The clock is running down towards my visa conversion, so I flew into Amsterdam to meet with the accountants and attorneys who would be documenting my case. Official stamps, company letterheads, original bank statements, current uittreksel: I know the drill. The upside is that I get a little time to walk Amsterdam’s canals, too early for the Festival of Lights, but the still waters and reflected townhouses made for a good stroll.
Central Maastricht is filled with sparkle and colour, despite the rain and freezing temperatures. I’ve been out for zuurvlees and herfst bier with business associates, putting final touches onto plans and partnerships for the coming year. I need cards and gifts from the department stores, Dutch Christmas treats for the folks in the UK and US. I want time in the main square for Gluhweijn while watching the skaters. I wish there was time to go to Aachen or beyond, but it will need to wait for another year.
Mostly, though, its nice to be back among familiar scenes and people, the city’s movement and warmth.
It takes a little cheek…
An ox cheek, to be precise, lying beneath the fragrant red marinade.
I’ve been drilling through Masterchef Pro on BBC, and had been admiring how the cooks are able to make something wonderful out of nothing. Courage and Confidence, I observed. Be bold.
Skip ahead, the butcher at Tesco, a feast of alternatives. What haven’t I tried, wouldn’t I try to cook. Fats, offal, trimmings….ah, cheek. Cool. 
I buy a happy half-kilo of oxen, along with the makings for a Tomato Tagliatelle, just in case…
…and score Double Points at check-out. I’m on a roll.
Jump forward: I’m on a stool in the kitchen, a glass of wine, thumbing the recipes for ox. ’never seen a recipe start like this one:
I am a cheek man. Pig, cow, skate, doesn’t matter to me, its cheeks are the nuggets I most adore. They appeal to my lazy side, being easily portionable and neat, and they appeal to my Yorkshire side, being cheap.
In the panoply of meat cuts, ox cheeks are among the finest – outrageously flavoursome, spectacularly gelatinous (and thus most gleefully slow-cooked), and extraordinarily handsome. So handsome you could bung a creepy old man wig and mid-90s rocker beard on one and call him Brad Pitt.
It would be a weird thing to do.
I take a good swig of wine and pour a generous portion of the rest over the meat. I take out the days frustrations on the chopping board while the ox bathes: carrots, onions, green beans, herbs, chilis (from our plant, thriving in my window), lots and lots of garlic.
I gather everything expectantly and launch into the second section of the recipe.
Brown, sauté, sweat: it all proceeds nicely. Decant everything into a pot, add the marinade and stock. Bake in a slow oven for four hours.
I glance at the clock, already striking 10 pm. Not a good sign for eating this evening (and too late to start the Tagliatelle). I give the oven a goose for 20 minutes to warm things through, then drop the temp and head to bed.
Morning. The house smells like fresh meaty ox-tail soup. I’m glad all of the girls are away.
Remarkably, everything is firm, flaky, rich with flavour, just as the recipe promised. I add the tomato to the stock, reduce a little, and pour it all into a bowl. It makes enough for, well, one meal.
But a King’s meal. I finally make the pasta and get everything together. Not the greatest presentation (needs some colour), but it smells and tastes delicious.
Anything worth doing is worth doing slowly, notes the Guardian, awarding the humble ox a place on it’ top ten slow cooked dishes. I’m not sure that it’s anything that could be sped up.
But it works very well, given its own time. No ‘tongue in cheek’ jokes needed.
Where to start…
The fields outside of St. Albans lie quiet and frosted in the early winter light, a few remaining leaves glowing, burnt by the rising sun. Inside Sopwell House an investor is thumbing my presentation, writing questions in precise script, finishing a coffee. I pat one pocket for business cards, the other for props. ‘chins up, smiles on, off we go.
While life is generally full and good, it’s also been incredibly busy. I was surprised to find that that a full month has shot past since I last wrote here.
There’s no lack of scribbled notes for topics, narrative photographs for stories, that I want to put up. Although it goes against the grain, I’ll do a bit of backfill before getting back onto a more frequent update.
My month of days have been consumed by fundraising except for a well-earned two-day break alongside a necessary weekend meeting in Florida. I do what I can, but faithfully walk away from my desk by 7, away from the office on weekends, and regularly take time 
for dinners in London and walks along the coasts, I wrote to a friend. I learned my lessons last year about stress and trying to do too much, myself.
Fundraising is Sales: compile contact lists and referrals, reach out and get a conversation rolling. I’m developing a merchant’s instinct for my prospects after each call. When positive, there are progressive discussions about evidence, plans, valuation, exits. When conversation turns negative, though, there’s a period of silence followed by a polite denial with reasons rather than questions. I’ve always held that the secret is persistence: the w.wezen presented me with a chocolate tack hammer to honor the process.
“When nothing seems to help, I go look at a stone-cutter hammering away at his rock perhaps a hundred times without as much as a crack showing in it. Yet at the hundred and first blow it will split in two, and I know it was not that blow that did it, but all that had gone before."
— Jacob Riis, Danish-American social reformer
I believe absolutely in our products and people, in the business the impact that we can make on clinical care and institutional costs. Our risks are well managed and our investors can do very well when we reach market.
Nonetheless, the journey can be difficult, and people sometimes ask if I lose hope along the way.
No, never. I have faith that we’ll get there: I care about the outcome.
Caring requires making a conscious effort, the FT’s Shrink counsels. I agree: Keeping sustained energy and steady optimism is key.
My only qualifier, though (lessons learned), is to keep perspective on where that effort is directed.
First for self, then relationship and family, colleagues and friends, finally the business.
It’s a journey, but I’ll arrive safely.
‘tis the season
I know it’s Christmas when Andre Rieu spreads his arms and opens his Advent Calendar. All music, lights, and schmaltz, it’s a warm combination of theatrical excess and hometown homily.
Locally, the mansion houses across Dorset are holding their annual Christmas Fairs, with church choirs and community groups laying out festive (usually Victorian-themed) programs and baked goods.
The weather has been clear and cold, and I’ve started exploring east up the coast past Christchurch. Mudeford Quay is a favorite stop, crab salads and sailing clubs.
But the Christmas-touch venue lies a bit beyond.
Highcliffe Castle was built in the early 1800’s by a retired diplomat recreating the Romantic-style chateaus that he admired in France. A mix of Gothic arches and Gallic stones, the house suffered a series of negligent owners before suffering fire, collapse, and abandonment 60 years ago. It was restored in the 1990s to become a museum and event centre.
Set well back from sea bluffs, the Castle looks more like a university hall set alongside box gardens. Its well back from the bluffs and seaward views, but the stone and wood interior rooms radiating from the entry hall are warm and filled with afternoon light. The local artists and clubs that fill Dorset had put out a wonderful display of artworks
Cakes, teas, and a walk along the red-pebble beach round out a nice day. The Isle of Wight was clear in the distance over the flat seas, cold wind blowing through the acacias topping the bluffs.
It’s not quite the palace that Andre lives in overlooking the Maas, but it’s a nice afternoon destination inside and out. Stately homes throughout the area are holding similar events, check What’s On Dorset and Visit Dorset for a full list.
And, no, I didn’t buy anyone the Figurative Frog, apologies….