Chinese Pindakoekjes

In the early decades of the twentieth century, the cry “Pinda! Pinda! Lekka, lekka!” (peanut, peanut, tasty, tasty) echoed through Dutch streets: the call of the Chinese peanut brittle vendors. 

Most of these vendors were seamen from southern China who had originally worked as stokers and coal trimmers on ships of the Dutch merchant marine, such as the Stoomvaart Maatschappij Nederland. When shipping jobs became scarce (especially after World War I) many of these men were stranded in port cities such as Rotterdam and Amsterdam. Without stable employment, and facing language barriers and discrimination, they resorted to selling peanut brittle for 5 cents a piece from metal boxes hanging from straps around their necks. 

So familiar was the sight of these peanut brittle vendors that their peanut cry made its way into popular song, most notably in the version performed by Willy Derby. The song exaggerates the character for the stage, as cabaret often did, but behind the humor stood a real figure in Dutch street life - a man making a living, five cents at a time. 

Fotocollectie Spaarnestad 

The somewhat romantic image in the song ("ik heb bij de mooiste meisjes sjans") hides a harsher reality. Selling pindakoekjes or pinda platen, was not a romantic enterprise but a means of survival in a country where steady employment was uncertain and social acceptance limited. Many of these Chinese migrants became stateless after losing their jobs. They often lived in overcrowded boarding houses, while anti-Chinese sentiment and restrictive labor practices limited other opportunities. Police sometimes also purposely regulated street vending, especially after complaints from local business owners. 

Yet these vendors also represent the very first visible Chinese community in the Netherlands. The first Chinese restaurant surfaced in Rotterdam in 1920, and the later rise of Chinese-Indonesian restaurants after WWII grew partly from these early networks. 

Fotocollectie Spaarnestad 

The pinda platen vendors eventually ventured outside of the bigger cities.  Many in the older generations can recall stories about their city's "pindachinees”, the local Chinese peanut vendor. I remember my grandfather often speaking of a gentleman known as “Pinda Willem,” or Peanut Bill (real name Tsen Koa Pai), who lived in Venlo from 1937 to 1963 and became a familiar figure by supplying locals with peanut treats, especially the kids. As the stories go, he sometimes carried “something for the weekend” at the bottom of his bag for the local men as well.

The koekjes themselves were practical: made with a mixture of sugar, peanuts, and a touch of vinegar, they required no oven, just heat. The warm brittle was cut into bars, which hardened as they cooled and could be snapped off and sold individually. For many Dutch people, the first taste of something “foreign” came from a paper-wrapped peanut cookie bought from a man whose story they never knew. And perhaps that is why these peanut cookies matter. They are evidence of adaptation, resilience, and the quiet ways migrants become part of everyday life.

These peanut brittles (in Chinese Hua Sheng Tang, in Indonesian known as teng teng, a name echoed playfully in Willy Derby's refrain) remain popular in China today and are often enjoyed during Chinese New Year celebrations. Even though they never became a staple in Dutch cuisine, it helped spark the emergence of Chinese-Indonesian restaurants, now firmly woven into our everyday food culture. 

These brittle bars are quick to make. Feel free to experiment with flavors: add sesame seeds, or replace the peanuts with a mix of other nuts you might like better. You could also add a little vanilla, but don't omit the vinegar. The flavor does not affect the cookies, but the vinegar will help keep the sugar from setting too quickly. 

Chinese Pindakoekjes

2 cups (250 grams) roasted peanuts

1 heaping cup (250 grams) regular, white sugar

1 Tablespoon (15 grams) butter, and a bit extra for greasing the paper

2 Tablespoons white vinegar

1 Tablespoon water

Line a baking sheet or square baking pan (mine is a 9 inch/22 cm) with parchment paper, and grease both top and bottom of the paper.* 

Chop the peanuts (if you want, I left them whole). In a non-stick pan, cook the sugar, butter, vinegar and water into a golden caramel, until it reaches a temperature of 300F/148C. Fold in the peanuts until they are well coated, and immediately pour the mixture on the parchment paper. With a sturdy spatula or the back of a solid spoon, quickly spread out the mixture so that it has even thickness. With a knife, or the metal edge of a bench scraper, mark out the lines of the bars. As the brittle cools, you may have to do that once or twice, to make sure the indentations stay. 

Let the brittle cool fully before you snap it into bars. 

* Greasing both the top and the bottom will secure the paper in place when you are working hard on getting this spread out. Alternatively, if you are not using a baking pan with raised edges like mine, you can roll the brittle out with a rolling pin once it has started to set. Please be careful as hot sugar is no joke!!! 

Carnavalssoep

I was tempted to give this post a subtitle: The Curious Case of the Carnaval Soup, and here's why. For the last several years, online recipes for a dish called carnavalssoep (a rich tomato based soup with peppers, leeks, white beans, ground beef and smoked sausage) have been appearing with increasing frequency. Depending on where you look, it may also be called truujensoep, oudewijvensoep, or aldewievensoep. 

I first encountered it while researching oudewijvenkoek, and was immediately intrigued. I am a Limburgse at heart and grew up immersed in local carnaval traditions, from the festivities beginning on November 11 through Ash Wednesday, yet I had never heard of this soup before.

Unlike many Dutch dishes whose origins can be traced through old cookbooks, regional archives, or family notebooks, carnavalssoep seems to appear quite suddenly. There are no clear references in older culinary literature, no mentions in early twentieth-century household manuals, and no obvious regional variations passed down through generations. Instead, the soup enters the internet already presented as something familiar and traditional from the start. 

Dutch food culture has always been receptive to new influences and make them its own. What begins as a personal preference, a local joke, or a practical solution can, within a generation, be remembered as always having been this way. A well-known example is the kapsalon, now a staple in snack bars across the Netherlands. Yet the dish did not exist before 2003, when a Rotterdam hairdresser asked his local shoarma shop to combine fries, meat, cheese, and salad into one tray. Other customers began ordering “the kapsalon,” and within a few years it had spread nationwide: a modern invention that already feels deeply rooted in Dutch food culture. 

Something similar may be happening as we speak, on a more local level. This year, the Frisian village of Grou announces the return of Sint Pitersop, Saint Peter's soup. The soup is served during the celebration of Sint Piter on Februari 21st, an event similar to Sinterklaas that has always been unique to Grou. The festivities committee's website states that they are "reviving an old tradition: the St. Piter soup". But research into old cookbooks, online archives, and reams and reams of regional publications has not revealed any tradition regarding soup during St. Piter. 

But back to the carnaval soup. The earliest version of the carnavalssoep recipe I have been able to find dates from 2009. Many online descriptions of this soup repeat the same claims almost word for word: that it is traditional, that it was made by (and for) older women, and that it follows a familiar set of ingredients. Rather than pointing to a shared family history, this may simply reflect a recipe copied and repeated online. Over time, repetition can create the impression of age and authenticity: a gentle reminder that repetition alone does not make something historically accurate.

Carnavalssoep, like St. Pitersop, may therefore not be an old tradition at all. Perhaps it is something more interesting: a new tradition in the making, one that is just as worth documenting. If future generations continue to prepare the soup during carnaval, a tradition will truly have come into being!

The recipe can be adjusted to your liking. I rolled the beef into small balls and simmered them in the soup. If you don't have access to beans in tomato sauce, use regular white beans and two tablespoons of tomato paste, or use a can of pork and beans. 

Carnavalssoep

1 Tablespoon (15 grams) butter

1 lb (500 grams) ground beef

1 large onion, diced

2 garlic cloves, minced

3 bell peppers, diced (one red, one green, one yellow)*

1 large leek, cut in half moons

1 can (15.5 oz/ 440 grams) beans in tomato sauce 

3 cups (0.75 liter) tomato sauce

3 cups (0.75) water

1 smoked sausage, sliced

3 bouillon cubes

2 bay leaves

1 Tablespoon brown sugar

1 Tablespoon sambal or hot sauce

Salt to taste

Melt the butter and fry the ground beef until no longer pink, then add the onion, garlic, peppers, and leeks. Fry the vegetables until they have a little bit of a char and the onion is no longer raw. Add the can of beans, stir everything well and then transfer the content to a crockpot, slow cooker, or stockpot. 

Add in the tomato sauce and the water, the bay leaves, the smoked sausage and the bouillon cubes. Bring it back up to temperature and let it simmer for a good fifteen to twenty minutes, then taste and adjust the salt level. Stir in the brown sugar and the sambal or hot sauce, and you're ready to party! 

* these are the traditional Limburg carnaval colors!

Vrijerskoek

Long before text messages, before flowers delivered with printed cards, and long before dropping on one knee in front of clicking cameras, young men relied on baked goods to express intent. One of those baked goods was the hylikmaker (literally a “marriage maker”) also known as vrijerskoek, a suitor’s cake. 

The young man would purchase this cake at the kermis, the funfair, or at the bakery, when he was ready to declare his love for someone. Often, the cake was rectangular and decorated with almonds or sweet words in piped icing, other times it was in the shape of a person, like the ones in the larger wooden speculaas molds. 

We can see an image of such a vrijerskoek in the Feast of Saint Nicholas painting, by Jan Steen, ca. 1665–1668. In the lower left part of the painting, we observe a basket with baked goods, traditional for this time of year: waffles, rolls, ontbijtkoek, and right underneath it, a long elongated flat cake: the hylickmaker. It is not surprising to see this cake in a painting about Sinterklaas. His moniker, goedheiligman, is said to stem from "goed hylick man", good marriage maker, probably referencing the story that Saint Nicholas provided gold coins for three young women so that they would have a good dowry and not have to go into servanthood. 

In another painting by Jan Steen, De Koekvrijer, (The Cake Suitor, ca. 1663 -1665), we see a young man lifting his hat towards a young woman who is seated. In his other hand, he holds a large hylickmaker. The woman does not immediately take it. Instead, she looks straight at us, slightly amused. We can read a lot into the details in the painting (the woman is sewing, the bed behind her has opened curtains, the door is open to the outside, the way he is holding the cake...but I'll leave that to your imagination!). 

Presenting the cake was one part. Accepting the cake meant more than enjoying something sweet; it meant acknowledging the possibility of a future together. If the girl was partial to the young man, she would break the head of the cake and gave it back to him. If instead she handed him the feet, well....then he better get walking! In the case of the rectangular cake, the young man would be invited to have coffee at the house. If the cake appeared on the table, uncut, the proposal was declined. If the cake appeared on the table, and the young man was offered a piece of that cake and a cup of coffee, his proposal was accepted! 

Recipes for hylickmakers appeared in cookbooks as early as 1746, but they unfortunately are no longer part of the proposal tradition. The Volmaakte Hollandsche Keukenmeid lists as ingredients for the "hylikmaker": flour, brown sugar, honey, nutmeg, cinnamon and cloves, a pinch of potash, and candied citron and orange peel. She then casually mentions: "Neemt dan de rolstok en maakt het deeg daar mede plat" (Take a rolling pin and make the dough flat"). 

Now....I have tried this recipe, and our keukenmeiden (kitchen maids) back in the day must have been as strong as an ox, because the moment the honey with the sugar cools down, this dough is tougher to roll than concrete! Annie van 't Veer warns us about this in her "Oud-Hollands Kookboek", explaining that bakers back in the day used to knead this dough by pushing down on it with an iron bar, a so-called breaker bar. I could have used one of those! 

These were not everyday treats. They were baked with purpose and offered as part of a quiet negotiation between families, intentions, and futures. The citron, orange peel, and warm spices signal luxury and intention. Because the dough was so hard to roll, the second time I baked these cakes I decided to add a little bit of additional luxury, and added butter and an egg. I still rolled it out thin, like both Annie and the Keukenmeid suggest, but it was a bit easier to do! I rolled the dough out between two plastic sheets to make it easier to lift from the table.

For this recipe, I included both candied citron and candied orange. If you don't have any left over from your Christmas baking, don't worry. I don't know that the citron added that much special flavor to the cake, and the candied orange can easily be substituted with orange zest. 

This recipe baked 3 nine inch (23 cm) gingerbread men and a rectangular 11 x 7 inch (28 x 17.5 cm) cake, as can be seen in the picture. Since not many of us have those large speculaas molds, I chose a large gingerbread cookie cutter instead. You can also use heart shaped cookie cutters, or any other Valentine Day cutters! These cookies crisp up when they cool. If you prefer a breadier, thicker cake, don't roll it too thin. 

Vrijerskoek

3/4 cup (150 grams) brown sugar

1/4 cup (90 grams) honey

1 1/2 cups (250 grams) all-purpose flour 

1 teaspoon (5 grams) baking powder 

1 1/2 teaspoon (3 grams) cinnamon

1 teaspoon (2 grams) nutmeg

1 teaspoon (2 grams) ground cloves

1/4 cup (30 grams) candied citron (optional)

1/4 cup (30 grams) candied orange peel (substitute with 1 Tablespoon orange zest)

1 stick (115 grams) butter, cold and diced

2 eggs

For decoration: almonds, edible glitter, heart shaped candy, etc. 

Carefully warm the sugar with the honey on the stove, until the sugar is melted. Mix the dry ingredients
in a bowl, and when the sugar honey mix has cooled enough to handle to the touch, pour it in the bowl and mix. Then add in 1 egg, the cold butter, and continue to mix until all the ingredients have blended.  If you are using citron and orange peel or zest, mix it in now. 

Roll out the dough thin, and cut into shapes. Beat the second egg, and brush the cookies with egg wash. If you make gingerbread men, remember to poke a hole in the head (I used the lid of a pen) so you can tie a ribbon through it. 

Bake on a parchment lined baking sheet at 350F/175C for about 15 minutes, middle rack. Keep an eye out for those last several minutes, as the amount of sugar causes the cookies to go from golden to burnt in no time. 

Let cool. Store in a cookie jar, or hand it to your intended on Valentine's Day. Let's revive a centuries old tradition! 

Likkepot

If you grew up in the Netherlands, the meaty bread spread likkepot probably needs no explanation. You’d find it behind the glass at the slager's (butcher) or deli counter (often next to that other meaty bread spread, Filet Americain), where it is scooped fresh into a little container and spread generously on a slice of bread at home. Creamy, savory, and deliciously rich, likkepot is made from leverworst (liverwurst), herbs, and a few well-kept butcher’s secrets. It may well have been a way to use up those leftover ends of tubes of leverworst - we are frugal! - but that's just an assumption on my part, so don't take it for truth.

The name may remind you of the children’s "Naar bed, naar bed, zei Duimelot" rhyme (I've posted it below the recipe to refresh your memory!), but this likkepot is something else. It's a creamy, savory spread, blended with mayonnaise or whipping cream, and seasoned with herbs and spices. The result is smoother and richer than traditional liverwurst and often slightly tangier and more flavorful. 

Many versions are garnished with small pieces of onion, parsley, or red pepper for color and texture. The exact recipe varies by butcher, and you’ll find many different takes on the spread. Some are smoother, some a bit chunkier; some add pickles or other aromatics for extra zing. It's also very versatile. You can enjoy it on fresh bread or toast for breakfast or lunch, as part of a sandwich platter at gatherings, with raw vegetables or crackers as a snack, or even paired with cheese and other cold cuts on a "borrelplank", a charcuterie board, to enjoy with friends while watching TV or playing a board game. 

So because there is not a traditional, standard recipe, likkepot is a dish that you can make your own. I'm sharing two versions: one with pickles, onion and bell pepper, and one with whipping cream and cognac. The first one is a little sweeter and lighter, the second one has a more grown-up taste. I used Braunschweiger liverwurst that's readily available at grocery stores here in the US, but you can use any spreadable liverwurst. If you need a suggestion of what to use where you are, drop me a message and I'll help you look for a good substitute!

For both versions, the same rule applies: taste as you go and adjust to your liking. If there’s an ingredient you’re not fond of (capers, for example), feel free to swap it out for something else, like olives. Want it spicier? You can choose to add Tabasco or sambal. 

This will keep for a few days in the fridge. 

Slager's Likkepot 

16 oz (454 grams) liverwurst

2 Tablespoons mayonnaise

2 Tablespoons tomato ketchup

2 Tablespoons pickles, chopped fine

2 Tablespoons white onion, chopped fine

2 Tablespoons red bell pepper, small dice

Pinch of white pepper

Chop the liverwurst into small pieces. Mix all the ingredients in a bowl. Use a hand mixer or fork to blend all the ingredients until you have a creamy spread. Refrigerate until ready for use. 

Bistro Likkepot

16 oz (454 grams) liverwurst

1/3 cup (75 ml) unsweetened whipping cream

2 Tablespoons capers, chopped fine

2 teaspoons cognac

Pinch of black pepper

Chop the liverwurst into small pieces. Mix all the ingredients in a bowl. Use a hand mixer or fork to blend all the ingredients until you have a creamy spread. Refrigerate until ready for use. 

Kersenpap

Before bread became widely affordable, pap or porridge made from grains, milk, or water was one of the most common Dutch meals. It was often eaten for breakfast or supper (avondeten), especially in rural areas. With the Netherlands’ strong dairy tradition, many pap dishes are milk-based: havermoutpap (oatmeal), griesmeelpap (semolina), rijstebrij / rijstepap (rice pudding), or karnemelksepap (buttermilk) are probably the most common porridges. Nowadays, pap is usually reserved for breakfast, or dessert. 

As dessert, pap can be paired with fruit, especially preserved or seasonal fruit: in a previous post, we talked about appelepap (apple porridge), and today we're looking at kersenpap, cherry porridge, both old-fashioned and traditional porridges. 

Kersen, just like apples, are grown abundantly in the Netherlands. Old-fashioned varieties such as Mierlose Zwarte (or Udense Zwarte), Varikse Zwarte, Udense Spaanse, Meikersen, and Morellen (pie cherries) are still grown in areas such as De Betuwe or the Kromme Rijnstreek, close to Utrecht. The dark, sweet cherries are often used for dishes such as kersenstruif, kersenvlaai, or for today's recipe, kersenpap. Delicious both warm or cold, the sweetness of the cherries cuts through the custardy texture of the pap.

For this recipe I used frozen cherries, but you can also use fresh cherries, or canned. Makes four servings.

Kersenpap

For the cherries

16 oz (450 grams) cherries, pitted

1/2 cup (125 ml) water or the syrup from canned cherries

1 tablespoon sugar*

For the porridge

6 cups milk (1.5 liter)

4 heaping tablespoons (30 - 35 grams) cornstarch

2 tablespoons sugar*

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Pinch of cinnamon (optional)

In a pan, warm the cherries with 1/2 cup of liquid (either the canning juice, or water) and a pinch of cinnamon. If you are serving the porridge warm, let the cherries simmer on low while you prepare the pap. If the dessert is going to be served cold, retire the cherries from the stove and let them cool before saving them in the fridge. 

Mix the cornstarch with 5 tablespoons milk and stir into a slurry, a paste. Heat the rest of the milk with the sugar and the vanilla on the stove. When the milk is hot, stir in the cornstarch and continue stirring constantly over medium heat until the mixture thickens and just begins to boil. It will thicken further as it cools. 

If serving immediately, divide the pap over four bowls and top with the warm cherries and juice over the porridge. If you plan to serve both cold, pour the pap in a container, top with plastic film touching the pap to avoid a skin, and let it cool, then hold in the fridge. 

*you can also use honey, or a sweetener. If the cherries are canned on heavy syrup, sugar may not be necessary: taste and decide if it's sweet enough.