Rijstebrij

One of the first Dutch children's songs many of us learn is the adorable Poesje mauw (“Kitty Meow”). For those of you who know it, you will probably recognize the role our recipe plays in the song:

Poesje mauw, kom er eens gauw
Ik heb lekkere melk voor jou
En voor mij rijstebrij
Oh, wat heerlijk smullen wij

In English, roughly: “Kitty meow, come quickly, I have tasty milk for you. And for me, rice porridge. Oh, how deliciously we will eat!” And if you don't know the song, you could always take a cue from adorable two-year-old Corinna Konijnenburg from Pernis, who sang it like this, sitting on Dorus's lap in 1967. How cute is that?

What is it?

Rijstebrij is a traditional Dutch rice-and-milk dish, closely related to rijstepap, or rice porridge. The distinction between the two has never been entirely solidified, but traditionally, rijstebrij is described as the thicker version, with relatively more rice and little or no sugar cooked into it, whereas rijstepap is generally thinner and is sweetened during cooking. In modern Dutch, however, the two names are often used interchangeably, so I wouldn't get too hung up on the distinction.

In 1799, the Nederduitsch Taalkundig Woordenboek defined rijstebrij simply as “a mixture of rice and milk.” Interestingly, the dictionary also gives the then-popular Frisian term rijstepotmerg  (literally something like “rice-pot marrow”) emphasizing the particular place this dish held, and still holds, in Frisian food culture.

And Friesland does indeed have a special relationship with rijstebrij, also known as dikke rijst, thick rice. The dish was not only served as a dessert but could also appear as a substantial meal, accompanied by sugar, syrup, and a generous knob of butter: essentially a thick, comforting rice porridge, perfect for feeding large families, and providing plenty of fuel for physical labor. Nowadays, dikke rijst is generally served as a dessert.

Where did the rice come from?

Rice was imported into the Netherlands from Italy as early as the late Middle Ages, and was considered both a delicacy as well as a restorative food for the sick. By the sixteenth century, Italian rice was already being husked before export. Later, rice imports from the Dutch East Indies increased, while rice also arrived from the Carolinas in the southern United States, but this rice needed to be husked. Amsterdam became an important center for rice milling, processing much of the unhusked rice before it was sold. After about 1850, the rice-milling industry shifted largely to the Zaan region, with steam milling factories such as the Hollandia, De Unie en Kamphuys. 

Recipe

There are so many ways of making this dish your own, and turn it into a new family favorite! The traditional recipe is very basic, and can easily be personalized. Because of the exclusion of sugar during the cooking process, it lends itself well to serving as a main meal with a dollop of salted butter, a couple of slices of bacon, and a sprinkle of brown sugar or syrup. For dessert, consider boiling the rice with dried fruit such as raisins, currants or apricots, a cinnamon stick or vanilla pod, or serve it with stewed apples. Instead of using a stovetop pan, you can also use a slow cooker. This will extend the cooking time. 

Ingredients:

3/4 cup (150 grams) short grain rice

4 cups (1 liter) milk

Pinch of salt

Wash the rice until the water runs clear, and remove any small stones. Bring the milk to a simmer in a thick bottomed saucepan and stir in the rice and the salt. Simmer on low/warm for approximately 1 hour, making sure the bottom doesn't scorch. When most of the liquid is absorbed and the rice is thick and creamy, pull it off the stove, and let it sit for another hour, covered, to thicken up. 

Serve warm or cold. Four servings.

Something New Is Coming to The Dutch Table!

For years, The Dutch Table website has been a place to share Dutch recipes, stories, traditions, and a little bit of the Netherlands with one another. So much of what we do today happens online, and while I'm grateful for the ability to reach people all over the world that way, I've always felt that there was something missing.

You can't hold a website in your hands. You can't leave it on the kitchen table, circle a recipe, write a note in the margin, or tuck a favorite story away for later. You can't hand it to your grandchild and say, “Here. This explains why we eat this, say that, and insist we're doing it the right way.” :-)

So I'm excited to announce something new: The Dutch Table is becoming a magazine. A real, printed magazine, delivered to your home every month. 

It will be something you can sit down with over a cup of coffee, keep beside your cookbooks, mark up with your own notes, share with a friend, or pass along to the next generation. That coffee stain, those scribbles, a child's drawing, or even a shopping list written on a page may be the very things the next generation treasures someday. You can't get that with a website.

Inside each issue, we'll explore the things that connect Dutch people and Dutch descendants wherever they may live. Food will always be at the heart of The Dutch Table, with stories from the Netherlands, the United States and Canada, Australia and New Zealand, along with recipes, reader contributions, Dutch language and culture, history, and plenty of other things I hope will make you stop and say, Dat wist ik niet! (I didn't know that!)

Want to hear more?

If you'd be interested in receiving more information about The Dutch Table magazine, please sign up below. I'm still working out the details, including the size, price, and first issue, but knowing you're interested will help!

Click this link to sign up: I'd Like to Hear More

There's no obligation to subscribe. Signing up simply lets me know you're interested, and I'll keep you posted as the magazine takes shape. I hope you'll join me for this next chapter! 

Mandarijnenbavarois

This weekend, I stopped by The Wooden Shoe, a Dutch grocery, deli, and gift store in Victoria, British Columbia. While chatting with owner Nicolette, she noticed my orange scarf and asked if I was Dutch.

I laughed and admitted that the scarf was probably a dead giveaway, but her question got me thinking about our remarkable Dutch tendency to surround ourselves with the color orange, and how closely that color has become tied to our sense of identity and heritage.

Why are the Dutch so attached to orange in the first place? It all started with the Dutch royal family, the House of Orange-Nassau. The title "Prince of Orange" originated in the Principality of Orange in southern France, and over the centuries the color became associated with the Dutch monarchy and eventually with Dutch national identity. 

Today, "Oranje", orange, is shorthand for everything from our national sports teams to royal celebrations. Anyone who has ever visited the Netherlands during King's Day, a World Cup match, or a royal celebration knows that the Dutch don't just wear orange, we embrace this bold color wholeheartedly in all forms: orange shirts, orange hats, orange feather boas, orange cakes, orange cookies, and sometimes even orange hair. If it's orange, we'll find a way to celebrate with it! 

So today, in honor of all things Dutch, I'm making a mandarin bavarois: a light, airy, dairy dessert flavored with mandarin oranges. Despite appearing in countless Dutch cookbooks, bavarois did not originate in the Netherlands. The dessert is generally believed to have originated in Central Europe and takes its name from Bavaria. 

But it's a dairy dessert, and over time, we enthusiastically adopted bavarois and made it our own. Part of its appeal was that it looked elegant while relying on simple ingredients: cream, fruit, sugar, and gelatin. A molded bavarois decorated with whipped cream and fruit looked impressive enough for guests but was easy to prepare ahead of time. So while today's mandarijnenbavarois may not have been invented in the Netherlands, it combines two things that feel very Dutch: a love of dairy desserts and our enduring affection for all things orange. 

If mandarin oranges are not your favorite fruit, substitute the fruit in this recipe for fresh oranges, or canned peaches or apricots, if you want to stay in the orange color zone. Otherwise, consider fruits of the season: strawberries especially pair really well with cream. 

Mandarijnenbavarois

2 Tablespoons cold water

3 teaspoons (10 grams) gelatin powder or 5 sheets

3.5 cups (850 ml) whipping cream, divided

4 Tablespoons (50 grams) sugar

1 15 oz (425 grams) canned mandarin oranges

2 heaping teaspoons (approx. 15 grams) powdered sugar, or sugar substitute to taste

Place the water in a small bowl and sprinkle the gelatin powder over it. If you use sheets, soak them in a bowl with cold water. 

Add two cups (500 ml) of whipping cream to a small pan, add in the sugar and warm it up on the stove while stirring to dissolve the sugar, but do not boil. Stir in the gelatin until it dissolves and take it off the stove. 

Drain the mandarin oranges. Select 8 pretty slices, and purée or chop finely the rest of the fruit. Measure out 1 cup of fruit purée. If you don't have enough, add a few spoons of the juice to make 1 cup in volume (approx. 250 grams in weight).

Fold the fruit purée into the warm cream, and set aside to cool. 

In the meantime, rinse a mold (should hold approx. 5 cups/1200 ml) in cold water and place it in the fridge (or select 6-8 pretty glasses or bowls instead). 

When the fruit/cream mix has come to room temperature, whip 1 cup (250 ml) of the cream into stiff peaks and flavor it with the powdered sugar/sugar substitute. Fold the fruit/cream mix into the whipped cream until well blended and pour it into the mold (or bowls). Cover with cling film and place it on a level shelf in the fridge. In the mold, it will take six hours to set up, but it's better to leave it overnight.

The next day, dip the mold quickly into hot water, run a sharp knife along the edges, and invert the bavarois over a pretty plate. Whip the rest of the cream with some sugar to taste to decorate, and use the 8 mandarin slices you selected earlier to decorate. Serve chilled. 

If you wish, you can zest fresh mandarin peel or dark chocolate over the bavarois. 

This serves 6-8. 

 

Kaasballetjes

It's funny how the brain can lead one down many, many rabbit holes. 

I was adding a video on our YouTube channel about Nico Molenaar, a former fisherman from Volendam, who dedicated part of his life to creating mosaics from cigar bands. If you're ever in Volendam, be sure to visit the Volendam Museum, where his work is still on display for all to admire. 

But I digress. 

As I was editing the video, I found myself wondering where all those cigar bands came from. That made me think of the cigars my opa would smoke, usually on special occasions: weddings, funerals, and family celebrations. From there, my thoughts drifted to smoking in general, and suddenly I remembered the decorative glass filled with single cigarettes that sat on a side table in our living room, ready for guests during visiteavond, the visiting evening.

For generations, the visiteavond was a fixture of Dutch family life. Friends, neighbors, cousins, colleagues, and relatives would stop by after dinner for coffee, conversation, and perhaps a small snack. It was neither a special occasion nor an organized event. It was simply what people did. 

For many Dutch people, the word visiteavond immediately evokes a flood of memories. There was no background music. The television remained off. People discussed work, family, local news, holidays, and neighborhood happenings. Us kids often disappeared upstairs to play, leaving the adults to talk for hours, and I mean HOURS! 

A typical visiteavond began with coffee and a biscuit or cake. Later in the evening, if the visit continued, a small drink might appear alongside a selection of savory snacks: chips, salted nuts, cubes of cheese (often topped with a slice of pickle or candied ginger), slices of liverwurst, mustard for dipping, and if you were lucky, hot snacks like bitterballen or today's recipe, kaasballetjes, little fried cheese balls. The goal was not to impress guests with culinary skills, but to make them feel welcome, and to create a sense of "gezelligheid". 

To an outsider, it might sound unimaginably simple, but I remember those evenings fondly - and often long for an evening of visiting for hours and hours. Today, the tradition has largely faded, replaced by busy schedules, television, social media, and gatherings that require weeks of planning. 

Fortunately, these tasty cheese balls are quick to make, so there's no excuse to round up a couple of friends, invite them over, and have a good ole' visiteavond to reconnect! Veel plezier! 

Kaasballetjes

2 eggs

3 heaping tablespoons (35 grams) flour, divided

3.5 cups (350 grams) shredded aged Gouda (or Sharp Cheddar) cheese

Oil for frying

Optional: black pepper, parsley, mustard

Beat the two eggs with two tablespoons flour until there are no lumps, and mix in the cheese. Continue to mix for a good two minutes, until the cheese strands have more or less broken down and you have more of a cheesy paste. If you want, you can add black pepper, or parsley, or a small dollop of mustard to give it some extra flavor. 

Roll the mixture into large marble size balls, weighing approx. 0.8 oz/25 grams each. Place them in a container, cover and refrigerate until you are ready to fry these up. 

Heat your fryer to 350F/175C. Take the kaasballetjes out of the fridge. Roll each one in the tablespoon of flour, and fry them in the oil. You're looking for a golden brown exterior, so about 3-4 minutes each. Always test one first, to see if you need to adjust the temperature! Not all fryers are accurate on their temp.

Serve hot, and dip in mustard or sweet chili sauce. Goes well with a cold beer! 

If you prefer a crunchier outside, prepare them like bitterballen by rolling the cheese balls in egg and breadcrumbs. 

Kamper Steur

It was once quite common for residents of neighboring towns to mock one another, hugely exaggerating each other’s (supposed) flaws and passing along insulting stories through local folklore. What is far less common, however, is for a town’s own resident to ridicule his fellow citizens.

Yet that is exactly what happened in the little book Kamper Stukjes, published in 1852, a collection of short stories in which the inhabitants of Kampen, a city in Overijssel, are portrayed rather unfavorably. The book was written by “a native of Kampen,” who was later revealed to be the artist Jan Jacob Fels (1816–1883).

The stories describe the people of Kampen as hopelessly foolish. In one tale, they build a new tower but forget to include a staircase. In another, the mayor’s wife’s canary escapes, prompting the mayor to order the city gates closed so the bird cannot possibly fly away. You get the idea. 

Courtesy of Gouwenaar

These stories and name-calling, once meant as insults, sometimes evolve into markers of local pride, and become foods, festivals, and traditions. The story behind today’s dish is about a sturgeon, the famous Kamper steur, sturgeon from Kampen, and is a perfect example of this. 

According to the tale, the bishop is expected to visit the city, and a grand banquet is prepared in his honor. For the main course, a large steur, a sturgeon, is caught. However, word later arrives that the bishop has fallen ill and will postpone his visit. The townspeople are left wondering what to do with the enormous fish, until one clever soul proposes tying a bell around its neck and releasing it back into the water.

After all, when the bishop eventually recovers and comes to town, they would only need to listen for the ringing of the bell to locate the sturgeon and catch it again. Right? Right!

Well, when the bishop arrives, the sturgeon is nowhere to be heard or seen. The story in the book ends here, but somehow along the years, somebody somewhere added an addendum to the story, describing what the bishop was served instead of the sturgeon: Kamper steur, hard boiled eggs in a mustard sauce. 

What's interesting is, is that the dish with its fishy name existed long before the story was published. The earliest reference I've found to this particular dish with the name "Kempensche stuer" was 1574, so long before Fels's story in 1852 - an interesting twist. The mustard sauce is not a surprise: the province of Overijssel is famous for its mustards! 

This dish is quick to make, and makes a good substitute for meat. Every now and then I add a crunchy topping to switch it up a bit - I've added instructions below. Serves four. 

Kamper Steur

6 eggs

2 Tablespoons (30 grams) butter

3 Tablespoons (30 grams) flour

1 1/4 cup (300 ml) vegetable bouillon

2 Tablespoons coarse mustard

Parsley

Hard boil the eggs in your usual manner. If you don't have a method, try this: place them in a pot, cover with water, bring to a boil and boil for one minute, then turn off heat, cover, and let sit for 13 minutes. Move to cold water or an ice bath for 5+ minutes to stop cooking. 

While the eggs are resting in the hot water, melt the butter in a saucepan over medium-low heat. Stir in the flour until you have a paste, about two minutes, and then slowly add the vegetable stock. Keep stirring until you have a thick sauce, about five minutes. Stir in the mustard. Taste, and adjust the sauce with salt and pepper or, if you're like me, more mustard. 

Chop the parsley. Peel the eggs and cut them in half, lengthwise. Place them, cut side down in a dish. Stir one tablespoon of chopped parsley in the mustard sauce, and pour over the eggs. Top with additional parsley. 

Serve hot with a green salad and bread. 

*Optional: if texture is a big thing or if you prefer to have something crunchy, add a golden-brown gratin topping by mixing 1 cup of breadcrumbs/panko (approx. 50 grams) with 1/2 cup grated cheese, 2 Tablespoons (30 grams) melted butter, and the parsley, then sprinkle over the dish and broil for 2–3 minutes until bubbly. It's not original, but it sure is tasty!