Breakfast in Amsterdam

I'm half Dutch. My mother was born in the Dutch East Indies (Djakarta, Indonesia) and while she never lived more than a couple of years in Holland, has lived in the U.S. for more than half a century and speaks English without a trace of an accent, she is undeniably Dutch. I grew up hearing lullabies and learning counting rhymes in Dutch, and even my husband has learned to sing "Lang zal hij leven" on birthdays.

But my familiarity with the Dutch language and culture is superficial at best, so it's been a surprise how much nostalgia Amsterdam has brought me. The language, which is mainly gibberish to my ears, is comforting -- its soft gutturals and odd, rounded vowels make me feel like I'm eight years old again, waiting for a koekje (cookie) from my beloved Granny.

So my first morning here was a full-tilt nostalgia indulgence. I got up before Dennis and the kids (which was not too early, as we were thoroughly jetlagged) and went to the local Kroger equivalent, Albert Heijn, which, marvel of urban marvels, is only a block away from our apartment. There I bought eggs, butter, Nutella, white bread and chocolade hagelslag, dark chocolate sprinkles which the Dutch like to eat on buttered bread or toast. And of course WHOLE milk and coffee ("koff-ye"). Then I raced home to prepare the fantasy breakfast of my childhood, souped up with an adult dose of coffee served in equal proportions with warm milk. We had the eggs soft-boiled, in egg cups with tiny spoons. Bliss.

Of course, my childhood treat has become a full-on addiction for Clara and Zander. Meanwhile, Dennis and I have learned that we can no longer eat Nutella from the spoon without digestive consequences. Probably for the best.