the search for speculoos

I never thought that chasing a wafel would end with me falling in love with a cookie.
And for once, that's no euphemism.
A few months ago, on a rainy July day, I chased down the Wafels & Dinges truck for the first time. Catching up with it in midtown, eagerly eying the menu, I thought I knew exactly what I wanted. But something caught my eye; a mysterious topped called "speculoos" and marked as the Wafels & Dinges favorite. A simple query led to the presentation of a small, cinnamon-y cookie; and while M1 and I ended up opting for Nutella on our wafel, the enigmatic cookie lingered on both tongue and mind.

A little research led to more information on the spiced cookie; known in the Netherlands as "speculaas" and in Belgium as "speculoos." A cookie associated with St. Nick's Eve (December 5th in the Netherlands and December 6th in Belgium), they are easily identified by the bas-relief image usually pressed into the dough. Seemingly ubiquitous in Belgium, I had never seen the infamous Lotus brand of speculoos anywhere in the US.
But God bless Google. Because a little rummaging led me to none other than Walgreens where Lotus brand speculoos have been rebranded as Biscoff. Yum.

Still, the growing Belgophile in me wanted authentic speculoos. But a reliable source assured me that artisanal speculoos was impossible to get in this country. So in an attempt to achieve the culinary equivalent of the next best thing, I rolled up my sleeves, printed out a recipe, and got to work with the aid of a trusty partner.

Crisp and sturdy, these cookies aren't delicate things that you might carefully pack in a box to prevent them from shattering. They're hard enough to surprise the unsuspecting but absolutely delicious with coffee. Thrown in a ziplock bag, they'll easily fit into a jersey pocket for a mid-ride snack, and with this recipe making so many cookies, there's even enough to pass around at your favorite bike shop.
I'm not done experimenting with this recipe, but here's one for starters...
Speculoos Adapted from this recipe. [We accidentally added too much flour and managed to pull together the dough with the addition of yogurt and water. No negative consequences seemed to result but feel free to opt out of using the yogurt and just watch how much flour you're adding.]
Ingredients: 500g or 4 cups all-purpose flour 150g or 2/3 cup unsalted butter at room temperature 1 egg 300g or 1 1/2 cups of dark brown sugar 2 teaspoons cinnamon 1 teaspoon ground ginger 1/2 teaspoon cloves Pinch of salt 1 1/2 tablespoons Greek style yogurt 3 tablespoons water
[Makes about 50 cookies]
1. Preheat the oven to 180C/360F 2. In a food processor or stand mixer, mix the butter, sugar, salt, spices, and egg until it comes together. Transfer into a bowl if you are using a food processor. 3. Mix in the flour in batches by hand and knead the dough until it comes together. Use the Greek yogurt thinned with water if you add too much flour and it doesn't seem to be coming together. 4. Divide the dough into two and place one portion onto a piece of parchment paper. Roll it out to a 5mm or 1/4 inch thickness. If you aren't using speculoos molds [we weren't], cut out the cookies into narrow rectangles. 5. Use a knife or spatula to transfer the cookies onto a lined cookie sheet. Bake for 12-15 minutes [the center will still be slightly soft when done]. 6. Cool on a rack on the parchment paper. Repeat. Eat.

wafelocross

I [fortunately?] have a few friends who have enough social influence to enable them to drag me out to events I have no desire of attending. This usually involves countless excuses on my part, then having said excuses shot down too efficiently and a half-joking ultimatum that not going would entail the end of our friendship. And this always involves rearranging my whole entire weekend schedule to make up for lost time.
So while I might actually wake up the next day, mascara smeared all over my eyelids, and concede that I was glad that I went out, that's not to say that the rest of the weekend won't be stressful. Going out actually makes me scramble out of bed at some absurd hour the next morning, and race to some secluded, quiet spot with my books for the rest of the weekend. I like to save myself the resulting panic and just putz away at whatever I have to do over the entire weekend, including Friday night.

One main reason that while friends in NYC were planning their first ever NYC Velo Cyclocross Season Kick-off event, I resolutely reasoned to myself that I could not possibly go. I wanted to. Desperately, in fact. But Federal Income Taxation of Corporate Enterprise stared up at me accusingly. It sucked. I just couldn't.
And then I woke up on Saturday in NYC and walked over bright and early to a bike shop milling about with friends and customers, and lucky for everyone in attendance, the Wafels & Dinges truck was there as well.

Inside, shots of espresso were being pulled and 'cross bikes examined. Questions were fielded and directed to a number of seasoned 'cross racers. Cards were exchanged in between bites of bacon-filled wafels. Embrocation and creams tested while talk of how the season went bounced amongst the attendees.
Maybe it was the sugar, but squeezing between new and old 'cross racers alike, there was nothing inaccessibly serious about the whole thing. Well, that's not quite accurate. The only thing really serious about the Kickoff party was the deadpan conviction that practically simmered in those who have discovered the wonders of 'cross that this was the single, most teeth-gnashing fun that you could ever have on a bicycle.

Which would sound slightly creepy if it wasn't for the fact that nearly every single person who races 'cross seems to passionately believe in this. And though cyclists tend to fall on the insane side of psychotic, there's always something to be said for consistency.
The NYC Velo Cyclocross Season Kickoff Party only served to heighten the excitement that seems to be bursting out of those in love with 'cross, just as the season starts to get into gear. And it's infectious, too. Because everyone seems to be talking about cyclocross this year.

If I had the funds and the bike, even I'd be up for embarrassing myself by face-planting in some mud on a cold, autumn New England day. And I'm pretty sure it won't just be for the wafels.
[More pictures of the event here.]

slowing down [with snob]

Like most people, I can't stand people that are like me.
It's not because I see all of my own personality faults in them [I wisely choose not to acknowledge that], it's actually far more basic. I just can't stand people who are obsessed with multi-tasking; thinking about 20,000 things at a million miles a minute. If I'm honest with myself, though, I'm equally as irritating as the people who drive me insane.
No surprise then, that I start my day off with a cup of rocket fuel. Strong enough to keep the gears spinning for the next four hours or so, it's sipped after a quick warm up on the rollers, while I check my inbox, pack a lunch, do my hair, and compile the day's to-do list in my head. Bold, strong, and hot, it definitely makes this girl's morning worth waking up for.

Then chugging the slowly cooling liquid, the bike ride to school is done while rummaging around my brain for lectures, events, rides, and errands that have to get done. People to email back, posts to publish, pictures to take. Climb four flights of stairs and change out of my shoes and sweaty clothes before sitting in class, taking notes, checking the NY Times, looking up the weather for the following week, deleting emails, jotting down random ideas, etc., etc., etc.
It's not like I can't sit still. I can. Quite well, in fact. It's just - like most people my age - I'm addicted to multi-tasking. And when you add law school and cycling to the mix, it seems like it all has to be done at breakneck speed. Get to school fast, get reading done fast, get journal stuff done fast, get home fast. Sleep for a little while and get up fast tomorrow.

Rushing home yesterday for another cup of caffeinated diesel because the thin, watery stuff at school just wasn't cutting it, I plopped down on my couch to fly through a few articles in the October issue of Bicycling Magazine. Even though really good writing seems extremely hard to find these days, I was still ready to read the thing from cover to cover in some ridiculously short amount of time.
Chance dictated that I would open the page to Bike Snob's column, and despite the steaming cup of coffee in my left hand, I finally managed to slow down. And think. And relax just a tiny bit.

Because according to BSNYC, I've been doing the equivalent of "shotgunning" my life, when it really should be "sipped" and "savored." Okay, he was talking about bike rides, but when you're spinning your way through life like you're racing on 2:1 gearing, the analogy is appropriate. At least my ADD thinks so.
I read just a few articles, slowly drinking my coffee, actually tasting the stuff instead of trying to directly inject it into my bloodstream ASAP. I left most of the magazine unread, for later.
And then I got on my rollers and tried to make the time fly faster while watching an episode of CSI and allotting out sections of my night for whatever long list of things I had to do. Such is life.
[And here's a Rapha Scarf Friday for you, complete with caffeine...]

beacons of light

Everyone's heard of the old person that got up in the middle of the night to get a glass of milk, fell down some stairs, and croaked.
I feel like I'm dangerously close to actually being that person. Except I'm not old [in the relative scheme of things] and this is all going to happen on a bike.

Because while it's only the second week of school, last night I found myself half groping through my usual commute, squinting in the dark as if that's going to somehow fix my 0/0 vision. It didn't, obviously, but feet fueled by hunger bordering on starvation and getting crowded out of the lane by impatient cars, it did help that I knew my route well.

Newton likes to keep things dark, but even along Comm Ave - which actually has functioning street lights - the shadows of trees like to hide all the sneaky potholes that are just deep enough to fall into. My trusty Knog light kept the more attentive drivers at bay but I'd still need one of those intense headlights [the kind you actually strap around your head] to actually illuminate the street.
Because I'm as blind as a bat. The only thing keeping me from eating shit on the way home was the fact that I knew what to avoid and where. But cutting across the Boston College undergrad campus, and hopping onto Beacon, I discovered something new.

A bike lane...! Marked off on both sides of the street in bold white lines that I could see even without the aid of sunlight. And while I know the bumps and cracks on that stretch of road nearly by heart, it's reassuring to know that a couple feet of asphalt have officially been sectioned off for my personal use.
Of course, this has the potential to put me right back into that dangerous old-person-dying-in-her-house scenario. Because the whole assumption behind that is that you know your house well enough to get around with no lights on. But of course you're wrong and you end up paying the consequences. Which sucks when you have to die for it.
Maybe I'll stick to taking my chances on Comm Ave...

labored breathing

Freshman year of college, my neighbor used to get it on with his girlfriend at the weirdest time of day. In the early afternoon hours, my room mate would point to the wall and we would hear labored grunting. From him. His girlfriend remained ominously silent.
It was sort of creepy. Too bad I make those same grunting noises, peppered with gasping sighs, when climbing hills on my preferred ride route. That plus all the sweating and the whole one gear thing and it's easy to see why I opt to suffer alone.
But when a best friend is in town - the kind that will not bat an eye at the sight of me pushing the pedals on the rollers at 7am and instead offer to make coffee - well, I'll make exceptions.

So for the first time in forever, I actually didn't sit in front of a computer or a book on Labor Day. I planted my ass on my Brooks instead and pedaled a little over 40 miles [the first time I've done over 30 in about two months...the shame, I know] with the kind of company that won't drop me.
And, of course, the kind of company I'm totally comfortable grunting and gasping in front of. Out of the saddle on the climb that tends to kill me, I was inevitably making those kinds of noises that are completely acceptable when you're torturing yourself alone but are slightly inappropriate when you're with company. And just when I was in no shape to tell him to fuck off:
"Wow. You're either having a really good time or a really bad time," M1 commented.

My retort ended in a laugh/cough combo as he literally pushed me - sputtering and gasping for him to cut it out because that was cheating - the last five feet of the climb. A few more hills, a dead sprint at the slow-for-anyone-but-me speed of 22mph, and we were at Arlington in record time. I was ready to pass the fuck out.

Famished but reluctant to let the beautifully perfect weather slip away, we made a quick detour to a place that didn't look like anything Boston or New York City. And winding our way around part of the Minute Man National Historic Park, I also managed to forget how dead tired I was.
Hours later, slowly savoring espresso bean ice cream from 3 Scoops, I realized that I had forgotten all about the grunting, too. Which is not only testament to the strength of my short-term memory, but also how I couldn't care less. At least not with the company I was with.
Because when I quoted the last line of Casablanca to M1 way back in May, I really meant it.

snobby shorts

Being somewhat of a closet snob, I love the vague language of being in the know.
"Did you see--"
"Oh yeah."
"Unbelieveable, right?"
"But awesome."
"Exactly."
And, of course, I love it even more when this top secret, exclusive language is used in the context of bikes and blogs. I'm not talking about my own...No, no, leave it to someone far more meticulous and clever.

I'm talking about Velodramatic. His cycling photography is a-maz-ing, but what unfailingly becomes the topic of discussion amongst readers [i.e., those clearly in the know about good style, taste, and photography] is the discovery of his "tab." A list of every bike-related purchase investment he's made, complete with a grand tally, it displays what I normally would throw into the mental "ignore as much as possible" file cabinet. Obsessions can get out of control quite easily, and when paired with numbers and dollar signs, it's enough to make you consider trying to regain your sanity.
Of course, it doesn't work that way. Despite the shorter days [why is it getting dark at 7.30pm now?!] and the dwindling bank account, I made [what I believed would be] my final bike-related purchase for the next few months. And that was going to be it. I mean, other than a tube here and there and the odd bottle of lube, nothing substantial was going to be purchased. That was the promise.

But when I got my first ever pair of bike shorts a few days ago, it also opened a Pandora's box of "things I really need now that I have shorts." Because it feels like I'm finally making some leap; getting serious - for real this time - and committing to more hours and millions of miles on both of my bikes. No more of this "well, my saddle hurts" excuse. Pull on those black Lycra contraptions of diaper-esque proportions and get out and fucking ride.
And ride I did. This past weekend was bubbling over with bike rides - on the rollers and off. But that also had me discovering that those bike shorts weren't my final investment. Even with the shorts, the saddle on my Dolan still feels like a meat tenderizer, the cooler weather is oh-so-perfect for longer rides but also indicates a need for a new jersey, and eventually, arm warmers, leg warmers, gloves, and embrocation. And if I ever get to pushing hours on the rollers, another set of clipless pedals.

It adds up. Dizzyingly, in fact. And as the numbers creep skyrocket, I'm almost tempted to look around for a less expensive hobby [although, it's really debatable if those really exist]. But it seems I'm in it for the long haul - for life, even - so it's really not worth sweating all those minor details. At least that's what I've been telling myself lately, anyway.
Besides, deep, deep, deep down inside, maybe I subconsciously knew purchasing those shorts would mean entry into the snobbier sub-world of cycling where t-shirts absolutely cannot be paired with cycling shorts if you want to be taken seriously. Where black shoes are only for domestiques, and kits should perfectly match your team-issue bike. Which, admittedly, means many more purchases await me under a heavy cloud of potential debt.
Yeah, thank God for debit cards.