Whilst reading the menu, one of the desserts caught my eye, and I ordered it. Halva, baked in foil, with apple and cinnamon. Baked? I had never heard of it being served thus. I ordered it.
I have not had halva for many years. But every tine I do, it reminds me of the first time I ever had it. And I thought I would share that tale now, sitting in the restaurant and pecking at my dessert.
In 1986, we lived in England. The first six months were spent in Farnborough, and the second six months in Edith Weston. Do not worry if you do not know where the hamlet of Edith Weston is, I have not yet met an Englishman that did.
At the time, both of my sisters were at boarding school in Australia. During Autumn of 1986, they were over with us for school holidays, and as a family, we went on a camping trip through Europe, for two weeks. We went across the Channel to the Netherlands, then through Germany to France, and back across the Channel.
Now traveling in a car with four kids and two adults is a challenge at the best of times. Packed to the brim with a six man tent, sleeping bags, camp stretchers, cooking gear and other assorted camping paraphernalia left little room for supplies. I will not tell the full story of the journey, in part because I cannot recall the exact details. I remember a few lines that described various goings on...
"The cat got the cheese" referred to when a cat snuck into our tent and helped itself to the wheel of cheese from Holland we had.
"Some rat got Trishy's pants" was the hypothesis of why her jeans smelt suspiciously of animal urine when we came back to the tent one day... we surmised another visitor.
"Campbell's meatballs. So chumpy you can carve them" was Trish's description of dinner-in-a-can one evening.
"We couldn't find a quiche in Lorraine" referred to exactly that... despite the efforts of my parents, the only source of victuals was a quiche-less truckstop.
Two weeks of stories. But the one for today was when we made it to Germany. We were short on provisions, and it was getting late in the afternoon, and no-one spoke German. We stopped at a small deli, and all of us piled into the tiny shop."I don't speak German, but I know that is liverwurst" said Mum, pointing to a block of pale brown substance. With sign language we obtained some, and crackers to eat it with.
"I don't speak German, but I know that is bratwurst" said Dad, pointing to an oversized sausage. Again, with sign language, we obtained some.
Clutching our bag of prizes we piled back into the car, and drove on. Eventually we pulled up by the bank of an impressive river. Was it the Rhine? Let us say it was. By the banks of the Rhine, then, we triumphantly tucked into our liverwurst and bratwurst. Only... instead of a savoury pate, it was... sweet? And the sausage. It wasn't just hot. It redefined spiciness, to the point the girls refused to eat it.
It turned out that it hadn't been a German corner store we had visited, it was a Turkish deli. It was my first experience of halva, Mum's liverwurst.
It is a fond memory for me, remembering that trip, the adventure of it. Exploring the unknown, without a guide, struggling with languages, experiencing cultures and lands hitherto unknown. For two weeks, it rained every single day. By the end of the trip, we were able to put up and take down that six man tent in record time, every one of us playing a critical role in the choreography.
So every time I taste halva, it takes me back to that camping trip, to that moment by the river, the taste of halva on crackers. This is the first time I've had it baked, though.
