On 14th January, 2006, I turned up at Heathrow airport with one suitcase, a small rucksack and a one-way ticket from London to Amsterdam. On arrival, I had no job, no home and just one friend who I still knew from our student days. I still remember the hard grip of fear and opportunity as I sat nursing a cappuccino at Pret in Heathrow. How things came together I’m not quite sure – a pinch of luck and a good dollop of hard work I imagine.
Half a decade later and I wanted to celebrate with the people who have made my life here such an epic adventure. For some reason, I chose karnemelk. What could be more Dutch?
Karnemelk (buttermilk, in English) has to be the most Calvinistic, revolting punishment the Netherlands could inflict on its people. It’s sour, for a start. And thin – like someone watered down some perfectly decent yoghurt. And people actually drink it for lunch – sometimes mixed with orange juice so that it turns into a stomach-churning, curdled, cement mixer of a drink. Five years in this country and I have never seen the appeal.
