I’m Flying
Lotje Deelman was editor-in-chief of ELLE Eten, has been working for Allerhande for almost 15 years, and worked behind the scenes on television programs such as MasterChef, de Worsten van Babel On Tour and De Nieuwe Lekkerbek. She ate pig’s trotter with Anthony Bourdain and flirted with Gordon Ramsay in his Aston Martin. Lotje is the (co-)author of more than ten cookbooks and, in her kitchen in the Drenthe countryside, is never too precious to set something on fire. On FavorFlav, Lotje shares what’s on her mind every week. This time: the connection between carbohydrates, delays and the joy of living.
There are two kinds. Flight attendants who will make a fun day of it no matter what happens, and flight attendants who wish everyone on board dead. I usually get the latter category. Today too. It doesn’t bother me. I’m already half-dead, but also very happy. No matter how angrily she looks at me, she’s doing her best. I’m flying. Finally.
I woke up this morning in a hotel room somewhere on the coast near Genoa. For a moment, I don’t know where I am. Fragments of the night before flash through my mind. Wine. Grilled octopus. Pianist cameraman. More wine. Trattoria turned upside down. Did I really sing along? The wine, I think. Not like me, really. Farinata. That’s Italian falafel, only flat. Huh? Yes, flat. Chickpea pancake, from a wood-fired oven. Troppo buono. Italian applause. It feels like a movie. Even more wine. Get up now, Lotje.
Custard Buns
The flight is delayed and nobody knows by how much. No big deal. Another delicious, lukewarm espresso. Why can they only do that here, coffee at the perfect temperature? It’s pretty warm here, at the airport, by the way. The croissants are filled with velvety smooth pastry cream. Mediterranean custard buns. Powdered sugar in my airways. And on my hands. And on my new dress.
Carbohydrates
I taste rosemary in the apple pie. Boredom and carbohydrates go hand in hand. How would that actually happen? More delays. Nice lemon tart, though—unctuous, an ugly word, but I don’t know a better one, and that’s exactly what lemon tart is. Unctuous. From the inside. I’ll walk another lap. Better. Pretty stuffy here. Gucci, Loro Piana, Etro, Hermès. Oxygen—do they sell oxygen somewhere too? Sunglasses. Yves St Laurent. Don’t think about it. It’s allowed.
Backbone
Thinking is becoming a problem anyway. I feel increasingly grimy and stupid. Like being vacuum-packed very slowly—that’s what waiting feels like. Everything sticks. I stick. You stick. We stick. I put on my new glasses to cheer myself up; it helps a little. I get a chicken schnitzel sandwich with my sorry-we’re-1-sandwich-because-you’ve-been-delayed-10-hours voucher. Helps for a moment. Takes a long time. Craving even more sugar. A kind of vicious circle: boredom – eating – no energy – eating. I get those no-carb Keto people, but would they still manage that at an airport? With a delay? Surely. Backbone, Lotje. Backbone.
Suddenly, it’s over. We’re flying. I’m still alive. The male flight attendant hates me too (not exactly a job for a man either, is it—stewardess?), but that’s okay. I’m flying. The waiting is over. I’m free. The toasted sandwich tastes like Cup-a-Soup. The egg is blue. The lettuce is brown. I don’t care. I’m flying. The refreshing wipe turns out to be mayo—mayo everywhere—but they’re not going to break me. I’m flying.
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