Picture this. 8 March 1987. Nouakchott, Mauritania. The Soviet (yes, Soviet, I'm that old) Embassy. It's International Women's Day! I am now old enough to be invited to go with my Mum to this cocktail party, which for once is Women-Only. Well, or so we though until the entertainment started... On the improvised stage, 8 or so Soviet truck drivers, dressed as ballerinas, doing their best to imitate (or not) Swan Lake. Now, I know an all-male cast is all the rage in ballet circles at the moment, but believe me, this was not avant-garde!

Is it any wonder I can't remember the canapes? What I do remember though, is the Soviet Ambassador's wife's electric blue eye-shadow. Even by 80s standards, it was shocking!!!

Happy Women's Day to all of you!

This popular MeMe has been doing the rounds of French blogs for a few weeks. I really liked the 'Time-Travel' aspect of it, but I thought I would give it a foodie-twist of my own. I never could follow a recipe by the letter... (OK, I wasn't actually tagged for this one, as it has been food-unrelated until now, but I am tagging some poor innocent people at the end, to start the ball rolling... It probably won't go very far, though!)

The recipe is as follows:

Tell us all about what you have done since your birth, in leaps of 5 years, so only the years ending in 2 or 7.

Where were you in 2002, 1997, 1992, 1987, etc.

What were you doing? Were you happy?

My extra ingredient would be: what were you eating? Which foods can you remember? Actually, this MeMe is right up Madeleine's alley, so come with me on yet another trip down memory lane, ASMO-style

1972 - Born in Aarhus, Denmark, mid-December, I just make it into that year. For a year or so, my main sustenance is breast milk. Obviously, my recollection of it is non-existant. Apparently I 'graduate' directly to Roquefort cheese and Cafe au Lait afterwards. Although I am living in Denmark, my French roots are already showing...

1977 - I'm 5 years old. We have moved to the capital, Copenhagen, and I am going to the French school. I probably have packed lunches which I hate and all I remember are awful small pyramids of milk we all get. I am already allergic to milk, so thankfully exempt from it. When the weather is nice, we eat our lunch outside, but it being Denmark, we usually eat in the class-room, which stinks of room-temperature salami, liver pate, fish and - worst of all - banana for the rest of the day. Thankfully, my mum's food makes it all ok every evening. My neighbour Per is extremely picky at home, but always finishes whatever is on his plate at our house. After tasting his mum's food, I'll start wondering why he doesn't apply for adoption.

1982 - I'm 10 years old. We have been living in Nairobi, Kenya for 2 years and I love Africa. Also my first introduction to English-style cooking (ex-colony oblige). Chicken in a basket at the Norfolk hotel, strict eating times for children, which my parents never respect so I can eat with them, although I fall asleep at the table, having eaten just one yummy avocado with vinaigrette and in the middle of my beef stroganoff. So many taste memories from that time. The ubiquitous avocado my Dad had told me so much about, which tastes much nuttier than the ones we get in Europe (but tastes like soap if it's under-ripe), and which is heavenly spread on bread like butter. Exotic fruits, such as mango (which I can't stand for the first month or so), papaya with lime, passion fruit, pineapple, tree-tomatoes. And all tasting like they should, not like they do after zillions of food-miles. My Mum usually picks me up at lunch time so I can eat at home, but the days I have ballet, I stay at the school and she brings me noodle doodle soup in a thermos and avocado on bread, which I eat in the shade with my friends. Or I go to my friend Sandrine's house for lunch, and they ALWAYS have roast chicken on Wednesdays. That is a mystery to me: how could anyone want the same thing once a week on a fixed day? I never ask, but it makes me wonder if they eat the exact same thing each Monday, Tuesday, etc as well. I'll never know, we lost touch years ago. My Mum takes Chinese cookery lessons and starts widening her already considerable repertoire of world cuisine.

1987 - I'm 15 years old and having the time of my life. Since Kenya, we have lived in Burundi and Madagascar and are now living in Nouakchott, Mauritania. I have two joined-at-the-hip friends, Loreal and Baronne and we are as giggly and impossible as teenage girls can be. It's the time where I learn - and fail - to eat couscous elegantly with my bare fingers, and learn - more successfully - to eat mechoui the bedouin way. Memories of huge fish bought right at the fishermen's boat come back to me, as well as bottarga which we are given as gifts much too often for our liking, as we have no idea what it is or what to use it for. How I would love some now! It's a year of silliness, agonizing over teenage crushes and generally being happy.

1992 - I'm 20 and living in Geneva, Switzerland. I have started university and moved in with my Swiss boyfriend, Thierry. My first attempts at cooking and they are quite dismal. Thierry introduces me to all things Swiss and how to make real cheese fondue and raclette. His mum introduces me to the best restaurants in town in a -failed - bid to lure me into being daughter-in-law. It will take me 4 long years to come out of a relationship which should never have been, but to this day, I am EXTREMELY picky about my fondue, my chocolate and my men. It's also the year I spend one week in Moscow, as part of an exchange between International Relations Institutes. We are treated to an odd combination of horrible meat, fantastic caviar, Uzbek chocolates and wonderful Central -Asian smoked and dried biltong. But the over-powering memory is of WAY too much vodka, hum hum...

1997 - I'm 25 and living in Copenhagen, Denmark. After graduating from Geneva, I moved on to Sussex University for my post-grad (fabulous year of emancipation) and then a job at a prestigious global consulting company lures me back to my 'home country'. The year is horrible for a variety of reasons (my boy-friend dumping me a day after my grand-mother dies, no place to live so I move every few weeks, working 70 hour weeks, no time to meet new people and friends) and my health problems start as a consequence of long working hours, junk food and chronic stress. I put on 10 kg that first year, and will only stop 20 kg later. No food memories from that time, maybe because I'd rather not have any memories of that time.

2002 - I'm 30 and if I thought 1997 was bad, 2002 is my 'Annus Horribilis'. In 1998 I met the man of my life (yes, Skat) and theoretically we move in together, but our work assignments mean that we are in different countries Monday to Friday and only spend time together at weekends. This also means my introduction to the wonderful world of my in-laws.

Although the constant travelling and stress have brought me to the end of my tether, I don't have enough energy to do anything about it, such as finding a new job. Luckily, in 2001 my employer makes the choice for me: I am made redundant, in a sordid mix of events which still gives me a bad taste in the mouth (something involving a slim blonde getting the credit for the work of the extra-curvy brunette with braces, aka me). But I see it as my chance to finally get my life back on track and launch myself into the world of Corporate Social Responsibility. Unfortunately, Al Qaeda sees 2001 as their chance to launch the attack on the Twin Towers and the world economy rumbles downwards. In between job applications and going-nowhere interviews, I decide to get my health, if not my life back on track. Skat has had to accept a job in Norway, to avoid redundancy, and I have way too much time on my hands in between the vital weekends. So I start exercising again after too many years without. And I start cooking healthy food on a tiny budget. I cook two meals a day for myself, from scratch, which is a first. And I slowly but surely get better at it. It's less pot-luck and more pot-roast. Skat loves it when he is home at the weekends. So Annus Horribilis it might have seemed at first, but looking back at 2002, it's only the start of my foodie life

2007 - I'm 35 (ok at the end of year) and living in London. What is the oppositite of Horribilis? 2007 is so far my 'Annus Terrificalis'. In 2004, we move to our beloved London, and we are finally together every single day. Ah, bliss! We eat in lots of different restaurants, we shop in ethnic food stores and discover Borough Market. In 2005, we get married in France, and our favourite local restaurant supplies the food. The wine is supplied by our friends at Chateau La Gatte. All the speeches (and boy, are there many speeches) mention our love of each other, of food and of travel. And not necessarily in that order! After the wedding, we go to Florence for 4 days and I discover real Italian food. And the end of the year, we go on our 'real' honeymoon to Tanzania and bask in the delights of Swahili cuisine. 2006 ends with fireworks: just before x-mas, we find out that in 2007 we will have a new little mouth to feed. So this is where I am now. Pregnant and happy, and full of food stories and ideas. And our biggest hope is that we can give our little one as many food memories as our parents have given us. Food is love, and sometimes love is food.

PS: no food cravings to report yet, but then I don't think anyone would notice, given my weird tastes... Skat will start worrying if I insist on eating cakes though

So who should be tagged? The Madeleines Project is still very un-famous (I'm aiming for infamous one day), so I'll have to tag a mix of people who actually read my blog and some who dont't. Here goes:

Kirsten, and her Home-Cooking Adventures, because she's been a TMP faithful since the beginning (thank you!)

Matt and his Bites, purely because he recently moped about not being tagged

Tammy from Food on the Food because I've just discovered her, and she makes me chuckle every day

Ximena from Lobstersquad, for providing a near-daily chuckle every day as well (chuckles are VERY important to me)

And finally Melissa from The Traveller's Lunchbox because she always has such great memories attached to her food

... and click here to find out why, and what to do in the meantime

The picture above was taken during our summer stint in San Sebastian, in the Spanish Basque Country. If you look closely enough, you can see that the 2 cephalopods are resting on something. There are actually 2 ashtrays beneath each. Clean (I hope). Pulpo Gallego (Galician Octopus) also called Pulpo a Feira (Festival Octopus) are one of my favourite tapas, if not THE favourite tapa. Some people say you can judge a chef by his omelet, but I must admit that I judge a tapas-bar by its pulpo.

fresh octopus - 1 arm per person for a starter

best olive oil you can afford

pimenton de la Vera (hot)

sea salt

Optional: boiled potatoes, sliced - 2 potatoes per person or country bread to soak up juices

My friend Veronica's recipe goes:

Fill a large pan with water. Once boiling dip the octopus 3 times, waiting for the water to start boiling again every time (this is called "frightening" the octopus...). When the water starts boiling again for the fourth time, put the octopus back in the water and leave it there.

For a pulpo of around 1.5 kg, boil it for around 45-50 mins. If you find it's still hard for your taste after this time simply cook it for a bit longer until you're happy with the result.

Once cooked just drain and cut in pieces (I find it easier to use scissors). Season with salt (normally thick), olive oil and pimentón or paprika, better when slightly spicy.

And suddenly the memory revealed itself...

Galicia in the summer of 1990. Maria and her 3 sisters. It was the summer before my last year of high-school and I wanted to improve my Spanish. I thought it would be cool to mix business and pleasure and join a flamenco school in Andalucia, but Manuel, my parents' Spanish friend and ambassador of his Majesty Juan-Carlos did not see it that way. If I wanted to learn Gipsy, fine, but to pass an exam in Spanish, nothing less than his own sister's home would do! And it turned out that there were also 4 nieces, one of which  - Maria - needed to improve her French. So she was to come and stay for 3 weeks in Auvergne with us and then we would go to her family for 3 weeks afterwards.

As was the case every summer, my parents' house was full of friends and family, and I had 2 friends staying as well, Loreal & Bene. On the way to the nearest big town to pick up Maria, we were joking about how we hoped she wasn't too beautiful as that would ruin our chances with the local boys. We had made a welcome sign for her on a big piece a of cardboard, so she couldn't miss us. And we decided that it might be a good idea to write another name on the other side, such as Hugo. That way, if a good-looking girl started to walk towards us, we could just turn the sign around and pretend we were waiting for Hugo, not Maria. Aaaah, to be 17 again and only have that to worry about...

Of course, Maria was a beautiful girl and - being fairly well brought up - we didn't turn the piece of cardboard. Although in the next 6 weeks, I would sometimes come to regret it. Maria was very girlie, which I am definitely not, and was even less back then. But she knew some fantastic songs, could play the guitar around camp-fires and was generally good company, so the 3 weeks in France went smoothly. Then my parents drove us to Zaragossa, stopping en-route in the Pyrenees home of Maria's (and Manuel's, her uncle. Keep up!) family. I remember a HUGE house and especially a downstairs bathroom which had a mountain spring running through it, separating the room in 2, but small enough to cross in one big step.

We only stayed one night in Zaragossa, where I tasted my first tapas (Patatas Bravas) and discovered that it's normal to throw the paper napkins and toothpicks on the floor. Then on to Galicia, which is as different from the idea most people have of Spain as can possibly be. It's more like Ireland with sunshine. And the resemblance doesn't stop at the landscape, since Gallegos, the local people, are actually celts.

Those 3 weeks were fantastic. Beach and excursions during the day, then club-hopping during the night. And one day I realised that I was speaking Spanish. WE-HE! But the enduring legacy of that trip is my love of seafood, which I owe to Maria's dad. With 4 daughters and a wife, all very girlie, he welcomed me as a son of the house and used my presence as an excuse for alot of things. "Our guest must be tired, we should all go back to the house for a siesta" (I love siestas, so it suited me just fine!). "We can't leave our protestant guest alone while we go to mass Sunday morning, so I'll stay home with her" (good excuse for a lie-in). "We must serve our guest the best (sea)food there is around here, even if you are all awfully picky" (2 of the girls would not eat fruit or vegetables of any kind. The dad offered to buy me a car if I succeeded in making them eat some...). So bring on the gazpacho, the honey-fragrant melons, the giant olives, the percebes (goose barnacles), empanada gallega (type of pizza with tuna and onions), crab eaten the Galician way (you eat EVERYTHING, not just the white meat) and especially pulpo gallego. This we ate during one of our excursions, sitting on benches under a make-shift tarpaulin, in a port. The pulpo was boiling away in an old oil-drum, served on wooden slabs with thick slices of country bread. I found it slightly chewy at first, and yet fascinating. And have been fascinated by the mix of textures and tastes ever since.

I still haven't been to Andalucia, I still can't dance flamenco, but I got the best grade in Spanish a year later and my love of seafood has never left me. So I have forgiven Manuel a long time ago.

Sand, Sun and Stars. Camel, Dates & Lamb.

You would think that the Bedouin already had 2 holy trinities for surviving the Sahara. But within the first few hours you spend in these men's company, you discover that the holiest of holies, is the Mint Tea. And that teas come in three's, just like the 3 ages of life. The first one is weak in taste, but very sweet, like a childhood without worries and concerns. The second one is balanced in strength and sweetness, like a full grown man who knows that both maketh the man. And the third is strong and yet tempered by a memory of the sweetness that was, like old age full of the wisdom of many years.

Mohammed, our resident watchman in Nouakchott, was definitely a third glass of tea. To my 13 years, he was even a fourth or fifth. But having experienced the first and the second, he could recognise sweetness and strength, cruelty and weakness, when he saw them. And that may be how he one day saved our lives, for all we know. But more of that later.

Some of you may have tasted Moroccan mint tea, which to me tastes like somewhere between a 1st and a 2nd glass. But very few of you may know that the Mauritanians have a tea ceremony, maybe not as complex as the Japanese, but just as important. At all times of the day, wherever you are and no matter for how short or long, you will be offered - and expected to accept - the 3 glasses of mint tea. At sunset in the capital, Nouakchott, one can see small groups of men, lying around in the sand, chatting and drinking mint tea. It's the physical embodiment of happiness.

I have to rely on observation and memory for the recipe, as neither my parents nor I ever learned the true ritual, so bear with me.

Green gunpowder tea
Fresh mint leaves (I have no idea how they manage to get that in the middle of the Sahara, but they do)
Sugar cone
Sugar 'axe' or 'hammer'
Teapot with small spout
Small tea glasses
Ability to squat on your haunches

Squatting on your haunches, pour 2 tbsp of the green tea into the teapot, add a handful of mint leaves, and some sugar freshly hacked off the cone. Add boiling water. Stir with a spoon.

Now for the tricky part. A good mint tea is frothy. And the froth is obtained by pouring the scalding liquid from a great height into a small glass, then pouring the content of the glass back into the teapot and repeating. Over and over again.

There must be a magical formula which guarantees that all present get the right 1st, 2nd and 3rd glass experience, all with froth, but sadly, I do not know it. If anybody out there has it, please leave it as a comment. You will be rewarded with gazillions of happy orange Madeleine vibrations from me to you. And let's face it, you can NEVER have too many of those.

I have recently started drinking mint tea again, in the morning but also at work. We have a small stainless steel tea pot at the office and my co-workers think me slightly bonkers for pouring the sugar directly into it (and for all the other things I do in that kitchen). But you don't get the '3 life stages experience' if you don't have the sugar. And when I take that first, fragrant sip of each of the 3 stages - sorry glasses - I smile into the distance, sigh a wellbeing sigh and think of Mohammed. Sometimes I also think of the day he may very well have saved our lives.

It was in April 1989 and border skirmishes between Senegal and Mauritania escalated into full blown riots, where Mauritanians were killing anybody vaguely resembling a Senegalese (i.e. black) and the Senegalese were doing the same to anyone Bedouin-looking. Harrowing times which are best not described in all their horror here (I have been considering for a few weeks how to describe them and have decided not to), but best remembered by the acts of courage they also engendered.

The biggest act of courage was my Dad's. As UN Representative, he unilaterally decided to organise an air-bridge between Nouakchott and Dakar to evacuate the refugees from both sides. Meanwhile, the UN office was transformed into a make-shift refugee camp, where people who had lost everything waited to be the next to be sent to a country which was not even their own. But not before the Mauritanian authorities had stripped them of their papers and few remaining belongings, thus also stripping them of their identity at arrival.
As could be expected, my Dad was hardly flavour of the month and my teenage self stupidly resented not being able to have the freedom I had enjoyed until then, as I had to be accompanied everywhere, for fear of retribution. For several months we lived according to the UN Warning System, where Warning 3 meant ‘Stay at Home’ and were considering what we would pack into the single suitcase we knew we could take with us if the order was given to evacuate. We all 3 agreed that instead of a suitcase, we would save our beloved dog, Balder instead.

At the height of the riots, my Dad had to leave my Mum and me alone, to go and make sure that all his UN staff was safe. Before leaving, he taught me how to fire a gun - a Parabellum I think - so that at the age of 16 I could defend both of us. I remember standing on the first floor of our inner court, being shown how to load it and unlatch the safety mechanism, take aim. At the legs/feet, nothing more! We are peace-loving people. Perhaps it was my Dad's way to boost our sense of safety. Perhaps it was to make himself more confident that we could defend ourselves. Or perhaps he genuinely believed that I could do it.

In the end, Mohammed saved me from knowing if I have what it takes to fire a gun pointed at another human being. When rioters started amassing in front of our house one night, Mohammed climbed onto the gate and told them in no uncertain terms that the people living there were good people and to leave them alone. Or that's what he told us he had told them. Whatever he told them, it worked. And we are forever grateful for it. A month or so later, my Dad's contract was up and we left, virtually persona non grata .

Looking back at that period, that’s probably when I took my first steps from the 1st glass of mint tea towards the 2nd.