Een olifant o zo spitant
Met kleine ogen, grote slurf
Zei ooit zachtjes in een oor
Een klein en angstig oor, hoor je
“In juni ben je dood, o ja
De tijger zal komen”, en de kleine zei
“Goeie grutten ‘k blijf in m’n woonst
‘k Weet telkens ik grommen hoor
Het Tijger is die zal gaan roven
Maar ik ben veilig, heb het gehoord
Want Olifant die zei het zo.”
Iedereen was ongerust, o ja
Aan de zebra, mangoeste werd het verkondigd
Aan ’t vuile nijlpaard in de modder
Dat ploeterend en kauwend op ’t
Pikante maal van hippo-plankton
De boodschap straal negeerde
En aan ’t onderzoek refereerde
Van stomme waterbizon, o ja
De angst sloeg ‘t hele bos om ’t hart
Ze renden rond dag en nacht
Maar je zal zien, het baatte niet
De tijger kwam en zei: “Wie ik?
Je weet toch dat ik jullie niet zal deren
Iets om te kauwen prefereer ik
Op jullie breek ik nog een tand” – o ja
Hij at de olifant.
Originally a song called Effervescing Elephant written by Syd Barrett to be found on an album called Barrett, 1970. I guess all rights are deserved.
vrijdag 20 juli 2007
dinsdag 17 juli 2007
The Kaggevinne Killer
It’s he and no-one else.
The Kaggevinne Killer.
The man who savagely slaughtered an entire family of six with an axe last month - in Kaggevinne.
Who smashed the head of a retired construction worker with a hammer last week - in Scheldewindeke.
Who, yesterday in Leopoldsburg, cut up a couple making love to pieces with a butcher’s knife.
Everybody knows him. Nobody ever saw him. The police forces of the entire country are looking for him and cannot find him.
He’s in all the newspapers and he’s on television almost every day.
He’s the most famous man in the country. But nobodyknows him.
Behind the mask of the Kaggevinne Killer hides the second mask of the Kaggevinne Killer.
Sometimes only two. Sometimes thousands. Sometimes one thousand sharp. And on very special days there might even be three million billion zillion.
His heart is an unreachable and unbreakable foam rubber electric blue Pirelli tennis ball.
The masks have a low-wage country origin.
The heart is Made in Italy.
On the left side of the road there’s a small yet ample residence chalked in a fresh shade of white. It’s the Recruitment Office for Seasonal Workers. On the right there’s this concrete hypermarket annex Bricostore annex Aldi annex Delhaize annex ShoeDiscount.
The Kaggevinne Killer drives past Bar Harmonie and leaves the town centre of Geetbeets behind him.
Out of Halen and Other Directions he resolutely chooses for Halen.
The wheels of the black Mercury Monarch silently slide on the smooth and tepid asphalt. The coachwork and hubcaps sparkle in the sun.
For the last time the Kaggevinne Killer shifts gears and then comfortably leans back. He lights a Rothmans. Rothmans or Pall Mall. The best tobacco money can buy. King size. Filter tipped.
He wonders: would the pancreas bear blossom this year.
The car radio speaks.
Notice to the travellers.
Sun shines between Geetbets and Halen.
Elsewhere it rains, mostly shit and purple plimsolls, but more shit than purple plimsolls.
Between Bekkevoort and Donk, cows sing from the top of their lungs as they fly straight into the sun in their jingling gilded tinselled chariots.
Today, too, the murders of the Kaggevinne Killer remain unsolved.
The Kaggevinne Killer bursts into laughter, his shock shouted shout shocking swelling up to fortissimo.
He puts out his cigarette and switches off the car radio. The wheels of the black Mercury Monarch silently slide on the smooth and tepid asphalt. The coachwork and hubcaps sparkle in the sun.
Behind the turn, sturdy yet elegant, through a roof of glistering sunlit leafs, in between the green of some willows, the bell tower of the church of Halen appears.
The Kaggevinne Killer slows down, drives into town, drives around in the streets and parks his car close to the corner of the Kerkstraat and the Molenstraat.
The Kaggevinne Killer lies back light heartedly in his leather driver seat.
The thoughts come buzzing up to him out of his camouflage heart.
That ram is a rascal!
Destiny can be altered in a figure of speech.
That dirty chief inspector son of bitch. And don’t get started on the assistant.
‘t Is the season of the driller. The season of sex lingerie. Some sour diversion.
He puts out his cigarette and steps out of the car.
There is no-one, from the North Sea coast line up to border of Poland, who has such big a pair of boobies and such a big behind than Big Zwanita. The landlady of The Silver Helmets bar on the town square of Halen.
Her mug is a balloon, her tummy a hot air balloon, her cunt an unfolded zeppelin.
The layer of glimmering flaming red lip stick on and around her pursed fleshy lips shows bursts and gaps and her eyes lay like unruffled lakes of blue in the heart of that flaking landscape of eyeshade and mascara. Rimmel.
She washes the glasses, washes them again, dries them, puts them on the shelve behind the antique tap.
She ponders.
She daydreams about laying butt naked in the shadow of a palm tree on the hot and grainy sand of a tropical beach.
Just like that the Pacific Ocean gives birth to four young Adonis’s.
They apparantly are more than potent and ready for take off. They come close and overwhelm her. The first one seizes her vaginally, the second one orally, the third one anally and the fourth one rubs his sperm into her nostrils, ears and also hermetically seals all her other body cavities.
Big Zwanita almost comes.
Then the beer glass she holds in her hand falls down on the on the floor and shatters into pieces.
The Kaggevinne Killer wears a gigantic brown cowboy hat, a vivid green linen suit, a vivid red shirt, a vivid yellow tie, vivid black socks, purple plimsolls with shit on its soles and a pair of round white sunglasses with sky blue glasses.
This is how he emerges out of magic and out of nothing on the town square of Halen.
No-one who sees him. Not Deaf Julia. Not Little Bart. Not Mario Goossens. Not Pros Verpoorten. No-one.
No-one sees him.
This is quite remarkable, really.
Then he steps into Big Zwanita’s place.
He takes a seat at a table and puts his briefcase against a table’s leg.
In a single glimpse he assimilates the entire bar: alongside the walls filled with posters of naked women with horses and dogs are little wobbly wooden tables. Chairs with straight backs and wooden seats.
In the middle a miniature snooker. An antique tap. The usual furniture in a bar.
In a corner on the red tiles, Crooked Jules sleeps off his hangover.
The Kaggevinne Killer asks for a cup of coffee. In a mug and not in a glass, he adds.
One queer joker, Big Zwanita thinks, maybe a salesman gone berserk.
She puts down the mug in front of him. He inquires for the price and lays down the exact money. Always convenient to carry small change. Always on hand.
Straight through her camouflage heart, the Kaggevinne Killer spots Big Zwanita's nakedness.
Suddenly the Kaggevinne Killer cracks up into an untameable coughing fit rambling up from the inner depths of his chest only slowly calmed down a few minutes later belching short, dry hacks, gasping for air, almost muted.
He raises from his chair, darts to the door like a madman, pulls it open, rushes down the three stairs and starts running straight to the other side of the square.
One queer joker, Big Zwanita thinks, maybe a salesman gone berserk.
Her eyes fall on the briefcase the salesman gone berserk forgot.
Let’s have a look. Precious. Real leather. It might even be a Samsonite.
Why not open it? Darn. A combination lock. But no. The flaps fly open and the very next moment the whole town of Halen gets blown up, Big Zwanita up front.
In the corner on the red tiles, Crooked Julien is wakened by the blast. He thinks: don’t say it’s my goddamn fault again.
*
The Author:
JMH Berckmans
www.myspace.com/jmhberckmans
The Original Story:
De Killer van Kaggevinne (from 'Rock & Roll met Frieda Vindevogel', Dedalus 1991)
A Tuesday Afternoon Translation
The Kaggevinne Killer.
The man who savagely slaughtered an entire family of six with an axe last month - in Kaggevinne.
Who smashed the head of a retired construction worker with a hammer last week - in Scheldewindeke.
Who, yesterday in Leopoldsburg, cut up a couple making love to pieces with a butcher’s knife.
Everybody knows him. Nobody ever saw him. The police forces of the entire country are looking for him and cannot find him.
He’s in all the newspapers and he’s on television almost every day.
He’s the most famous man in the country. But nobodyknows him.
Behind the mask of the Kaggevinne Killer hides the second mask of the Kaggevinne Killer.
Sometimes only two. Sometimes thousands. Sometimes one thousand sharp. And on very special days there might even be three million billion zillion.
His heart is an unreachable and unbreakable foam rubber electric blue Pirelli tennis ball.
The masks have a low-wage country origin.
The heart is Made in Italy.
On the left side of the road there’s a small yet ample residence chalked in a fresh shade of white. It’s the Recruitment Office for Seasonal Workers. On the right there’s this concrete hypermarket annex Bricostore annex Aldi annex Delhaize annex ShoeDiscount.
The Kaggevinne Killer drives past Bar Harmonie and leaves the town centre of Geetbeets behind him.
Out of Halen and Other Directions he resolutely chooses for Halen.
The wheels of the black Mercury Monarch silently slide on the smooth and tepid asphalt. The coachwork and hubcaps sparkle in the sun.
For the last time the Kaggevinne Killer shifts gears and then comfortably leans back. He lights a Rothmans. Rothmans or Pall Mall. The best tobacco money can buy. King size. Filter tipped.
He wonders: would the pancreas bear blossom this year.
The car radio speaks.
Notice to the travellers.
Sun shines between Geetbets and Halen.
Elsewhere it rains, mostly shit and purple plimsolls, but more shit than purple plimsolls.
Between Bekkevoort and Donk, cows sing from the top of their lungs as they fly straight into the sun in their jingling gilded tinselled chariots.
Today, too, the murders of the Kaggevinne Killer remain unsolved.
The Kaggevinne Killer bursts into laughter, his shock shouted shout shocking swelling up to fortissimo.
He puts out his cigarette and switches off the car radio. The wheels of the black Mercury Monarch silently slide on the smooth and tepid asphalt. The coachwork and hubcaps sparkle in the sun.
Behind the turn, sturdy yet elegant, through a roof of glistering sunlit leafs, in between the green of some willows, the bell tower of the church of Halen appears.
The Kaggevinne Killer slows down, drives into town, drives around in the streets and parks his car close to the corner of the Kerkstraat and the Molenstraat.
The Kaggevinne Killer lies back light heartedly in his leather driver seat.
The thoughts come buzzing up to him out of his camouflage heart.
That ram is a rascal!
Destiny can be altered in a figure of speech.
That dirty chief inspector son of bitch. And don’t get started on the assistant.
‘t Is the season of the driller. The season of sex lingerie. Some sour diversion.
He puts out his cigarette and steps out of the car.
There is no-one, from the North Sea coast line up to border of Poland, who has such big a pair of boobies and such a big behind than Big Zwanita. The landlady of The Silver Helmets bar on the town square of Halen.
Her mug is a balloon, her tummy a hot air balloon, her cunt an unfolded zeppelin.
The layer of glimmering flaming red lip stick on and around her pursed fleshy lips shows bursts and gaps and her eyes lay like unruffled lakes of blue in the heart of that flaking landscape of eyeshade and mascara. Rimmel.
She washes the glasses, washes them again, dries them, puts them on the shelve behind the antique tap.
She ponders.
She daydreams about laying butt naked in the shadow of a palm tree on the hot and grainy sand of a tropical beach.
Just like that the Pacific Ocean gives birth to four young Adonis’s.
They apparantly are more than potent and ready for take off. They come close and overwhelm her. The first one seizes her vaginally, the second one orally, the third one anally and the fourth one rubs his sperm into her nostrils, ears and also hermetically seals all her other body cavities.
Big Zwanita almost comes.
Then the beer glass she holds in her hand falls down on the on the floor and shatters into pieces.
The Kaggevinne Killer wears a gigantic brown cowboy hat, a vivid green linen suit, a vivid red shirt, a vivid yellow tie, vivid black socks, purple plimsolls with shit on its soles and a pair of round white sunglasses with sky blue glasses.
This is how he emerges out of magic and out of nothing on the town square of Halen.
No-one who sees him. Not Deaf Julia. Not Little Bart. Not Mario Goossens. Not Pros Verpoorten. No-one.
No-one sees him.
This is quite remarkable, really.
Then he steps into Big Zwanita’s place.
He takes a seat at a table and puts his briefcase against a table’s leg.
In a single glimpse he assimilates the entire bar: alongside the walls filled with posters of naked women with horses and dogs are little wobbly wooden tables. Chairs with straight backs and wooden seats.
In the middle a miniature snooker. An antique tap. The usual furniture in a bar.
In a corner on the red tiles, Crooked Jules sleeps off his hangover.
The Kaggevinne Killer asks for a cup of coffee. In a mug and not in a glass, he adds.
One queer joker, Big Zwanita thinks, maybe a salesman gone berserk.
She puts down the mug in front of him. He inquires for the price and lays down the exact money. Always convenient to carry small change. Always on hand.
Straight through her camouflage heart, the Kaggevinne Killer spots Big Zwanita's nakedness.
Suddenly the Kaggevinne Killer cracks up into an untameable coughing fit rambling up from the inner depths of his chest only slowly calmed down a few minutes later belching short, dry hacks, gasping for air, almost muted.
He raises from his chair, darts to the door like a madman, pulls it open, rushes down the three stairs and starts running straight to the other side of the square.
One queer joker, Big Zwanita thinks, maybe a salesman gone berserk.
Her eyes fall on the briefcase the salesman gone berserk forgot.
Let’s have a look. Precious. Real leather. It might even be a Samsonite.
Why not open it? Darn. A combination lock. But no. The flaps fly open and the very next moment the whole town of Halen gets blown up, Big Zwanita up front.
In the corner on the red tiles, Crooked Julien is wakened by the blast. He thinks: don’t say it’s my goddamn fault again.
*
The Author:
JMH Berckmans
www.myspace.com/jmhberckmans
The Original Story:
De Killer van Kaggevinne (from 'Rock & Roll met Frieda Vindevogel', Dedalus 1991)
A Tuesday Afternoon Translation
maandag 18 juni 2007
zondag 10 juni 2007
Poëzie voor jou, m'n lieveling
Sans Titre (Part 1)
*
Ik luister naar de radio
En drink mijn koffie.
Mijn broer heet Mario
En zijn hondje Floffie.
*
Ik luister naar de radio
En drink mijn koffie.
Mijn broer heet Mario
En zijn hondje Floffie.
Bertrand et Mireille, flics sans soucis.
Certains jours, je pense: "Eh bien mince Mireille, as-tu vu cet écureuil?" Puis je regarde à droite, pour regarder Mireille, et Mireille n'y est pas. Juste mon perroquet sur l'épaule est là, chiant sur ma veste. Encore. Et puis non, je ne lui dis pas « Merde, sale bête ». Je ne lui dis rien. Je ne lui lache ni même un soupir. Puisque chaque jour, à cette heure, c’est la même histoire. La veste, mon perroquet et la lutte des éléments. L’écureuil, ma Mireille et ce douloureux silence.
Chaque jour, après le petit déjeuner je me ballade vers le parc. Il faut bien vous dire, que mon petit déjeuner ne consiste pas en autre chose que mon café et cette cigarette pour me tenir compagnie le matin. Le café, quelques fois, arrive à faire oublier le goût du dernier baiser de Mireille. La fumée, elle, fait son boulot et remplit le vide qu’elle m’a laissé dans la poitrine. Succédané pour l’amour, bien sûr, mais peu importe: j’en connais qui vivent avec beaucoup moins mais qui vivent leurs vie, tandis que moi, je ne fais que tuer le temps.
Il fait calme dehors. Une petite éclaircie me guide au parc. Il y a bien longtemps que je n’y suis plus réellement entré. Mireille et moi nous y allions deux, trois fois par semaine. Promener en amoureux. Bras dessus, bras dessous, un regard croisé, un bisou volé. Il y a vingt ans, déjà. Peu de choses ont changées entre-temps: l’appartement quatre pièces, je suis parvenu à me l’offrir, la voiture rouge et rapide, je ne l’ai jamais eue, le perroquet à Mireille est mort deux jours avant qu’elle ne me quitta, et bien que j’ai toujours détesté cette bête, je m’en suis quand-même acheté un autre. C’est mon psychiatre qui m’en a convaincu. Question de s’en souvenir, m’a-t-il dit. Et qui suis-je pour douter de son avis? Je n’ai jamais fait d’études, moi.
On dirait que le parc est abandonné. Comme s’il m’attendait pour me souhaiter la bienvenue en personne, en privé. Et non, voilà le premier couple: jeune, insoucieux et amoureux. Je les regarde, mais je n’existe pas. Ils passent. Mon perroquet chie. Je ne dis rien. Je continue et je cherche les écureuils. Devrait y en avoir, pourtant. Vingt ans déjà, que je ne suis plus venu ici. Toutes ces années, toutes ces promenades, passées comme si ce n’étaient que vingt minutes, le temps de seulement une de ces promenades avec Mireille, comme s'il ne s'agissait que de vingt secondes, le temps de se regarder, Mireille et moi, et de s’embrasser.
Je m’assieds sur un banc. J’adore les bancs: il y en a partout, et on peut s’asseoir dessus: c’est bien pratique, il faut l’admettre. Celui-ci, en toute sa conformité urbaine, est unique: comme chaque deux ans, il est repeint en vert. Une nouvelle couche pour les noms des nouveaux couples. Officialisés comme sur la porte de l’hôtel de ville: « Martin + Julie, 19/08/89 », « Aurélie, pour toujours, Yves, 11/88 ». Et plus aucune trace de Bertrand et Mireille, flics sans soucis.
Mireille et moi, il y a vingt ans, sommes venu ici pour la première fois en été. C’est un peu plus loin que l’on s’est embrassé pour la première fois. Là où maintenant se trouve cette poubelle. Peut-être un peu plus vers la gauche, je ne sais plus. Mais peu importe. Peu importe l’endroit, peu importe son nom. C’était bien ici que l’on s’asseyait, et que l’on fumait notre cigarette. C’est bien ici que l’on nourrissait les moineaux et les écureuils. Et c’est bien ici que Mireille fut tuée.
Chaque jour, après le petit déjeuner je me ballade vers le parc. Il faut bien vous dire, que mon petit déjeuner ne consiste pas en autre chose que mon café et cette cigarette pour me tenir compagnie le matin. Le café, quelques fois, arrive à faire oublier le goût du dernier baiser de Mireille. La fumée, elle, fait son boulot et remplit le vide qu’elle m’a laissé dans la poitrine. Succédané pour l’amour, bien sûr, mais peu importe: j’en connais qui vivent avec beaucoup moins mais qui vivent leurs vie, tandis que moi, je ne fais que tuer le temps.
Il fait calme dehors. Une petite éclaircie me guide au parc. Il y a bien longtemps que je n’y suis plus réellement entré. Mireille et moi nous y allions deux, trois fois par semaine. Promener en amoureux. Bras dessus, bras dessous, un regard croisé, un bisou volé. Il y a vingt ans, déjà. Peu de choses ont changées entre-temps: l’appartement quatre pièces, je suis parvenu à me l’offrir, la voiture rouge et rapide, je ne l’ai jamais eue, le perroquet à Mireille est mort deux jours avant qu’elle ne me quitta, et bien que j’ai toujours détesté cette bête, je m’en suis quand-même acheté un autre. C’est mon psychiatre qui m’en a convaincu. Question de s’en souvenir, m’a-t-il dit. Et qui suis-je pour douter de son avis? Je n’ai jamais fait d’études, moi.
On dirait que le parc est abandonné. Comme s’il m’attendait pour me souhaiter la bienvenue en personne, en privé. Et non, voilà le premier couple: jeune, insoucieux et amoureux. Je les regarde, mais je n’existe pas. Ils passent. Mon perroquet chie. Je ne dis rien. Je continue et je cherche les écureuils. Devrait y en avoir, pourtant. Vingt ans déjà, que je ne suis plus venu ici. Toutes ces années, toutes ces promenades, passées comme si ce n’étaient que vingt minutes, le temps de seulement une de ces promenades avec Mireille, comme s'il ne s'agissait que de vingt secondes, le temps de se regarder, Mireille et moi, et de s’embrasser.
Je m’assieds sur un banc. J’adore les bancs: il y en a partout, et on peut s’asseoir dessus: c’est bien pratique, il faut l’admettre. Celui-ci, en toute sa conformité urbaine, est unique: comme chaque deux ans, il est repeint en vert. Une nouvelle couche pour les noms des nouveaux couples. Officialisés comme sur la porte de l’hôtel de ville: « Martin + Julie, 19/08/89 », « Aurélie, pour toujours, Yves, 11/88 ». Et plus aucune trace de Bertrand et Mireille, flics sans soucis.
Mireille et moi, il y a vingt ans, sommes venu ici pour la première fois en été. C’est un peu plus loin que l’on s’est embrassé pour la première fois. Là où maintenant se trouve cette poubelle. Peut-être un peu plus vers la gauche, je ne sais plus. Mais peu importe. Peu importe l’endroit, peu importe son nom. C’était bien ici que l’on s’asseyait, et que l’on fumait notre cigarette. C’est bien ici que l’on nourrissait les moineaux et les écureuils. Et c’est bien ici que Mireille fut tuée.
woensdag 9 mei 2007
Vlaanderen leeft
Vlaanderen leeft.
Ontdaan van alle schroom
Viel Johnny weer in slaap
Zijn kop al op haar schoot
Haar handen in zijn haar
Doorrookt tot op het bot
Zo zat als een patat
Zij zat en keek stil toe
Hoe hij z'n droom vergat
Tja, dacht Julien,
En dronk eens van zijn pint,
Die zijn niet goed bezig.
Neem dat maar van mij aan.
Ontdaan van alle schroom
Viel Johnny weer in slaap
Zijn kop al op haar schoot
Haar handen in zijn haar
Doorrookt tot op het bot
Zo zat als een patat
Zij zat en keek stil toe
Hoe hij z'n droom vergat
Tja, dacht Julien,
En dronk eens van zijn pint,
Die zijn niet goed bezig.
Neem dat maar van mij aan.
dinsdag 1 mei 2007
How to make spanakopita.
This here, is what you'll need before staring:
1 kg (2.2lbs) spinach. I do recommend you to use fresh spinach, but frozen and thawed would probably work.
1 package frozen puff pastry or phyllo pastry - if you don't have this, there's no use starting. Really.
250g (1/2lb) Greek feta cheese - OK, don't use like ordinary Gouda, for that really would be awful.
1/2 stick of butter and some olive oil for frying - hmmm butter...
One onion, as much garlic as you like or not - sometimes bad breath should be worth it.
2-3 eggs (optional)
4-5 sprigs fresh dill (not optional - dill is totally cool)
Salt and pepper to taste
Here comes the cooking part:
Combine butter and olive oil in large heavy pan and fry onion and garlic until soft. Then you wash and drain the spinach and remove thick stalks (don't use soap to wahs the spinach!), then blanch for a minute or two in boiling water.
Add blanched spinach to your fine onion and garlic mix and cook for further 5 minutes or so. Spinach should be deep green colour, if it's red, it's not spinach and you've probably been fooled in your local grocery store. Stalks should be tender. Add eggs and dill. Crumble the feta into that pan of yours and stir well for a minute or two. Eggs should be cooked by then. Season with salt and pepper.
Butter baking pan. If using phyllo, separate sheets, and brush each sheet individually with melted butter. Use 15-20 sheets, and overlap them, making sure that sheets hang well over the edge of the pan. If using short-crust or puff pastry, roll out a sheet big enough to line pan with plenty hanging outside. If making bite-sized pies cut squares approximately 2 1/12" square. If you happen to have sheets left, and feel creative, you can make little puppets.
Drain spinach mixture by pressing lightly and allowing liquid to drain into a cup or bowl. Have a beer. The filling should not be too wet or the pastry gets mushy. It should also not be too dry or the pie is not juicy enough. This buttery, cheesy, spinachy liquid is lovely, and although some are quite capable of drinking it straight, you can also use it on mashed potatoes, as a soup base or anywhere else that seems appropriate, do not wash your hair with it, because you'll have to wash it again, afterwards and that's just a waste of time.
Put filling into pastry and bring edges up to enclose filling. (Fill each bite-size square with a spoonfull or so, fold over pastry into a triangle). Seal by crimping, tucking in, or any means that work. Score the top lightly, not enough to reach filling, and brush with egg. Bake in moderate oven until pastry is golden and done. Some like it hot, but cold is tasty too.
1 kg (2.2lbs) spinach. I do recommend you to use fresh spinach, but frozen and thawed would probably work.
1 package frozen puff pastry or phyllo pastry - if you don't have this, there's no use starting. Really.
250g (1/2lb) Greek feta cheese - OK, don't use like ordinary Gouda, for that really would be awful.
1/2 stick of butter and some olive oil for frying - hmmm butter...
One onion, as much garlic as you like or not - sometimes bad breath should be worth it.
2-3 eggs (optional)
4-5 sprigs fresh dill (not optional - dill is totally cool)
Salt and pepper to taste
Here comes the cooking part:
Combine butter and olive oil in large heavy pan and fry onion and garlic until soft. Then you wash and drain the spinach and remove thick stalks (don't use soap to wahs the spinach!), then blanch for a minute or two in boiling water.
Add blanched spinach to your fine onion and garlic mix and cook for further 5 minutes or so. Spinach should be deep green colour, if it's red, it's not spinach and you've probably been fooled in your local grocery store. Stalks should be tender. Add eggs and dill. Crumble the feta into that pan of yours and stir well for a minute or two. Eggs should be cooked by then. Season with salt and pepper.
Butter baking pan. If using phyllo, separate sheets, and brush each sheet individually with melted butter. Use 15-20 sheets, and overlap them, making sure that sheets hang well over the edge of the pan. If using short-crust or puff pastry, roll out a sheet big enough to line pan with plenty hanging outside. If making bite-sized pies cut squares approximately 2 1/12" square. If you happen to have sheets left, and feel creative, you can make little puppets.
Drain spinach mixture by pressing lightly and allowing liquid to drain into a cup or bowl. Have a beer. The filling should not be too wet or the pastry gets mushy. It should also not be too dry or the pie is not juicy enough. This buttery, cheesy, spinachy liquid is lovely, and although some are quite capable of drinking it straight, you can also use it on mashed potatoes, as a soup base or anywhere else that seems appropriate, do not wash your hair with it, because you'll have to wash it again, afterwards and that's just a waste of time.
Put filling into pastry and bring edges up to enclose filling. (Fill each bite-size square with a spoonfull or so, fold over pastry into a triangle). Seal by crimping, tucking in, or any means that work. Score the top lightly, not enough to reach filling, and brush with egg. Bake in moderate oven until pastry is golden and done. Some like it hot, but cold is tasty too.
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