After leaving university, Emma Beddington practised as a lawyer. Today she is a freelance writer, who has contributed to ELLE, Red, The Times, the Sunday Times, the Guardian, Condé Nast Traveller and O Magazine. She is also the author of the acclaimed blog Belgian Waffle. She lives in Brussels with her husband and two sons.
@domcovkid Why indeed :(
by @BelgianWaffling - yesterday
@adambedders OK I take it back, it’s all happening in Fangfoss.
Brussels is making it very hard to leave this summer. Tonight, moules frites nationale. https://t.co/U46cDcytHK
Quid pro quo - 5 months ago
A lovely lady called Chirping Norton (well, I assume that isn’t actually her name, but) asked me very kindly if I would update the blog and then she said she’d send me some stuff from New Zealand if I did and being an acquisitive weasel I agreed so HERE WE ARE.It is February. Many months have passed, also many moths. I am fat and idle and pale, well, idle in the physical sense. I am not idle in the paid work sense, which is at least partly why I have not been blogging. I seem to work all the fecking time, yet I also seem not to ever have more money. How does this work? It is mystifying and probably indicates some pretty shoddy negotiating on my part. None of it is long-form pieces for e.g. the New Yorker. Mainly it is editing mysterious legal prose. I did have to present a video last week, though (a job casually tacked onto a job I had previously agreed to and which I could not find a way to get out of). That was quite horrific. Most horrific of all was practising and finding myself transfixed by the hideous spectacle of my sagging old lady neck moving independently from the rest of my upper body. When the fuck did this happen? Shouldn’t there be a bit of warning? I have had to return to my body dysmorphic practice of peeing in the dark to avoid the unforgiving loo mirror. It’s a shame, because I think there were about twelve months there when I was perfectly fine with my appearance. Not because it was good, but because I had hit some sweet spot of not giving a fuck. I hope I get that back eventually.Apart from the work and the wrinkling, not much has been happening. There has been some fairly full-on parenting for lo, teenagers be teenagers. There has also been lots of compensatory laundry, because sweet, sweet, warm dry clean clothes make everything that feels unmanageable fade temporarily into the background. Other things that help:- listening to Graceland, for some reason? For a while even podcasts, my usual refuge, became too intense and only the soothing sounds of Paul Simon could calm me. I am now more robust and listening to The Poisonwood Bible on Audible at my friend Fran’s suggestion and my god, it is brilliant. Why had I never read it? Because I am stupid, I suppose. It’s wonderfully read too. Recommend.- Alcohol, to a limited degree after which it makes everything SO much worse.- The return of Greys Anatomy to Amazon Prime, so I can enjoy the trademark sweet, sweet idiosyncratic Shonda Rhimes dialogue where everyone says the same thing several times with the emphasis on a different word. The EMPHASIS on a different word. The emphasis on a different WORD. Etc.- My new “Heat Holders” socks, which are a fluffy nest of delight. They are not chic cashmere socks, but giant synthetic dream clouds. I love them. I also bought myself some furry lined biker boots and even if this kind of bullshit is why I always have no money, I cannot bring myself to regret them because it has been fucking cold for the last month and they have brought my feet MUCH JOY.- Yeast bakery. This was my main achievement of 2017: conquering my fear of yeast bakery. I have developed a new line in naan breads (Meera Sohda’s Fresh India recipe, the parathas, which don’t even require yeast, are also bloody genius), which are very popular. Also homemade pizza, though this is just my very basic attempt to turn myself into Prog Rock who would make us homemade pizza every Sunday night. Every time I make them they are not right in some minor respect and also I have not magically taken on the deep, wondrous reserves of calm and patience of that secular saint. I keep trying in both respects. Today we are attempting pretzels (my largest son’s idea), a suicide mission of stupidity, requiring both the baking of bicarbonate and the wearing of gloves. I’m not hopeful. They're currently resting in the fridge and they are TINY which I am pretty sure is not right.- Did yoga help? Hmm. We went a lot. I suppose it got us adults out of the house for a bit which gave everyone a break. I remain agnostic. It's nice when it's over, like most exercise, I suppose.What else? Poor gentle Ouipette got attacked very badly by a slavering Alsatian psychopath and a month later still has a giant scar and a limp. This was a very bad scene altogether and they were not sure they could save him, but he has rallied with miraculous Ouipette spirit, many treats and me keeping the fire going CONSTANTLY ever since he got home from the vet’s. Surprisingly, he does not seem to have any psychological scars, but I am terrified every time I go round a blind corner with him, in case some kind of dog Dahmer is waiting to rip his jugular out (the dog did try to do that, but it was really fucking stupid and mainly ended up with his leg).Here he is on first day home (this is after 5 nights at vet, so you can imagine the state of him before then):
Photopost - 9 months ago
Why I love Belgium - 10 months ago
Bake Off, Wednesday night:
Nostalgia - 10 months ago
It was car-free Sunday yesterday, our eleventh in Brussels.
Natte Onderkant - 10 months ago
1. Fatigué de VivreFlicking through Le Soir, the Belgian paper, on the lookout for some hidden nugget of Belgiania that I can fashion into a hilarious/fascinating pitch or spurious Belgian life philosophy to repackage for coffee table consumption à la hygge/ikigai, I note the following: - 5 hideous grisly and depressing murders (yes all murder is bad but these ones were particularly dreadful)- several sinkholes- Ghastly racist ministers Theo Francken and Jan Jambon being themselves- "7 out of 10 Belgians in favour of euthanasia for people who are 'tired of life'"I am not sure Belgium is ready for its hygge moment.2. The Naming of the PekinsThe chicks have now survived 6 weeks and doubled in size and sass, so I think I can finally give them names. The one on my shoulder on the last post is slightly shyer, lighter and paler. Her friend is fearless and fat and darker and has taken to chasing away the pigeons and crows that have the effrontery to try and eat her food. Here they both are up to no good: