Primrose Hill
Primrose Hill
A view from the top
Meet me here
when the city is awake in its golden gleam
As we race to the top
the red on our faces glow.
On drawing breaths we catch a glimmer of a small lake beneath.
A pearl of sweat glistens
down through the lines around our eyes
Glints of the sun sting,
our eyes gleam and yours even twinkle
We see our wishes still glide above
Some yesteryear dreams are wheeling;
a sparkle in our eyes,
a euphoric in the minds
Not until the daylight is simmering do we race down the hill
with our baggage,
a sheen of silver hair
and the glitz of the journeys each of us have chosen
Meet me towards the end
And our reunion is complete
A glorious sunset at Primrose Hill
For those who love this London’s hill
Hated by the Daily Mail
This morning my son handed me a copy of a Saturday’s paper. “Who wants the Daily Mail?” I burst out, having seen a glimpse of a pretty face on the front page. “I thought you asked newspaper,” he answered, looking aghast. Still on his bike, he had just been back from cycling to our local’s shop with his father. Furthermore, he had been aware of his mother’s peculiar tone for a mistake. “I don’t like this paper, dear,” I sighed in an apologetic tone, having realised that I should not have snapped at him in the first place.
“Why don’t you like it?” he asked inquisitively. “Because they don’t like Muslims and they’ve made fun of immigrants”. He was baffled to my being curt at him. Oh, dear, did I have to tell him that? “Why do they do that?” he continued. Here was the thing when I tried to be honest to my children: I had to be completely honest. I skimmed his guilty face. “Next time just buy me the Guardian”. He nodded in understanding, “Ok, Mum”. He turned around and rode his bike to the back of the house.
Later I was scanning the paper in the kitchen having my breakfast. In page 19, Amanda Platell’s column had a circle-shaped small photograph of new Chairman of the Conservative Party in her pink salwar khameez. More importantly, Ms. Warsi posing after the first cabinet meeting -notably the very important event- made her the instant notice being featured in yesterday’s the Times, the Daily Telegraph and of course, the Daily Mail. As a matter of fact, Platell’s remark on Sayeeda Warsi wearing a traditional Muslim garb to get herself noticed made me gulp my hot tea.
A Muslim garb? Well, Ms. Warsi happened to be a British Muslim who took a great pride on her Pakistani root. Moreover, the country is the second most populous Muslim in the world. Clearly it was easy to perceive that salwar khameez was a Muslim woman’s dress given that its modesty cut says it all. I nonetheless have noticed that Afghani, Indian and Bangladeshi women wear the same thing: were they all Muslims? As a result, this kind of inaccuracy, which had occurred in a number of occasions on this paper aroused the apparent dislike towards Muslims. Otherwise why would Ms. Platell further wrote”…Only when race, religion, and sex are second place to excellence and endeavour will women like Warsi have achieved any sort of equality”. This really irked me.
Should the sad story of an attempted suicide by the pretty face I mentioned earlier saddened me, Ms. Platell’s taunt on Ms. Warsi’s choice of outfit and how she had represented her constituents had made me loose my appetite. Strangely as it seemed to be, I remembered a pin with the imprint Hated by the Daily Mail bought from a bookshop at Old Street. Perhaps I should have worn it having been wearing a hijab (but not salwar khameez since I am Javanese). What if Ms. Warsi had put on thedupatta on her head?
Above all, I was wondering why my son grabbed the paper; did he recall that I sometimes got it (because of its Femail Magazine on Thursdays and whenever I only had £0.50 in my pocket)? Besides, I had forgotten to thank him for the paper and him having remembered to buy one.
Dear Son, thank you very much. And I will remember for not buying the paper again.
My kinda weekend: the lost key, “the rain” and the birthday
Just as I wished a lazy weekend………
It started quite well at the beginning. I had a coffee with a Mum whose son was attending the same Arabic school like mine and was tempted afterwards buying a Sisley’s navy blue Mac. While she went back home to her ironing, I was enjoying Vikram Seth’s Two Lives during my daughter’s nap. I was indeed gripped by the beautiful biography of the author’s great uncle and great aunt with whom he used to live in their Hendon’s house when first came to London to do his A-level. In fact, his highlighting his indelible hitch-hiking trips to Germany-speaking countries made me daydream on a similar time in my youth. “….Perhaps it is true that, for all the evidence of the mirror, one pictures oneself in some deep niche of the mind as forever eighteen” (p.18).
But then…….
“Where’s the key?” I called my better half on his mobile, my voice impatient. The back door was left ajar; it was rather cloudy and chilly in the afternoon so the temperature inside the house dropped to 17C. It was five pm. Having collected our son from the Arabic school, he went straight with him to a golf course. “Don’t you have the spare key?” he answered, his voice was broken due to bad reception. “NO,” I snapped, implying a don’t-ask-me-to-find-one tone. “How about having a [dining] chair to block the winds?” I gritted my teeth. “Yeah, still, it’s freezing here”. The latch had broken a few years ago so the only way to close the door was by locking. So I had to put additional layers on us; sweaters and socks. On seeing me downstairs having woken up, the first thing my daughter uttered,”Can I watch TV?”
It was her birthday the next day: it begun with a burst in the early morning. After a very early Subuh prayer, I was trying to resume my sleep. At first I thought someone was in the shower so I pulled the duvet over my head. The sound of gushing water nonetheless continued and therefore I dragged myself out of bed only to find that no one was in the bathroom. Heavy rain? On impulse I was galloping down the stairs and saw the rain was actually happening inside the house. I stood still looking at my flooded kitchen and living room screaming, “Maaaaassss, banjiiirrrr!!!!”**
It attracted my son to come down after his confused father switching off the electricity and the water supply. The cold water pipe burst, for it could no longer withstand the pressure built up over years. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he piped on seeing our half-awake daughter standing on the stairs at 5.30am. “Happy birthday,” I chimed in and got up, having knelt down with a mopping bucket while squeezing water off a cloth into it. Strange as it seems, during the three hours dried-up time I recalled a small water pump, being my father’s, which was used to pump out the flood water which went into my childhood’s house. “Can we pump out the water?” I sighed in despair. I wished I had had the precious thing with me.
While I was having my breakfast, my better half went out to buy the replacement pipe. Furthermore, I had to cancel a lesson; on Sundays a son of a friend and mine suppose to learn Arabic alphabets and Al-Quran together. Munching my bread, I looked up to skim at “a whole in the ceiling” in the kitchen. Well, if only it had been a whole in the wall I always wanted.
“Mum, Mum, can you see me?” There was the high-pitched voice of my son above me. Apparently there was a hole under the bath tub as a result of the incident, which enabled him to see me through it. “Oh, yes, dear,” I replied, trying to be enthusiastic. In their excitement, my children took turns dropping tiny things through. In the evening, my daughter squealed after her father demanded his torch to be returned. “I haven’t got my turn!” protested she, even though I reckoned she had done flashing the light through the hole quite a few times.
“Did you know where the key was?” My eyes were so heavy trying to stay awake for Isya prayer commencing at 11.03 pm (GMT). My better half had just got back from the golf course. Yes, he went back to get our son’s jacket which was left there. Then I remembered that he had gone far too long for a jacket. “Where have you been?” He looked at me quizzically. “I was playing in the driving range. I told you that”. Huhh???? My eyes were on computer the screen when he was passing me murmuring “playing golf” in Bahasa. “No, you didn’t”. I was adamant. The thing is I am not used to with a sentence without a pronoun, ie. “I” as a subject, for it is nearly impossible to do so in British English. This kind of shortening is usually done in colloquial Bahasa Indonesia.
“Where did you find the key then?” “In her [our daughter’s] bag”. In bed we were giggling; I recalling noticing a jingling sound of the key while she was taking out all the contents from her blue sling bag in front of me the night before and he laughing at her wit.
“How come you didn’t hear the burst? It was loud”. I was intrigued and envious at his ability to sleep soundly. “I heard you scream”.
At the end,
we did not forget about her birthday; going out for a meal in My Old Dutch’s Pancake. The three dollops of ice cream in the middle of the birthday girl’s sweet pancake were the cake. Then she blew her virtual candles to our clapping. She was merry going around the King’s Road’s exquisite shops and a stroll in the Regent’s Park after praying Ashr in the nearby Central Mosque. As for me, Cath Kidston’s cherry-patterned plimsoll had cheered me up a bit.
** Maaaaassss = Mas, a calling to a husband/brother or to a person to whom someone pays a respect in Bahasa Indonesia.
Banjiiirrrr= banjir means flood in Bahasa Indonesia.
Still undecided?
In fifteen minutes the polling stations across the UK open. Every party is anxious and even the one which leads the poll is trying hard to shake off the claim of being complacent. Meanwhile the prospect of the hung parliament is still in the air. Needless to say, this national election is very exciting.
Yesterday, after taking in my daughter to her nursery, I met a Mum and asked whether she would vote. “Yes, I’ll vote Tories,” she said confidently. “And it ‘s because….” I prompted, followed by her brisk answer, “Because this country needs to change. The Tories are harsh and they’d do little to the needy [people] but they’ll get the country in control”. Sounds familiar. “There should be no one comes in [into the UK]. Labour’s made people with benefits have more money than us who pay all the taxes,” she continued, her voice rising. I sensed an utter disappointment as a result of the incumbent party policies on immigration and spending in the last thirteen years. “If they’ve got to work, they have to. I’ve worked my butt off”. I sighed. I agreed on this. As a matter of fact, quite a few of people I had asked were saying a similar view, pinning down the fact that benefits are easy and have made certain people lazy. “What did you vote then?” I asked. “Labour. We thought the Tories were harsh”.
“I voted Labour,” confessed another Mum during the pick-up in my son’s school. She had done it through postal voting. “Why?” “The other parties seem ugly”. “Aren’t you disappointed with Labour?” “Not at all. We’ve always voted Labour.. since my ancestors,” she remarked. Hmm. Loyalty.
We parted with my thinking of all the backbiting occurring during the run-up to the election; from celebrity endorsements in the papers to broadcasting a party leader’s gaffe in response to an elderly lady towards her enquiry of the Eastern European influx. Although there were few peaceful days when Eyjafjallajokull’s ash cloud closed the UK’s airports whereby all parties could not offer who were to blame. Then back to business of in a week’s time while the three consecutive television debates put people more in front of TV with their “swingometer” in place. It turned out it takes three to tango.
Through my letter box a party has made a contract addressed to us, the other has warned the danger of voting the previous party which is likely to erase the child’s tax credit and the previously undermined one is calling for the fairer Britain. Oh, yes, and a reminder from the Residents’ Association that today’s election is a council election as well. Blimey. Holding the leaflet bearing the faces of candidates of future councillor, I asked myself: what do I know about them?
Today thus every voter is electing a name which represents them in the national level (their MP) and another name for the council ( the local one). Yet little do voters are informed about the latter. As a result, as soon as a voter opened the ballot, they would be in for surprise.
More significantly, would there be a surge in the turnout? It appears to me that the demand for a much better condition through electing a new government will make many go. However, it is worrying to realise that many would vote because of frustration. Would they vote to stop immigration? To raise tax allowance to £10,000? Or just to kick out the ruling one?
In a Mum’s word, “Let’s vote for change. And see what happens”. Would you? Is it time for the opposition party to rule? Or would someone still care about a party’s values regardless critics of its deviation? Would it matter to vote a leader from a party which showed a good gesture to voters in the debates thus offering it a fighting chance?
Still undecided? Perhaps a bright day will clear out one’s conscience. Overall, this election is still a very exciting one. Please, be part of it.
Who else are the Prime Ministers?
“Who else are the Prime Ministers?” asked my seven year old out of the blue, sitting at the back seat. “Huhh???” I responded absentmindedly, my hands were on the steering wheel. On the way home from school, it seemed to be that his expecting his half-sleepy mother giving him the right answers was beyond possible. Surely I knew who wanted to be. “I know Mr.Gordon Brown,” he added in an expectant voice in the hope that my tired brain could have popped out some names. Hmm. I was intrigued what was being discussed in his class concerning the UK’s national and council elections next Thursday.
“How about Indonesia?” he continued as a result of my silence. I was so tempted to answer that Mr. Cameron might be the next one from the look of it and perhaps he would share it somehow with Mr. Clegg. In a million years. If only the future ones were taken into account. Also I was thinking of Churcill, the demise one. “Indonesia hasn’t got one,” I shook my head. Ah. Mr. Obama! Yes, Mum?” Over a year ago, few days before the US election his class teacher asked each pupil to choose between ”Mr. Curly hair” and “Mr. White hair”. I was chuckling to recall that it was 22 votes for Mr. Curly and 8 votes for Mr. White. “Neither does the US have a Prime Minister”.
When we stopped at the traffic light, I saw from the rear mirror that my son was pondering. As the light turned green he then resumed, ”So which countries who have [Prime Ministers]?” “Hmm…France, Russia, Pakistan, Iceland…..” In my days, for some unknown reasons it was only the Prime Minister of France who had been made aware of besides Tito and Ho Chi Minh. “What’s their names?”he snapped. I knew it would be coming. “Well, I knew the France president’s name….” I sighed, trying in vain to remember the current one, for Francois Mitterrand kept appearing in my mind. Clearly, I was stuck in the past.
“Let me get back to you, ok?” I replied after a long pause, feeling sorryto myself. Did I ask any question like that to my mum?
This morning I found a six days old paper which had not gone yet to the recycle bin. Having skimmed the pages, I was a bit excited that I had collected three names of Prime ministers . My son would be delighted. It is just unfortunate though that their countries are in turmoil. Oh, sugar.
I would say he would be asking me, “Why are they in trouble?”
Shall I hide the paper now?
(Why wants to be the Prime Minister anyway?)
The Greece’s crisis: a housewife’s simple thoughts
Suppose someone was in a dire situation and was in need of cash. Somebody else had the money and lent it with an interest. For some reasons the borrower could not pay the lender in time, resulting to another interest added to the existing one. The borrower later paid the amount they owed but could not pay the interest. Thus they still owed the lender the interest money, which unfortunately could not be paid at an agreed time. Therefore the lender added another interest on top of the initial interest attached to the borrowing term and further interest because of the late payment. By the time the borrower would have paid the initial + late payment interests, they still had to pay the interest of the late payment interest.
Right, I would like to stop here.
When I was little, I had seen these “lenders” in the local market with their cash flow books. They went around to their “borrowers”, ie. food sellers who were renting stalls. After a little “chat”, their faces looked grim; some drew a long breath and the others just shook their heads timidly. The “lenders” looked unhappy either, jotting down something on their notes or gesturing money. The scene repeated times and wired in my head.
Later some of the unfortunate food sellers came to my mother pleading their cases. Having eavesdropped the conversations, I learnt to understand that they would never be able to get out of their debts. The meagre profit they got would be spent to pay the interest of interests. “How am I going to feed my children?” said a Madurese woman who was raising her five children alone. It made my mother speechless.
To their surprise, my mother lent them money without an interest. “Please settle your debt as soon as possible,” said she. Yet it was too shocking for them to realise that borrowing money in Islam must not be done without strings attached. If for business, a lender and a borrower would share the risk; meaning the borrower would not be held responsible if their business go bust. However, such was not what those food sellers knew of. At least in their world.
Last night my better half and I watched the news about the Greece debt crisis. The government had to pay 15.3% interest to the “investors”; to whom they borrowed the money. Suddenly the memory of the ruthless pawnbrokers sprang into my mind.
“How come they’re asking them [the Greece government] to pay the interest? They [the investtors] know they haven’t got the money,” I said in disbelief. “Because they’ve got to,” answered him briskly. “Why? Certainly they cannot do it,” I responded, my voice rising. “It’s just to make matters worse,” I continued feeling sorry. I went on telling about my childhood story concerning pawnbrokers.
“Honey, the [Greece] government produced the bonds asking for money from the people. They’ve got to pay [them] whatever the circumstance. On the other hand, those food sellers approached the pawnbrokers for borrowing. It’s totally different,” he responded after a long pause. “But if I CAN’T then you’re still demanding such??” My voice became very frustrated. Meanwhile, the broadcaster had changed a topic to the impending UK’s national election.
“Can’t they do something else?” I pressed on. Sighing, he gave me the HOW look. “Nobody wants to lend money to people with bad credits, do they?” he replied. And I agreed. Strictly speaking, “people with a bad credit record” referred to the ones who could not fulfil the agreement. “But how if things go belly up beyond their controls?” I felt my temper flared recalling the stories of the glum food sellers.
“Sadly that’s how the capitalism works,” responded he, his voice was small. He was gazing at me with a please-don’t-go-further-it-was-a-futile-topic expression. “Wrong investment, bad public finance on the part of the [Greece]government,” he added, as if reading my mind. I was speechless. That is it: it is how THE capitalism works. So it is highly likely that German and other EU countries have to bail Greece out to save the Euro while being dragged into deeper crisis at the same time.
To my humble knowledge, it should not be the case. I was not listening anymore to the updates on the campaign trail on TV. For my mind was wandering to the Indonesia’s economy crisis between 1997 and 1999. The country went bust; banks had to pay 60% interest for begging people to put the money therein. It was followed by major overhaul to restructure the banking; a strenous and painful process along the way. As a result, some banks then switched to syari’ah banking based upon shared risks and profits in investment. It means when an investment failed, both lender and borrower shared the burden. It worked. And actually it is thriving as now all major banks and insurance companies offer syari’ah based products. The system enables Indonesia to weather the European crisis. Taking into account the fact that the country has the most populous Muslim in the world, it is arguably easy to see why. Nonetheless I was wondering should Greece benefit from syari’ah banking in future. From financial point of view, I cannot see why it might be unattractive. Forget about syari’ah stereotypes being misled by Orientalists. It is the principle that matters.
What do you think?
Kartini, the Indonesian’s people’s princess
Today I nearly forgot it is Kartini’s Day in Indonesia. It is quite unique in a way that the birth of a very special woman is declared as a national holiday. Yep, everybody is off-work, school children wear costumes and have a fun day, communities and neighbourhoods organise a variety of competitions which focus on home economy. Every year it comes with a bang; a remembrance to a reformer who pioneered the education for girls and a celebration to her progressive mindset. Her goal in educating women was far-fetched for her generation and was deemed to be improper in feudal society at the end of the nineteenth century Java.
Her vision, in her own words in Bahasa, is as follows:
“Kami di sini memohon diusahakan pengajaran dan pendidikan anak-anak perempuan, bukan sekali-kali, karena kami menginginkan anak-anak perempuan itu menjadi saingan laki-laki dalam perjuangan hidupnya, tapi karena kami yakin akan pengaruhnya yang besar sekali bagi kaum wanita, agar wanita lebih cakap melakukan kewajibannya; menjadi ibu, pendidik manusia yang pertama-tama.”
Its nearest translation in English:
“We wish to provide learning and education to girls, not because we wish them to outdo men in their life but because of its tremendous impact (of learning and education) to women so as to empower them in doing their duties; to be a mother, the very first mentor to a human”.
It is as if answering a question I have been thinking: was Kartini a feminist? First and foremost, it is unpretentious to perceive that she was one with her open-minded but critical attitude. Fluent in Dutch, she was a passionate reader who digested any newspapers and books her circle of friends brought for her being trapped among four walls. At the time, the highest education a woman could get –only the ones from noble families- was to finish their last year in primary school. Afterwards they would be groomed to lead a conventional life marrying a noble.
In the readings, Kartini would have noticed about freedom of education to women in the Netherlands and Europe in general. She was pleading to her father to let her study further like her older brother, RM Sosrokartono. Even she was proposing to travel to the Netherlands. Her father could only shake his head with a heavy heart despite her sobbing. As a result, she was deeply frustrated with the situation.
Naturally she abhorred such an unfair treatment; one was domesticated and the other saw the world and travelling. I asked myself times: what was she thinking then? Did she demand equality; the epicentre of women’s liberation movement in the US and Europe started at the end of 1960s? If she were, I believe she had a point with which equality in education was of utmost importance.
Secondly, her accepting Raden Adipati Djojodiningrat’s proposal, her future husband, highlights the fact that she might have viewed an equal partnership in marriage. Some references note that it was against her will and she did that only to please her father. Did she?
According to Kartini, education for women is not a means to be the same with men but further to make them able to perform their role as a mother: a role model for their children. The first, the most important one in the early years. As a result, she understood that a mother should be smart and wise, for at their hands the foundation to behaviour and learning are laid. They are the ones who would shape their offsprings’ understanding to the world.
So, was Kartini a feminist? Nowadays it is intriguing that western women have more freedom but are less happier than fifty years ago. In Europe, men still earn between 20% and 30% more than her women in the same roles. I pause to ponder: where was the great expectation announced forty years ago that women should express themselves and object to be domesticated by a man?
To my way of thinking, she probably was influenced by early Western feminism. Nevertheless, she saw beyond equality and freedom issues, for at the end of the day a woman would be a mother regardless their changing circumstances.
In nowadays’ world, Kartini’s vision is still relevant. She opened the first girls’ school at the back of her huge back yard compound bearing in mind that they would be future mothers. Well, it was unthinkable at the time that a woman could remain single anyway.
In conclusion, Kartini fought for equality in education between men and women with a firm belief that both are able to do so. With this in mind, she would have seen women holding a variety of profession but still have to put her priority as a mother. And that is when everything comes into perspective.
Despite her short life, Kartini has touched the heart of every woman in Indonesia. She is the kind of people’s princess Indonesians proudly have.
(With many thanks to Vika for the quote)
The credit crunch to my family: over two years on
Over two years ago, my husband was made redundant. He worked for an investment bank, which immediately suffered from its toxic assets. On hearing the news, I strangely felt relieved. I saw a new beginning of his career in a non-bank sector. Well, he was not a banker yet was required to ascertain that the firewall across the bank’s network system ran well.
Alhamdulillah, four weeks afterwards he landed on his feet with a similar job at a retail company. Yet he kept looking to go back to the financial sector; being contacted by headhunters and agreed to attend interviews to some big names. This is not to say he was unhappy in his then role as the salary was similar and he did not have to get cold from commuting by the tube to the City. More importantly, he had put a smile on his wife’s face as she could get 20% staff discount to all purchase of clothes.
Furthermore, during summer 2008 LB collapsed and the credit crunch was unfolding. His interviews began to occupy him, for there were between five and seven grueling interviews for a role. From his point of view, it is common knowledge that only banks can pay him more. Why not seize the opportunity? After all, they had all the money, didn’t they?
At the end, he did not get any of the jobs even though he got through to the final interview. However, he learnt later through grapevines that the last position offered to another candidate was not taken. The position was frozen eventually.
In the meantime, I heaved a sigh of relief because of my disagreeing him to go back to financial sector given that the precarious situation at the time must be taken into account. Moreover, as a Muslim, I was uneasy that he was working for a company which accumulates its profit from interests. More significantly, I was cringed to read that those bankers who had caused so great a catastrophe wouldn’t be held responsible at all.
The FSA (Financial Services Authority) launched an enquiry into GS. It turns out to be the one which froze the role. I was shuddering, feeling goose bumps when I learnt the extent of its CDO (collateralized debt obligation). I drew a breath, thinking had he worked for the morally bankrupt company. In all honesty, I would have been in a great shame and feeling gutted that he was an employee: my food shopping, fuel and bills were paid through them. Personally I still care about it. Even though other people might have said it was not anyone’s mistake if he had chosen to work there. And there were other decent Muslims who are still working there.
Lastly, a few years ago I remembered some acquaintances looked impressed to learn that he worked for “a big name”. I let myself come clean: I was flattered. I am not sure any of that anymore.
In hindsight it was the best thing that my husband was out in the early stage and has stayed afloat ever since. To date, nearly half of its 6,000 employees in the bank’s London office had to go including all his colleagues. On the whole, the monstrosity caused by sub-prime mortgage assets is eye-opening.
Last week I was passing through Cheapside with my children heading for the Monument. Some women in their designer suits and bags looked amused having seen us dressing downs surrounded by glass-fronted buildings in the heart of the City. I smiled back to them, thinking how lucky I was. I did not have to “babysit” million dollars and worked my socks off. I did not have to miss the joy of the company of my children. I was there for them. And I am still there for them.
The Greek Cookery Class
A promise is a promise, even if one has to wait for a year. A friend of mine, who I have known back to the postgrad time, has flourished with her Greek Cookery Class. Having been in the same student hall for a year, little did I know Elisavet’s passion to her root by way of food. Thus in the last one year she has combined her talent in writing and cooking. Her class has been featured in Foodepedia, which speaks volume of her achievement.
So there it goes in a warm spring evening: a wonderful time cooking scrumptuous Greek cuisine with a group of jolly people.
What we cooked:
-Main course :
Spanakotyropitta : pastry with feta cheese and spinach filling
Tigania with sausages
-Side dishes:
Tzatziki: a dip of a mixture of Greek yoghurt, dill,olive oil, garlic, lemon juice, cucumbers
Fried crunchy courgette
Cauliflower salad
-Desert: Mpougatsa
(a complimentary as we did not cook it from scratch).
