When I landed in Canada, I was prepared for many things: large distances, excessive politeness, and a national obsession with maple syrup. I was not prepared for the absence of kroketten and frikandellen. The realization struck on my third day. Jet lagged and slightly homesick, I wandered into a supermarket, confident that a civilized country would, at minimum, stock tasty snacks like kroketten, frikandellen, bitterballen, pikantos, berenklauwen… all the snacks that I use to love in The Netherlands.
I checked the freezer aisle once. Then again. I found pizza pockets, chicken nuggets, and sausages, but no kroketten. No frikandellen. Not even a suspiciously similar substitute. Assuming this was a local oversight, I asked an employee. “Excuse me,” I said politely, “where do you keep the frikandellen?” The employee smiled, paused, and replied, “Sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”
Over the following weeks, I checked a lot of supermarkets and even visited specialty European stores like a Dutch-themed café. Inside there are some “Delfts blauwe” windmills, but no frikandel. They also didn’t understand a single dutch word..
Sometimes I attempted to explain the concept of the kroket to a Canadian: a deep-fried cylinder, filled with ragout. They listened politely, but you could see in their eyes, that they didn’t have a clue. One asked if it was “like a hot dog.”
I was never being fully understood. Eventually, desperation set in. I attempted to make kroketten and frikandellen at home. The result was neither kroket nor frikandel. In the end, I gave up. But sometimes, late at night, I open the freezer and stare into the empty space between the ice cream and frozen peas, and whisper softly: “Ik zou nu wel een lekker kroketje lusten.” Canada gave me many things: opportunity, kindness, and breathtaking nature. But somewhere, deep my heart, there remains a kroket-shaped hole.