On Baerchen Paerchen

What are Baerchen Paerchen?  Only the greatest gummi candy in the entire world.  Okay, that is not true - that is an epistemic problem I am unable to get into.  But they are good.  Oh so good.

They are gummis made by Haribo - and they come in pairs of bears (hence the name).  One bear of the pair is sweet and the other sour. They are just so extremely well done - each bear so flavorful and delicious. Here is a link to these marvels of candy, in case you were interested-  https://onlineshop.haribo.com/haribo/fruchtgummi/331/baerchen-paerchen

I feel a bit embarrassed admitting a fondness for such a brash, prepackaged food.  We live in a climate in which only the virtues of the "natural" - whatever that even means - are to be extolled.  But life needs gummy candies.  It needs the fun, the naughty, the mesmerizing.  It needs gummy candies made with pure human ingenuity.  With all of the the chemicals, the flavorings, the coloring agents, that go into them.  All those witch-like shenanigans that come together to make a delicious candy.

How wonderful it is to live in a world in which people decided that we need squishy candy shaped like pairs of bears holding hands, in flavors like lemon and cherry and orange and apple and currant and blueberry.  Sometimes we need our food to be fun, not precious.  Sometimes we need something to eat in bed that won't leave crumbs while watching through the series Deadwood for the third time. Sometimes we need to pack a happy snack for nibbling in our purse - and want something that won't get squished.  In fact, these even held up in a package shipped to the U.S.  Yay for preservatives!

There isn't a "natural" equivalent of these.  That perfect texture and the bright happy colors and the adorable bear shape.  Perfection.  If you tried to pick up a pair of actual bear cubs you would be eaten.  No one tries to eat you when you eat these. Unless you have taken the last one in the bag.

On surprisingly delicious breakfasts

A few days ago I chose a Bauernbrot loaf of bread from the bakery.  Once the bread was purchased and placed into a bag and handed to me, I immediately began to regret the purchase.  I have never carried such a heavy loaf of bread home before.

But being that time travel machines don't actually exist (or - at least not that I know of), and therefore, going back in time and choosing a different loaf of bread was out of the question, I figured I would give this extremely dense bread a chance.

I plunked the loaf on a tray and placed it in a hot oven.  I gathered the butter dish and knives, a clementine, and made my coffee while the bread got nice and hot in the oven.

Once that brot was warm, I sliced it into a hunk so big and chunky that it can only rightfully be called a slab.  I smeared it generously with some butter and sprinkled a bit of salt.  Then I gathered my coffee and clementine, and slab of bread and headed a table to eat.

On the face of it, it sounds like a boring breakfast - perhaps veering into the austere side - and at best, unassuming.

But boring it was not.  In fact, it could even be considered transcendent.  That bread, that inelegant and heavy Bauernbrot, was actually so full of delicious sourdough flavor that I could feel my face pucker.  That sour flavor played so very very well with the sweet creamy butter and sprinkle of sea salt.  The clementine was one of those perfect ones - plump and juicy, with the right balance of sweet and sour.  The sweetness of that clementine was a beautiful antidote to the bitterness of the coffee and the sour of the bread.  All these flavor notes coming together in a joyous symphony of taste.  How could such a simple breakfast be so beautiful?

Somehow, I was able to experience a serendipitous coming together of the right food at the right time.  Perhaps, one day, I will even be able to recreate it.

On spaghetti bolognese...part 2

A pot of bolognese had been simmering on the burner, when in walked Seth into the kitchen.  He was followed by Max.  I asked Seth to taste the sauce, to make sure it tasted the way it was supposed to. He happily obliged, as did the little guy.

Seth said that it was delicious, making me feel all proud and happy.  Then Max got a spoonful for himself and proclaimed that it was old food.

My mind produced a rapid series of emotions in such a fantastically short period of time - I didn't think this was made with old food - most of it was just purchased the day before! Do I regularly serve old food to my child? Of course not! Embarassment, indignation, then...agreement.

It was indeed "old food." 

Or food that was regularly made before we moved here to Germany.

It had been one of those dishes that don't have any specific or particular memories attached to them, but were a part of the dinner rotation, a part of our identity as "people who make and eat and love spaghetti bolognese."  And though we didn't have particular memories associated with bolognese, we did have strong feelings about the deliciousness of this dinner.  Yet, in all the excitement of the move and new baby, we hadn't had much of a chance to make it in our new new home.

But making these dishes helps us to remember that we existed before the move - that we have memories and identities that follow us here.  Revisiting these meals gives us a sense of who we were who we are and perhaps even who we will become.  We should all be happy to eat old food.

On liverwurst

On some days here in Hamburg, the clouds are so thick that they appear to be a suspended grey sea hovering over our heads.  One can't help but look up, nervously wondering when they will release their waters on the ground, necessitating the donning of a ridiculous but practical polka-dotted rain poncho to protect myself and the baby from becoming drenched.  A rain poncho, instead of a rain coat, because my adorable but large baby enjoys being worn instead of strolled and a poncho allows room for both of us.

And just when it doesn't seem possible that these dense, thick clouds can allow for the existence of a sun, a hole opens up and sunbeams announce their presence, and that threat of becoming a walking, talking polka-dotted Violet Beauregarde (after she becomes the blueberry) no longer seems so imminent.

Liverwurst is an unfortunately named food.  We don't often like to be reminded of vital internal organs and of their consumption.  In English, it is as though we are saying "worst."  So "worst liver" is right there in the name.  Its appearance generally ranges from a sickly pink to a sickly grey. Liverwurst does not give the best of impressions, to say the least.

However, liverwurst isn't the grey looming cloud of foods.  No no no.  It is the sunbeam.  just when you think the worst is going to happen, you realize that you were mistaken.  The sun is there, the clouds are actually passing overhead, rain is no longer imminent, the sky is actually quite beautiful with the contrast of the grey clouds and sun peeking through, you don't have to wear the rain poncho, and that the bite of liverwurst, the bite you had to brace yourself for by closing your eyes, you have taken is absolutely delicious.

It is so moody, so umami, with a taste of salt that your taste buds absolutely cannot get enough of.

To enjoy liverwurst to its fullest, we have taken to making breakfast tartines.  I know, I know, there should be a photo, but alas, the imagination will have to suffice.  A smear of butter on warm toast, followed by a generous spreading of liverwurst then with slices of cucumber topped with freshly ground black pepper and a sprinkling of sea salt and lemon zest.  One must be sure to use a bread that gets some crunch when toasted, something solid for your teeth to get through, as that contrast of the bread with the soft spread is important.  A bit of sun to start the day.

To make, you will need some

farmers bread

butter

liverwurst

cucumber slices

salt

pepper

lemon zest

Toast that bread, that butter it.  Spread on some liverwurst.  Add cucumber slices.  Sprinkle salt and pepper, then finish with some lemon zest.  Guten appetit!

On holidays

Here in Germany, we don't really celebrate the same holidays as the United States (of course there is overlap, oh hello Christmas!) - but those holidays that we grew up acknowledging are still ingrained in our beings and minds.  Our bodies still feel the calendar rhythms that we grew up with, and I find us wanting to celebrate those holidays for which we hadn't particularly liked or found meaning in previously - perhaps that is why a festive Halloween is happening this year.

But we don't just want to celebrate the holidays we had in the United States, we want to start new ones as well.  Special days and celebrations are the easier way to connect to our new home.  Their discreetness is what makes these so much easier to connect to - a celebration or holiday is easier to research, easier to ask others about.  How do you celebrate this day?  What is this day all about? 

The other stuff is what permeates the air.  And getting at what makes up that air is the harder part.  What does it mean to be German, and how does this change your mindset, your habits, your routines, your norms?   These are the questions that are harder for us to answer, despite their urgency.  How can we best make Molly and Max NOT feel like such outsiders?

But we keep plugging away, soaking up the culture and language.  Each time we learn something new about the culture it becomes a gemstone, and as we glean new information our gemstone gets shinier and more refined until finally we can string it up on our necklace.  And we proudly wear this necklace (our necklace that says WE ARE GERMAN-ING), but then when we look around at what others are wearing, our necklace looks off - a bit too big, seven years out of date in style, and looks like cheap costume jewelry. So we go back to each gemstone, trying to make each one better and better until finally our necklace will look like everyone else's. 

On November 5, Max's kita is doing Lanternelaufen.  Apparently, the kids go out in the evening, with homemade lanterns, and sing songs.  This is perhaps one of the most utterly charming scenarios can possibly imagine.  So here we are trying out this new tradition - our self-made lanternelaufen lantern.

To make it, we used a jar, aluminum foil, a sharp utensil, an led light, and some jute. Max poked holes in the aluminum foil, stuffed it inside the jar, and put the light in the middle. Then we tied the jute on the sides so that he can hold his lantern easily.

We are excited to try it out.  Though I'm sure it will end up looking awkward.  Alas, we keep trudging on. 

On waffle/wafer cookies

Molly is the queen of blowing raspberries.

Now, this isn't a unique-to-Molly sound, but this little loaf owns it.

Whenever a moment arises in which she feels she is not being properly stimulated, out comes the raspberry sound.  She feels this way quite often, despite all my attempts at dazzling her.

She really gives it her all, as though her birth was solely for the sharing of this sound with the world.

Until a few months ago, I had no idea "waffel mischung" existed.  My discovery has improved life immensely.  "Waffel Mischung" is a bag of mixed crispy wafer cookies.

There are various kinds of these cookies, but the best kind - the ones that we return to over and over - are the kind that come wrapped in cheap gaudy packaging and cost about one euro each.  The bag contains a mixture of cookies in different shapes and sizes - rolled up ones, squares, rectangles and varying combinations of chocolate, cream, chocolate coating, chocolate cream.  Indeed, a mischung.

The cookies are not the sophisticated kind, with "grown-up" flavors like salted caramel or pistachio.  Just the basics of chocolate and vanilla.  But they are sweet and fun and not-at-all stuffy and staid.  And great for alleviating the tedium of a boring, rainy afternoon.  In other words, the "raspberries"of the cookie world.  

Each time you grab a cookie from the bag, a surprise awaits - which kind is in your hand? Is it square with chocolate?  Or cylinder with creamy vanilla?  Oh the anticipation in the reveal! Unless you are the kind of person who must look over the selections carefully and pull your favorite one out - dear son, I'm looking at you.  

I suppose I should be attempting to make these bursts of delights in my own kitchen, but I feel that defeats their purpose and sounds tedious and expensive.  Their charm lies partly in their accessibility.  Instead, I continue to grab a bag at the grocery store, come home, and put on a pot of french press coffee, And enjoy the sounds of raspberries being blown.

On darkness and tea

I took the southern California seasons and sun for granted.  Of course there was a rhythm to the year, - some parts of the year had longer days, and other parts had shorter days.  But the rhythm was quiet and gentle.

Here in northern Germany, the seasonal changes are brash.  Bold.  Summer nights can go on and on until 10:30 pm, while the dark winter mornings can remain firmly in place until 8:30-9 am.

Instead of fearing the darkness, I'm learning to embrace it.  It can be quite a cozy place - stuffed up with sweaters and scarves, blankets and candles, and furry slippers.  But it isn't an easy place to be when trying to get oneself out of bed on those cool mornings.

So I've added a new tool to my "dealing with darkness" arsenal - tea.  And more specifically, an electric tea kettle, for the bedroom.  Though the kitchen is only steps away, nothing feels more luxurious than waking up and being able to quickly get a hot mug of tea in my hands. I've fashioned us a veritable miniature tea aisle in our nightstand drawer, and I choose a tea based on whatever sounds good at the moment.  Sometimes a soothing green tea, sometimes a vibrant chai. Then I can crawl back under the covers, sip my beverage, and daydream about those California beaches we left behind.