New German Word - Embarrassed (Sich Schämen)

As in, I was so embarrassed I could have died.  Ich habe mich so zutiefst geschämt, dass ich sterben wollte.

But I didn't die and therefore I blog.  Here is my shame for your enjoyment.  Schadenfreude at its best.  About once a year the water-meter-reader man comes around and checks our water usage.  (As an aside, do you think if you had to tell people that you were a water-meter-reader a thousand times you'd get tired of it?  I think it's mighty fun to say.  I'm a Water-Meter-Reader and I'm currently dating a lady named Sally.  She sells seashells...)

Anyway, there are no surprises here.  They tell you two weeks in advance and give you a time slot.  He comes in, checks the meter, writes a few numbers down on his clipboard and is off.  Our water meter happens to be located in our bathroom and looks like this.

Now, we've touched on my Hausfrau skills before and there is, to be sure, some improvement to be made.  But then there is also the practical side of me which said, "just clean the bathroom because that's all he'll see."  And that's what I did, or to be shamefully honest, that's what Thomas did.  The man who wakes up every morning at six to bring home the euros cleaned the bathroom before work while I lazed in bed.  As if there weren't enough reasons to adore him.  I seriously need to get on the scorecard soon.  But I had, really had, intended to clean the bathroom myself and indeed I did squirt the meter with a little Windex to make them all shiny and purty and whatnot.  I even ran a broom over the front entrance hall off which the bathroom lies. 

So the Meter Reader Man shows up and it's not one but two men in official looking work uniforms and they have buckets and toolboxes and a whole host of other stuff that generally doesn't interest me.  MRM #1 asks me (I can only presume because I really didn't understand him) where the water meter is and I point to the bathroom.  WRM #2 asks me to take him to the kitchen. The kitchen?  My kitchen? With the half-eaten frozen pizza on the table, the breakfast dishes (ahh hell, last night's dinner dishes) still in the sink?  The kitchen in which the wine and beer bottles destined for recycling are currently fighting each other for counter space? The kitchen with the spaghetti-sauce plastered floor that I really have been meaning to mop. Right after I do the windows.  That kitchen is right here, sir.

Turns out, it was sort of a whole water overhaul thing.  It involved wrenches and washers and water pressure meters and water run off - hence the buckets.  It also involved checking the thermostats on the radiators in every room.  Yes, that's right every room.  On a scale of 1-10 I'd say my house was on firm five footing which is to say that one need not fear for rats and roaches but if dust bunnies are your thing, well then as the iconic Bob Barker used to say...Come oooon down. Fortunately, I had made the bed in the bedroom because it was Wednesday.  And I make the bed. Every. Wednesday.

As he moved from room to room, my panic increased.  With every new door opened my stomach lurched deeper and my face turned redder.  Because, lucky contestants, behind door number three was this:

What no man (other than my husband) was ever meant to see.  As proof positive please find exhibit A: the closed curtains lest a nosy neighbor try to get a peek in. Now in all fairness to me, this is not the normal state of this room.  About three weeks ago, in a fit of spring fever brought on by a warm, sunny day, I decided to do a great clothes purge.  Change out the winter clothes for summer clothes.  Get rid of anything that didn't fit. Wash and iron anything destined for summer wear. Et cetera, et cetera.  Just one problem.  The sun disappeared after that day and hasn't reappeared since.  We've had the coldest, rainiest month of May in 20 years.  I think in the last 17 days the sun had appeared once just to taunt and jeer.  So, instead of tank tops I am still wearing sweaters on a daily basis.  Needless, to say, I couldn't really put away my winter clothes and I lost the momentum for purging and prepping my summer clothes so I just left everything in a state of tried on, didn't fit, threw it on floor, chair, bed, bookcase.  Oh, and the wet towel on the ironing board.  That was from this morning.  I took it out of the bathroom because I wanted the bathroom to look nice and clean.  Respectable-like. Bite, I'd like you to meet my ass.

I was horrified.  He actually had to climb over two huge plastic bags of too-smalls to get to the thermostat. I wanted to say, "I'm donating those," hoping he'd think I was generous, warm-hearted - any descriptor other than disgusting slob.  But I don't know the German word for donate and I thought he might think I was trying to offer my wrinkled crap as some sort of bribe for lowering our reported water usage so I just tried to look all cool and un-phased as he tripped over a giant dust bunny munching on a lone Converse sneaker.

So what have I learned?  It is important to have a presentable home at all times.  So, if it ever stops raining and the sun comes out for longer than a factory man's lunch-break, I will get my June Cleaver on and do some serious spring cleaning.  But until then, I'll just shut the door.

A Time to Sow and a Time to Sew

It's been so nice to spend some time with my family this last week.  By far, the hardest part of living abroad is missing family and friends.  Email, hour-long phone calls, Skype - they are simply not a comparable replacement for sleepy kids crawling into bed with you, chatting over a cup of tea, Little Debbies with Dad and just time in the company of my family who always make me laugh and always make me feel home. Just home.

I'm loving all things Maine at the moment.  Spring.  Here for real unlike the teasing spring I left behind in Munich. The smell of the pine needles, daffodils waving in the late afternoon breeze coming up off the ocean, fresh cut grass and dirt.  Yup, dirt.  Dad and I spent yesterday at the community garden that operates as part of a 4-H summer camp for kids. It was so simple.  Sun. Sky. Seeds. I'm struck again and again by the strong sense of community in Maine. A bunch of people getting together to sow some seeds so that kids can learn that beans grow on vines and snap peas don't come wrapped in cellophane.

Onto sewing... I spent last week in NJ visiting the sibs and was able to spend most of Sunday sewing with my niece who is turning into quite the accomplished seamstress.  She's got a great eye for color and style and is a much better sewer than I was at her age.  This skirt is her latest creation from a tutorial you can find here. I'm proud of you, Paige.

Dinner at ???

We had friends for dinner last night and I had sort of a Hausfrau breakthrough.  Typically, as our guests are pushing the buzzer at exactly 7:00 (yes, the stereotype is true, Germans are exceptionally prompt) I am in full hysteria mode. Half-dressed, flour strewn across counter tops, glob of butter affixed to my nose, second degree burns on right hand from forgetting to use hot pad when pulling casserole dish out of the oven while simultaneously trying to dress a salad with a homemade vinaigrette reduction.

Not this time.  I was on it. On. It

The Menu

Appetizer: Antipasto and Aperol Spritzs
Main Course: Lasagna, garlic bread, arugula salad with shaved Parmesan
Dessert: Strawberry shortcake with fresh whipped creme

The Timing

Guests due to arrive at 7:30.   At 6:25 the lasagna elements are complete and ready for assembly and insertion into the oven at 7:00.  Strawberries hulled, macerated and refrigerated. Salad prepared with dressing laying in wait.  Garlic bread seasoned and wrapped in foil.  Antipasto assortment prepared and ready for plating at 7:25. Me? Showered and dressed.  The only thing left to do?  Make the shortbread a quick 15 minute venture that I plan to kick out after sticking the lasagna in the oven.  Leaving a whopping 15 minutes to run a comb through my locks and apply lip gloss. Kiss. Kiss. The long and short of it?  I had a whole half hour to spare.  I am rocking this Hausfrau thing. Rocking. It.

So, I decided to check email with the free time.  As I sit down at my computer my husband says to me:

TK: What are you doing?
ME: Checking my email.
TK: Now? They're going to be here any minute.
ME: Nuh uh. It's only six-thirty.
TK: Yeah, they're coming at six-thirty.
ME: (controlled hysteria) But you told me they were coming at seven-thirty.
TK: I did?
ME: Yes, you DID.
TK: I said, "halb sieben."
ME: NOOOO, you said seven-thirty!

Brief Language Instruction Interlude

Telling time in German is a bit different than telling time in English.
In English, we say seven-thirty meaning half AFTER seven. 7:30
In German, they say halb sieben meaning half BEFORE seven. 6:30

Back to our previulsy scheduled programing

ME: NOOOO, YOU SAID SEVEN-THIRTY!!!!! (now in full-blown hysteria)
TK: I said seven-thirty? I meant halb sieben.
ME: Which is 6:30 which is NOOOOWWWW!!!!
TK: Can I do something to help?

I was not pleased.  Really. Not. Pleased. Fortunately, we have the coolest friends in the world so when the buzzer sounded at halb sieben/six-thirty we mixed a drink and they joined us in the kitchen. It was a great night with good friends.

But I was still really peeved with TK.  Bordering on pissed. Or, as we say in German "stinksauer"  pronounced stink sour (a new favorite word). No, not because he screwed up the time.  It goes much deeper than that.  You see, since moving to Germany I've been somewhat off-kilter.  I couldn't seem to find my niche.  I don't work.  I don't have offspring. I didn't have friends for a long time.  I gave the Hausfrau thing a good go but I don't think I'll ever make it to German standards.  The idea of someone randomly ringing my bell for an impromptu Kaffee and Kuchen paralyzes me with fear.  Proper Hausfraus are always prepared for company.  There is always a fresh pastry in a tidy breadbox. A good Hausfrau's home is always spotless.  That is their job.  They take it seriously. They sweep the stoop and the driveway. Every. Day.  They wash the kitchen floor. Every. Day. 

My idea of doing the laundry every day goes something like this. Monday - wash laundry. Remove from dryer. Throw dry laundry on living room couch. Tuesday - fold laundry and place on coffee table five minutes before TK gets home from work so that I appear to have had a productive day. Wednesday - move folded laundry to bed.  This is preceded by my making the bed.  I make the bed. Every. Wednesday. Wednesday night. Move the folded laundry off the bed to the chest beside the bed. Thursday - put laundry away. In. Drawers. And. Shit. Friday - rest.  Whew.  So it's not like I'd found my niche with the whole Hausfrau thing either.

But there was one area in which I excelled.  One challenge which I could master in every situation. One talent which I truly considered my niche.  Language Idiot.  I am the one who can not form simple sentences. I am the one who who stares blankly into German faces when asked anything beyond "what is your name?" I am the one who has to count on my fingers when told the movie starts at 20:00. Me. Me. ME! I am the language idiot. Not you, my dear bi-lingual husband.  You are messing with my niche and that is just so... Not. Cool.

Brotzeit Birthday

The twins turned 37 on Saturday.  We enjoyed family time over the weekend including a traditional Bavarian Brotzeit.  Brotzeit makes for a perfect Sunday evening meal when nobody feels like cooking but you still want a little German Gemütlichkeit (comfortable meal with friends/family).  It's a lighter meal than say, the pot roast that we had on Saturday (coincidentally the first gorgeous spring day we'd had so not exactly pot roast weather).  A lighter meal that is, ahem, unless you mainline the Obatzda cheese spread like Bobby Brown on a crack binge and then wash it down with several Edelstoffs.  I'd go into more detail but my arteries are so clogged that the circulation to my fingers is compromised which makes typing   h...a....rd.

 

The birthday boys.

Essential Oils

Big deal, right?  Olive oil, an avocado and a cilantro garnish.  Well, this represents a small victory for me. Shopping in Germany has provided me with some challenges and some opportunities.  Instead of a once a week trip to the A&P or Whole Foods, I've become accustomed to the German way of making a trip to the market every day or every other day.  I find I waste a lot less food this way because I buy only what I am actually going to cook that day or the next.  So different from the US where the weekly excursion was influenced by cravings, coupons and clever merchandising. And I was never one to plan a week full of meals in advance.  I had a mish mash approach that yielded a lot more mash than mish. And, truth be told, a lot of food went off because we got home so late from work and I was just not motivated to cook. Far easier to stop at Greek Delights and get take-out.

One of the biggest challenges about shopping in Germany is that I can't count on one store for all my needs.  Living in BFMF, it's not as simple as a stroll down Main Street to stores A, B and C with a stop at a cafe in between. Main street for me includes: a supermarket, an Indian restaurant, a children's shoe store, a bank, a butcher and a salon.  Oh, and let's not forget the rocking bar Hokus Pokus which we lovingly refer to as The Poke.  That about sums up my shopping potential.  So, if I want to cook Asian food, I have to take my bike (or the train) to the Asian Grocer.  That's a small inconvenience since I have a certified cilantro addiction and need to have it at least twice a week. The Asian grocer ships it in from who knows where and it's hit or miss what sort of condition it is in.  I'm always psyched when I get a healthy bunch that will last more than a few days. This is also where I need to go if I want bok choy, sweet potatoes, brown sugar, bean sprouts, fresh lemongrass, buckwheat noodles, etc.  If I'm feeling like cooking Aloo Palak or Tikka Masala, I have to go to another store in the city center for Indian staples.

In general, the vegetable assortment in most German markets is pretty basic and more seasonally influenced.  You won't find 10 types of lettuce, a full fresh herb assortment or every type of fruit imaginable. And, for a country that loves their potatoes, they only seem to have two kinds.  New potatoes, Yukon Golds, yams, jacket baking potatoes - that's a trip to the Viktualienmarkt to see the potato man.  And certain things like pecans, parsnips, chocolate chips, vanilla extract - they're either not available or I have to go to the Viktualienmarkt and pay crazy, crazy prices. Thankfully, we have a steady stream of BMW friends visiting HQ for meetings and they are always happy (I hope) to be my baking supply drug ponies.  My last delivery included butterscotch morsels, shredded coconut and cream of tartar.

One of the foods I was missing the most was avocados.  They were a standard lunch component for me mixed with hummus and tomato on a bagel. Don't even get me started on bagels. I think there are two places in Munich. Oh, and ready-made hummus? You have to go to a Turkish market for that.  Fortunately, I like my homemade stuff just fine. But I digress - back to the avocados. The thing is, you can get avocados in every store but they just weren't the same as the ones I bought at home. The first couple of times I bought avocados here I dutifully put them on my veggie tier waiting for them to ripen.  Three days.  Five days.  Seven days.  Still bright green.  When I finally cut into one it was all brown and gooey inside.  Okay, lesson learned, they will not turn black when ripe. With my next batch I did the squeeze test until I determined they were ripe.  And they were.  But they had no flavor.  I tried and tried but I could never get my avocado mojo going.

Now, remember how I said I have to go to several stores to find everything I need?  Well, about 75% of my shopping I do in Edeka for a couple of reasons.  They are close - only a five minute walk.  They are super friendly which is not the norm.  People go on and on about how bad German customer service is but I find that Edeka employees are always pleasant and patient.  And, most importantly, I can go there with a list and almost always get everything I need.  The prices are higher but it is sooo worth it for me to shop there.

Then I supplement with the "discount" and "ethnic" markets for pantry staples and miscellaneous items.  The closest discount market to me is Pennymarkt. I head there about once a week.  You kind of just have to go and see what they have because, beyond the staples, the assortment is never guaranteed to be the same. I hardly ever buy vegetables there because the quality isn't very good.  Germany grades their produce on a scale of 1-3.  Edeka carries a lot of 1st klasse fruits and vegetables and Penny carries a lot of 2nd klasse. So, you can imagine my surprise a few weeks ago as I was skimming past the vegetable section and something round and black caught my eye.  An avocado.  A dark avocado.  Upon closer inspection, a HASS avocado!  I bought five.  They were like little pebbly-skinned bits of hope.  I brought them home and immediately cut two open. I would have made a batch of guacamole right then and there but, you guessed it, I didn't have any cilantro and didn't feel like going all the way to the Asian market.  So, I just sprinkled them with some sea salt and pepper, gave them a generous squeeze of lime and inhaled them. Perfect.  Heaven. Home. Hass.

Which brings us to the olive oil.  You know that über-revealing website dating question, "What are the five things you can't live without?"  My top five includes cilantro and a really great olive oil.  Extra-Virgin. First cold press. Green. Pure. The kind that is so aromatic you could bathe in it.  My last good batch I brought back from Italy. On the self-same (soon to be legendary) Pennymarkt avocado trip I picked up a bottle of olive oil.  I reserve the good stuff for dressings or dipping bread but I also always have a cheapo bottle on hand for general cooking. The bottle I got from Penny cost 2.99.  Like I said, Penny is cheap.  Well, I opened this bottle on Monday to add a little to boiling pasta water.  The smell hit me right away.  This was no Bertolli.  I poured a little on my finger. Like liquid gold it was.  Quickly, I translated the packaging: product of Greece, cold-press, winner of 5 international awards. I used canola oil for the pasta water then cut a piece of bakery bread, added some fresh grated black pepper and a generous pinch of sea salt and dipped away.

Why yes, as a matter of fact, I did just get back from Pennymarkt. What did I buy, you ask? Two more bottles of the olive oil (still 2.99) and four avocados. That combined with the cilantro means the world is mine: Thai, Mexican, Indian, Greek, Italian - I shall cook and enjoy you all.

p.s. I also have a package of pork schmalz in the fridge which technically means I can add Germany to the world cuisine mix.

Abendessen (Dinner)

In the entire time Thomas and I have been together, he has cooked for me exactly once. Pasta Aglio E Olio. Combined total of four ingredients (if you count the parsley garnish). Total time of twenty minutes start to finish. Thomas has no interest in cooking. Nada. Zilch. Null. None. Before we started dating, his meal repertoire consisted of the following:

1. Wasa crisps with cream cheese
2. Cereal
3. Spaghetti with ketchup
4. Hot dogs - and I had to explain that he really should not eat them cold right from the package.

I knew I was in trouble the first time I opened the pantry in Thomas' apartment. He'd converted it into a closet for his PUMA collection. But here's the kicker. He ACTUALLY, REALLY, TRULY thought that the closet was supposed to be for shoes because the shelves were the perfect size. He could not even fathom that anyone would need that much space for food in their home. Wasn't that what the cabinets in the kitchen were for? The cabinets that housed his 12 boxes of cereal (hello Seinfeld) and his three pots?

Fast forward five years. For Valentine's Day this year I wanted only one thing. I wanted us to cook a meal together. Garlic, wine, good music, candles. I was psyched. Thomas was willing. But reluctant. Oh so very reluctant. But willing.

To celebrate passing my German test last week, I bought my first cookbook in German. The Real German Kitchen. Traditional meals from all the various regions in Germany.

The plan was that we would each select three appetizers, main courses and desserts that we wanted to try. Then we'd compare lists, see where we matched and that's what we'd cook. It went without saying that all choices would exclude anything with ingredients such as: pig's lung, calf liver, intestines, stomach, neck. That knocked about 50% of the book right off the list. Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration but, as in many cultures, one man's delicacy is another man's gag reflex.

We settled on Kartoffelsuppe (potato soup) from the Saxen region where Thomas was born and Rahmgulasch with Kloße (potato dumplings) from the Bayern region. We cheated slightly on the dessert since we had left-over lemon meringue pie from the day before. Now I have a dozen eggs left in the fridge from the forsaken Eierschecke. Next week.

I'm pleased to say the whole thing went off without a hitch and we had a really nice afternoon together. The only time Thomas cried was when he was chopping the onions. Everything was sehr, sehr lecker. How could it not be with an ingredient list that included: butter, heavy cream, creme fraiche, bacon, potatoes, more potatoes and salt? I think we consumed a week's worth of calories in one sitting. And then, in keeping with the potato theme, we retired to the couch where we spent the rest of the evening watching the Olympics. Pretty much a perfect day in my book.

Kuchen Wear

So, back when I was working for BMW I was responsible for, and I quote, sourcing private-label apparel, accessories, timepieces and gift items for distribution in BMW and MINI dealerships as well as providing creative direction to designers and suppliers ensuring that all products are premium and brand relevant, end quote.

As a subsidiary, we had to get everything we produced locally for the US market approved by HQ in Germany. Let's just say there were differences of opinion regarding what was "brand relevant." I spent way too much time creating PowerPoint presentations for local product approvals and way too much time discussing what was and was not "brand appropriate," or "brand damaging." We felt that Germany was too restrictive. They felt that we didn't protect the brand values. For example, we offered adorable baby onesies and bibs that were good sellers. We had to stop selling them because what if a baby actually spit up on the logo? That, my friends, would be "brand damaging." I'm really not making this stuff up. We'd make a pink polo shirt and Germany would tell us that pink was not a "brand appropriate" color. Six months later, they'd come out with a light pink polo and we'd say, "I thought pink was verboten??" and they'd say, "It's not pink. It's blush white." So, as long as you don't actually call it pink it's not pink, right? Well, this isn't a baby bib, it's a miniature floor mat. Now can we sell them again? And so on.

A couple of weeks ago, Thomas brought me one of his BMW shirts that was on it's last legs. The cuffs were starting to fray and it was destined for the Goodwill box. I had it lying around for a few days thinking I'd clean out some stuff from my closet too when I remembered a tutorial I'd seen a while ago on the Internet. It was for ways to re-purpose a man's shirt and one of them was an apron. I got right on it. And this, Damen und Herren, is my "kitchen appropriate" creation. Of course, I had to incorporate pink somehow because I am small, and bitter, and jaded and just evil like that. And what about the sacred logo you ask? What if I do something incredibly "brand damaging" like splatter some sauerbraten sauce on it? No worries CI police, I would NEVER want to damage the brand so I just covered that bad boy with some pink rickrack. Like I said, evil.

My new apron debuted just in time for a special meal. But more on that on Sunday...

A Blog, A Blog, My Homeland For a Blog!

It has taken me well over three hours to create this most simplest of blogs. A task multiple people assured me would take all of five minutes. But how, I ask, do you select a font that conveys your inner essence when you only have six to choose from? How is one to decide whether side bars are bold-worthy or if that distinction should be reserved for links?? It is gray outside today with threatening rain which may have influenced my background color choice. I hope I don't regret this torturous decision when the sun reappears.

As I've take the better part of three weeks to get up and running on this blog, I'll give a brief update of how I've spent my time to date.

Week One: Unpacking and organizing. Multiple trips to IKEA. TK scratching his head when he returned home each evening to find the place looking far worse than when he left in the morning. I kept telling him that I had "a process". I never quite figured out what that process was and I'm pretty sure he didn't buy my bluff.

Week Two: More organizing. Laundry! I had to take pictures of all the settings then download the pictures to my computer and babelfish the translations. Then I had to convert the Celsius water temperatures to Fahrenheit. While TK has showed me the most important settings, I'm not quite sure I trust his laundry prowess. This is a man who two weeks ago decided to dry our still damp sheets by draping them over our mahogany stained dining room chairs. Thankfully German washing machines have a super duper hot setting (90 Celsius 194 Fahrenheit!). All survived the incident including TK. Julika has provided a helpful translation between Trocken (dry) and Schranktrocken (closet dry) but really what does that mean? And how much can I possibly care? Am I evil for missing my American setting of Overdry Energy Waster?

Week Three: Wondering if all I really accomplished in week two was laundry?? I can feel the impending doom of this blog breathing down my neck already.

Our friend Trudy had a business trip layover last Saturday and we decided to make the most of the time with a visit to Oktoberfest or Wiesn as the natives call it. We were rewarded richly within five minutes of entering by witnessing a drunk getting tossed from a beer tent - one security guard for each limb on the ole' heave ho.

 

Steffen, Trudy and Thomas at the U-bahn

While we did experience the full spectrum of dirndls and drunks, we ourselves did not indulge in das Bier. All the tents were overcrowded so they weren't letting anyone else in. Thomas and I tried to go back again last night thinking mid-week might be less crowded but we were forewarned that it was just as crowded. I may have underestimated how big a deal this is.

Tonight we go to our mutual friend Gordon's house for dinner. He is here in Germany on an expat assignment that will end within the next few months. TK and I spent last night rehearsing how I can distract our hosts while he whips out the tape measure and determines what of their possessions we can place low ball offers on. This couch is so comfortable - are you planning on taking it home with you? You know, I'd really love another cup of coffee. Would you mind terribly brewing a fresh pot? I do so hate stale coffee. Quick, honey, the coffee table, measure the coffee table!!