literary rhapsodies, emotional outbursts, bad puns and creative output from a slightly distracted and highly disturbed mind with a big heart and dark sense of humour
Niemand wird gezwungen in einem Fahrstuhl zu sprechen.
Denkste.
Der Fahrstuhl ist der Inbegriff gezwungener Konversation. Trifft man sich schon vor dem Fahrstuhl, an den Eingangsstufen, an der Pforte, auf den Aufzug wartend im Gang – da gibt es noch ein freundliches, ein gemeintes „Guten Morgen werter Kollege oder werte Kollegin“, nur dass niemand mehr ‘werter Kollege’ sagt heutzutage, oder ‘werte Kollegin’ und wenn wir mal ehrlich mit uns sind, einige den guten Morgen auch überhaupt nicht wert sind. Das behält man aber besser für sich. Hier draußen, auf weiter Flur, fließt das Gespräch noch natürlich, kommt in Gang, während der Fahrstuhl seinen mechanischen gen Erdgeschoss unweigerlich und erbarmungslos antritt. Nicht mehr lange und der kleine quadratische Knopf, das pavlovsche Glöckchen der Fahrstuhlhunde beginnt hektisch rot zu blinken und kündigt SEIN Kommen an. Schon öffnen sie sich, die schweren Türen, mühsam und seufzend, als seien sie ihres Daseinszweckes müde; diese Tore der stählernen Small-Talk-Hölle – Tretet ein, die ihr hier arbeitet, und lasset alle Hoffnung fahren, diese Fahrt könnte ohne forciertes Flurfunkgeflüster vonstattengehen.
It’s November, the month of ghastly weather: Yesterday, Oct 31st was an unusually golden, sunny, warm autumn day. Today, November 1st it’s all wind and rain, a friendly reminder what the next couple of weeks are gonna be like.
Perfect time to snuggle up, drink tea, and watch the raindrops roll down the windows while an Erik Satie piano piece is playing. Welcome to your YA indie movie. It’s the season of long autumn walks in colourful forests, a yellowredorangebrown palette in nature and on our plates: Pumpkins, pears, walnuts. Comfort food to fall for. And due to Covid lockdown #2 in Germany, starting tomorrow, restaurants will be closed for business. Ergo it’s once more the time to cook and finally try out all these recipes that are piling up, those torn-out pages from magazines that have been on my to-cook-list forever.
Some fall colours for you to enjoy 🍂🍁🍃
Most of the times, my recipes are successes but of course even I have fuck ups now and then. Just the other week, the one and only (!) Jay-Z aka Johannes Zimmermann came by and we tried vegan sweet potato pancakes. Clear kitchen fail. Great taste but more of a pan-fried unidentifiable mush than pancakes. Well, at least we had a good laugh. And it did taste good. The side veggies, baby spinach sautéed with pine nuts and raisins, however was an absolute winner and I decided to combine it with my next autumn treat:
Pumpkin potato waffles with pear-ginger-chutney
And that one was GOOD so I’m sharing it. For your own interest: Read until the whole recipe before getting started. If you don‘t, the waffles will be cold by the time the spinach is ready.
For the waffles you’ll need 100g grated potatoes, 1 onion, 400g grated hokkaido (no need to peel it first but to remove the seeds), 2 eggs, 2 tbsp starch, 2 tbsp flour, nutmeg, salt and pepper. Mix everything together in a bowl. Take a coated pan, heat up some oil to hot but not full heat and place two big spoons of dough into it and press it down into a flatbread sort of shape. Fry it for a couple of minutes, flip it and repeat on the other side till both sides are golden brown.
The chutney (which is more of a compote but chutney sounds fancier) requires 2 tbsp vinegar and 1 tbsp sugar heated up on the stove. Once the sugar has dissolved and the liquid is boiling, add 4 chopped up pears (as chunky or small as you like it), a girl’s thumb sized peace of ginger, peeled and chopped, and lemon zest and juice from half a lemon. Let simmer on low to medium heat for about 20 minutes.
The spinach is basically self-explanatory. As soon as the voluminous pile of leaves has shrunken to a sad green small heap, add a handful of pine nuts and a handful of raisins. Fry and stir. Add some salt and pepper and let the ingredients do the rest.
A healthy, vegetarian, colourful dish sure to warm you up from nasty weather.
Ich schreibe diese Zeilen – wer hätte es gedacht – mit meinem Füller, auch wenn ihr, liebe Leser, die abgetippte Tablet-Ausgabe zu lesen bekommen.
Der Füller, zu Zeiten klackernder Schreibmaschinen und Wählscheibenfestnetzapparaten das mobile Schreibaccessoire en vogue, erlebte in den letzten Jahren ein Comeback. Entgegen der allgemeinen Vorstellungen braucht es weder Bart noch Intellektuellenbrille, auch ein Moleskine ist nicht vonnöten, aber sehr zu empfehlen, um einen Füller benutzen zu dürfen. Ich für meinen Teil schreibe derzeit in ein suhrkamp Notizbuch #unbezahlteWerbung und auf einem Hugo Boss-Schreibblock. Vornehm geht die Welt zugrunde.
Wie gerne würde ich davon erzählen, wie elegant und exquisit er ist, mein Füller, wie Feder und Kiel sich sanft geschwungen vereinen. Alas – und es gibt kein deutsches Wort um diesen Seufzer der englischen Literatur adäquat zu übersetzen – alas, meiner ist kantig und plump, liegt aber gut in der Hand. Außerdem hat er nur 19,90 € gekostet und an der Kasse wurden zusätzlich 3% Mehrwertsteuersenkung (die wir an Sie, liebe Kunden, weitergeben) abgezogen und trotz seiner einfachen Ausstattung möchte ich ihn nicht mehr missen. Er ist schwarz, wenigsten hier also zeitlos. Mit ihm fühle ich das Schreiben, mit ihm fülle ich die Blätter, mit ihm erfülle ich mich an meiner eigenen Kreativität.
Ein Füller erwartet einen zarten Umgang. Nicht wie der Kulli, dieses grobschlächtige Schreibwerkzeug. Wie schnell wird hier der Griff zur krampfhaften Umklammerung, der Schöpfungsakt zum schludrigen Hingekritzel. Ein Kugelschreiber ist ein austauschbarer, irrelevanter, lieb- und lebloser Gebrauchsgegenstand, existent einzig und allein zum Zwecke seines Gebrauchs. Dies schreibe ich, ohne eine Mi(e)ne zu verziehen. Ein Füller hingegen verspricht einen Hauch von Abenteuer. Schon das Kratzen auf dem Papier, wie Vinyl so zärtlich und rau zugleich, macht das Schreiben zum Erlebnis. Wie einst die Feder ins Tintenfass taucht der Schreibende ein in die eigene Fantasie und bringt sie zu Papier. Der Füller ist das Zen der literarischen Schaffenskraft. Er verlangt Geduld, vor allem bei Linkshändern, er betont die Langsamkeit und nein, ich schreibe jetzt nicht Achtsamkeit, ach verdammt, da steht es und weil es Tinte ist und Tintenkiller giftig sind und stinken und bei schwarzer Tinte sowieso nicht funktionieren, kann ich es auch nicht mehr rückgängig machen. Ich könnte es durchstreichen, aber dann steht es immer noch da, auf meinem Hugo Boss-Schreibblock und was da steht ist damit Modegesetz und entweder streiche ich durch wie früher in der Grundschule, ein gerader Strich mit dem Lineal, schön ordentlich, aber dann kann ich es immer noch lesen, oder ich fahre wie im Wahn wieder und wieder darüber hinweg und verwandle es für alle Ewigkeit in ein hässliches Tintenkritzelkratzelmonster. Was Sie in diesem Fleck sehen, entscheidet über ihre geistige Verfassung, und wie ist eigentlich Ihr Verhältnis zu Ihrem Vater?
Geduld gehört nicht eben zu meinen Stärken und so tendiere ich dazu, meine eben frisch aufs Papier gebrachten Worte zu Schlieren zu verwischen, weil ich nicht warten, sondern weiter will, immer weiter, und dabei das Innehalten vergesse. Und so muss dieser Text hier enden, denn was folgt, sind die verwehten Spuren meiner Schrift, unkenntlich und verloren für immer im Schneegestöber meiner wirren Gedanken…
Meine Mutter und ich waren gestern wandern. In den Vogesen. Frühmorgens sind wir los, um nicht im Frühtau, aber wenigstens vormittags zu Berge zu ziehen, fallera. Wir wanderten allerdings gar nicht so viel, und wie üblich hatte ich vorsorglich ein Buch eingepackt, denn ich weiß, irgendwann – und meine Mutter hat die Route so geplant, dass wir gar nicht daran vorbeikommen oder besser gesagt auf jeden Fall daran vorbeikommen – wird sie stehenbleiben und sagen: „Schau mal, so viele Heidelbeeren! Oh, klasse!“ und schon verschwindet sie zwischen den kniehohen Sträuchern, bewaffnet mit ihrem knallroten Heidelbeerpflückgerät mit den metallenen Zähnen, das aussieht wie ein kleiner Handmähdrescher, und ich weiß, jetzt ist es an der an der Zeit, mir ein gemütliches Plätzchen zu suchen und zu lesen, bis meine Mutter ihr Sammelfieber ausgelebt hat oder alle verfügbaren Behälter bis oben hin gefüllt sind mit den kleinen süßen köstlichen Beeren.
So auch gestern. Nachdem wir uns von der Qualität der Früchte in einer Ferme Hauberge entlang des Weges bei einer tarte aux myrtilles überzeugt hatten – ein weiteres unumgängliches Ritual – fuhren wir nach Hause und ich wusste, morgen wird es Dampfnudeln geben, mit Vanillesoße und frischen Heidelbeeren, und übermorgen Blaubeerpfannkuchen zum Frühstück. Mit Puderzucker oder Ahornsirup, beides dürfen wir Kinder nicht. Und während wir so fuhren, und ich aus der Tupperdose naschte, konnte ich beides schon fast schmecken, vor allem aber die Dampfnudeln, und meine Gedanken wanderten in die Küche… wie meine Mutter den Teig zubereitet, dabei erst das Mehl nicht findet, schließlich über die Katze stolpert und das „blöde Mistvieh“ verflucht. Wie sie den Teig ordentlich durchboxt, die alte große Schmorpfanne nimmt, bei der ein Henkel halb abgebrochen ist und die unten schon ganz schwarz ist und nur erahnen lässt, wie edelstahlstrahlend sie einst gewesen sein muss. Das ist der Topf, in dem sonst herzhaft geschmort und und gegart wird (und mich mit Grausen an das lapprige Paprikagemüse meiner Mutter denken lässt. Pfui.) Für Dampfnudeln ist er perfekt und Dampfnudeln wird es immer nur aus diesem Topf geben. Schon reihen sie sich im Kreise, dicht and dicht in die Pfanne gedrängt, Deckel drauf und „ja nicht den Deckel hochheben, Umgotteswillen!“
Nach und nach ziehen süße, wohlbekannte Düfte durch das ganze Haus, karamellig, leicht verbrannt – aber nur leicht – und es wird Zeit, die Vanillesauce anzurühren, ganz profan das Fertigtütenprodukt: einmal aufkochen mit Milch, umrühren, fertig, zack, das können sogar mein Bruder und ich. Meistens ich. Er deckt lieber den Tisch. Das kann er aber nicht so schön, da fehlt ihm die ästhetische Ader, also korrigiere ich sein pragmatisches Tun zu einer anschaulicheren Tafel, auch um meine wachsende Ungeduld zu überbrücken, denn ich habe Huuuuuunger. Fast brennen die Dampfnudeln doch noch an, denn wie immer ist meine Mutter „nur ganz geschwind noch kurz“ sonstwohin verschwunden. Aber es geht alles gut; zum Glück, denn wir Kinder hätten uns nicht getraut zu intervenieren, das führt nur zu Ärger. Nein, nein, wir tun so als hätten wir von dem, was in der Küche beinahe passiert wäre, rein gar nichts mitbekommen.
„Essen ist fertig“ schallt die Stimme meiner Mutter durchs Haus, dabei sind wir doch alle da, außer Papa, aber der ist Diabetiker und isst das nicht.
Und da sitzen wir, an unserem uralten, dunkel gebeizten Holztisch mit Fußleiste in der Mitte. Die Sauce hat schon Haut gezogen – igitt! – aber mein Bruder löffelt sie todesmutig weg. Die Heidelbeeren, gelesen und gewaschen, stehen bereit. Schon bringt meine Mutter den heiß(ersehnt)en Topf, vorsichtig umklammert mit zwei unterschiedlichen Topflappen, weil die bei uns alle wild durcheinander in einer Schublade liegen und sie grundsätzlich ohne hinzusehen die zwei erstbesten rausholt. Die hat übrigens alle meine Oma gehäkelt, von der auch das Dampfnudelrezept stammt.
Da stehen sie auf dem Tisch und machen ihrem Namen alle Ehre. Den ersten Kloß bekommt mein Bruder, das Recht des Älteren. Dann bin ich an der Reihe. Oben fluffig weich, wie ein Kissen, unten mit der dicken Karamellkruste die so lustig am Gaumen kleben bleibt. Schon gießt sich ein Strom aus Vanillesauce darüber und es tropft und fließt an den Seiten herab – da liegt sie, die Hefekloßvollkorninsel im Vanillemeer. Wie kleine Farbtupfer, kleine blaue Wunschpunkte, treiben die Heidelbeeren auf dem Meer und ihre Bahnen ziehen lila Fäden, bis mit ein bisschen Gabelfahrerei ein violettes Farbspiel entsteht.
Dieser Moment, wenn ich die Dampfnudel anschneide, mit der Seite meiner Gabel sanft aber bestimmt in das weiche Kloßfleisch stoße, sich die Sauce in die luftigen Zwischenräume legt und ich diesen wunderbar wohlig-warmen Appetithappen endlich dem Munde zuführen darf: Glückseligkeit.
Yesterday, social media became literally a very dark place – black squares all over to show support for the Black Lives Matter movement and raise a voice against racism, to demand justice for the George Floyds in this world and as a sign of a new and sudden high alert and awareness towards white supremacy and oppression of black people, arisen from a terrible event. Almost everyone I follow on instagram has posted a black square with the hashtag blackouttuesday. I didn’t. Just like almost everyone I know changed their facebook profile picture by adding a Je suis Charlie-line or to dye it in the colours of the French flag after the attacks back then in France. I didn’t. The list is endless.
Why didn’t I? First of all, everyone connected to me on social media knows me to some degree. And if you do, you know that I am not indifferent to what is happening. Our world is so wrong in so many ways and the current developments make me so anxious, I had to set boundaries. 15 minutes of news every day, not a second more because it’s too upsetting. And honestly, I’m depressed as it is, and if I wasn’t, the news would make me. Nonetheless I am aware it’s happening and I am in the very comfortable position to watch most of it from afar, from a safe place and take it in in small doses, and I’m still affected. It’s appalling. The world is a mess and compared to it, The Intellectual Chaos is a playground (because a) puns and b) my inner child reigns here, both as king and queen in the land of despair and depression and nonetheless outstanding joy).
Because I know they’re often described as furrier tree rats but they are so darn cute, I want one. I want a pet squirrel, a red one, and feed it nuts and watch it all day being cute and waggle its bushy tail and be squirrely. Thank you, Johnny Kääpä.
The question is: If I had posted a black square yesterday – what would I have proven? To show my friends, who already know that I condemn what happened, that I’m as appalled and outraged as anybody else? I understand that it is important to voice your support. But first of all – I don’t have the crowd to see this and be influenced by it. Secondly, it’s quite easy, isn’t it? Quickly posted, hashtagged and you may rest well on a clean consciousness. It is significant that these (no doubt well-meant) actions were often ignorantly hashtagged blacklivesmatter, not even knowing this hashtag is used to be updated, to stay informed, to share more important stuff than white middle-class John Doe sharing a black square and then going back into his bubble and that the black community had to point it out to them. (insert facepalm emoji). As I said – if I was more important and more of the influential type (I did get a free pizza once, from Strombolicchio, after my article about them here, but that was the peak of my influencer career. Still feeling pretty smug about it, though. Grazie mille, btw, and I’m already looking forward to today’s (self-paid) dinner, La vita è bella, which is the name of my pizza and despite everything bad going on in this world, a motto I try to live by) it would have more of an impact. It is important to participate in necessary debates and to raise your voice but I simply don’t see the benefit in this particular action. It is a trend that you’re expected to go along with and was instantly followed by further posts and stories calling out everyone not posting a black square a supporter of racism because they stayed silent. Don’t you think there are better ways to get engaged? How many of these judging black-square-(im)posters go back to their white, privileged life feeling good about themselves? If you don’t – good. If you do, see above. And if you do get engaged and active otherwise and yet didn’t post a black square – at least as good.
Your one-of-many instaposts won’t change the world. Reading up on the topic might. Signing a petition might. Looking where and to what ends you can donate to the cause. Or if you’re not doing too well on the financial side, look around and see how you can make the world a better place in your terms.
An example (generally, not particularly for the black lives matter movement): When the first wave of refugees came to Freiburg a couple of years ago, when I was still living in my Haslach hood, my downstairs neighbour posted something on facebook and later on also said something about being glad the grocery store nearby was using security guards since there was a Flüchtlingswohnheim, a refugee center, next to it, because she felt intimidated and scared walking past there and also felt more scared now walking home alone at night because “you never know with these folks“. So I decided to address the subject because otherwise, she seemed a nice person. And so we talked. About what exactly she was afraid of. And when I told her, that the only time I was sexually harassed walking home at night was way before the first refugee wave and by a white, drunk, and based on his dialect local guy. Hit him in the balls btw, wriggled myself out if his grip and ran away. And then we talked about the people in the overcrowded Flüchtingswohnheim, being in a new country, not speaking the language, separated from their families and how we can only imagine how they must feel. It was a good talk and I got to change her views so far as that she would try to be more aware of the difference between fact, fear, and prejudice.
Did I change the world talking to her? Not to a noticeable degree, no. But I made one person rethink her attitude. If that means she will be less receptive to, for instance, a political party feeding off that exact prejudiced fear and with a horrible agenda behind, and will therefore not vote for them – that’s a win. That’s something of value. It makes a difference and I made it. I don’t make a difference if I post a black square on a platform that is all about self-promotion. It has a Gschmäckle of “look at me, I’m a decent human being“. It feels forced, fake and like a farce. Especially if everybody goes back to posting selfies, food, or else the next day. Black lives matter. Of course they do and if you think otherwise you’re a disgrace to the human race. But they don’t just matter on Tuesdays. This is not the new tbt. I wish people would redirect their attention and put their well-meant but nonetheless aimless activism towards better use. If you do and posted a square that’s great. And I’m not condemning you for just posting a black square. But don’t direct your anger passive agressively at people who prefer to fight the injustices in the world in their own terms – invisible to most.
I have never seen Into the Wild and I have never seen Wild – somehow I feel the need to make that absolutely clear, maybe because both movies caused a wave of new hikers on their self-finding paths, and especially the latter resulted in female hiker numbers rocketing through the sky. I’m not saying that mine is not a self-finding trip, at least up to some degree it certainly is, but I wasn’t suddenly inspired to do this because an actress looked pretty and went on this wholesome cleanse in nature (again: I haven’t seen the movie but it is Hollywood so that’s what I assume it’s gonna be like. My apologies if I’m wrong. Don‘t @me). I did read Hape Kerkeling’s Ich bin dann mal weg, a personal account of hiking the Way of St. James. (though the German Jakobsweg sounds better. More humble. More fitting to the dusty, sweaty struggle). However, that trail doesn’t appeal to me as much. Not because of its religious purpose, I’m all up for that. Or don’t care. But I am a mountain goat and love the Dolomites, probably even more than the Alps, and it’s high up there on 10,000ft elevation where I find my inner peace. Every year, my Mum (70 years of age and she can still do it, and I’m damn proud of her) and I go on a 2-day-hiking trip in the high mountains. It’s our mother-daughter-time and especially regarding our somewhat problematic relationship. We’re getting better and I must admit, 2020 has been a good year in terms of us. Physical distancing brought us closer together emotionally and I am so glad, I just shed a few tears writing that down – but even before, that annual excursion has always been a perfect combination of spending time together, both of us being in our – I believe it’s fair to say – natural habitat, and since hiking is more of a solo-activity anyway, it was often accompanied by a silence, the good kind of silence, where you share more by not talking and we weren’t force to speak about things we both felt uncomfortable speaking about. When we were little, my Mum would take us with her on all her mountain adventures. My brother often opted out (he did go running with her, back when I hated running, so each of us had their mum-sport so to speak) but my Mum and I both hiked and hiked and hiked and took in the scenery, deeply inhaled the fresh air, relished in the physical strains. On our latest tour up to the Chli Windgälle I was already thinking about a multi-day solo-hike somewhere and so I asked her about her most memorable hiking experience. She didn’t even have to think about it. Her immediate response was: The High Sierra. Yosemite Valley. Mount Whitney. The John-Muir-Trail. Conveniently, that had already been on my To-Do-List, and even more so since Free Solo (which I have seen and I urge you to go see it, and I promise, you’ll be in awe). And so, an idea was born, and a more concrete or rather rock-solid plan formed, and soon, preparations began.
Mi chiamo Julia e sono tedesca. Habito a Friburgo e non parlo italiano which is why that’s it with the Italian and back to English. Even though it is such a beautiful language and I’ve been meaning to learn it for a long time and actually started once and was quite decent two summers ago, like Duolingo owl proud good (I didn’t use Duolingo. I hate Duolingo. Shoo, shoo, you annoying fowl, nobody, and I repeat, nobody needs your pseudo-motivation spam mails or your useless repetitive sentence clusters). But then life happened and time passed and I forgot almost everything, except for a) see above, b) ma non si sveglia, è morte, because I had a Lernkrimi, a crime novel study book, and that poor woman didn’t wake up for she had been brutally murdered and c) a few opera excerpts which are not exactly eligible for small talk either. Such a b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l language though, isn’t it? All those vowels, the overdramatic accompanying gestures, the R (which I can‘t roll properly) – even the most boring stuff sounds nice in Italian. Passare l’aspirapolvere. To vacuum. I mean, come on. No wonder all Italian women are so much into domestic duties. (KIDDING!!!!).
I love the country as much as the language and I yet have to find a place in Italy I don’t like. Tuscany I know best, I would say, and my little insider’s tip there is called Castagneto Carducci, preferably in one of Eva’s casettas. The first night the last time I went, I sat there with a glass of red wine, fireflies were all around, I could hear the boars shuffle in search for food in the forest nearby and suddenly the town band started playing Bella Ciao and you could see the city lights glistening in the clear nightsky. And I definitely fell in love with the Amalfi coast and was gonna write a lot about it, as I proudly announced here, and then the same life happened and the same time passed that let me forget all my Italian, and prevented me from telling you about my adventures in Scala,Amalfi, and Ravello. Damn, I really need to do that one of these days. Until then, I have good news for all Freiburg Italian food lovers – I found it! The best pizza in Green City. So let’s set the mood.
Italian cuisine is the most famous and beloved cuisine in the world for a reason. Accessible, comforting, seemingly simple but endlessly delicious, it never disappoints, just as it seems to never change. It would be easy to give you, dear reader, a book filled with the al dente images of the Italy of your imagination.
Matt Goulding in: Pasta, Pane, Vino: Deep Travels Through Italy‘s Food Culture
It’s fair to say that Freiburg has some decent Italian restaurants to go (to (in brackets, because right now they are all to go or not opened at all)) – among my favourites is Primo Market, where you sit right in the middle of a supermarket and il maestro comes to your table with a hand-written menu and rattles through it in both German and Italian and you understand neither. But it doesn’t matter what you order, for the food tastes amazing and I recommend to share a Pizza for starters and then each have a pasta dish, preferably one of their seafood options. Quite nearby you find Pulcinella, a tiny busy homely place with walls painted in bright pink. I’m not sure if it is true, but rumour has it that the owner was once quite close to the owner of Primo Market and then Italian drama happened and therefore, I have two places to go to. Primo Market wins Pizza-wise by a mere margin and I haven’t had any pasta or seafood at Pulcinella yet so it’s a close head-to-head with Primo Market first, as it is already in the name. Then there’s Pinocchio, near my favourite boulder hall Boulderkitchen (I miss bouldering. I’m gonna have to start all over again with my confidence and height trust exercises once they are finally allowed to reopen. And pizza after a nice exhausting and exhilarating bouldering session tastes all the better!). The entrance in itself is already an olfactory adventure as the restaurant is located above a car dealer so the first thing you smell is the unique odor of new tires and rubber. Ascending the stairs, you’re suddenly enveloped by that mouthwatering Italian ristorante smell. The food is descent, no culinary revelation but a throughout satisfying experience. Ugh. That sounds more mediocre than intended. It’s not! It really is a great restaurant, it just can’t quite compete with the others.
What I dearly missed so far was a place where they make a proper Neapolitan style pizza which, within the pizza fashion industry, is my absolute favourite. To let the experts speak:
Pizza as we know it didn’t hit the streets of Naples until the seventeenth century, when Old World tomato and, eventually, cheese, but the foundations were forged in the fires of Pompeii, where archaeologists have discovered 2,000-year-old ovens of the same size and shape as the modern wood-burning oven. Sheep’s- and cow’s-milk cheeses sold in the daily markets of ancient Rome were crude precursors of pecorino and Parmesan, cheeses that literally and figuratively hold vast swaths of Italian cuisine together. Olives and wine were fundamental for rich and poor alike.”
Matt Goulding in: Pasta, Pane, Vino: Deep Travels Through Italy‘s Food Culture
I have the weird habit of always cutting off and eating the crust first and then from there work my way into the centre. With a perfect Neapolitan pizza, I don’t – because a perfect Neapolitan pizza has a perfect crust; crispy outside, soft and airy inside, and full of flavour. And you know what? I found it. By accident, really. I followed this guy on instagram after an orchestra project in Greece last summer, and because he followed them they were suggested to me and curious as I am, I visited their account and found Strombolicchio. A mobile pizza station built into an Ape, that famous Italian mini-lorry on three wheels. And their pizza looked so tasty and right I knew I had to try find them but then always found out about their selling points after they were already done and gone. So I send them a message and shortly afterwards, they proudly announced a regular spot once a week. Yay! But then the first week I was sick, the second they had to cancel because of bad weather, the third I was busy, and then Corona happened and they lost their spot. So close, and yet so out of reach! Was it fate? Was I simply never supposed to enjoy the pleasures of what seemed to be the real deal? Che cazzo (another, and, for a change, useful expression I remember and learned back Birmingham, UK, when my Italian roommate and surrogate Mamma hit her foot on the stairs when she went to the bathroom in the middle of the night and gave a thorough account of Italian profanities that woke us all up thanks to the intensity of swearing and the paperthin walls), oh cruel fate!!!!
Me agonizing about not getting this pizza.
Ma no – eventually, fate or divine intervention or whatever is up your sleeve played into my favours and this day four weeks ago, I finally was allowed the pleasure of what I hereby declare the best pizza in Freiburg. And the couple who makes them is the loveliest – she’s German, he’s Italian and both are absolutely adorable and I have decided to become friends with them (not for the free pizza. That’ll be just a bonus. The cherry tomato on top of the pizza cake you might say). I’ve been there every Monday since if the weather plays along (sadly, not today, so I made a comfort lasagna instead but I miss that perfect Dean Martin-moon pizza pie amore that has already become an addiction) and because #supportyourlocals and such and I really love them, I spread the word and I am glad that many have already followed my advice and share my enthusiasm. I mean look at these!
Alla Norma with tomato sauce, mozzarella, roasted eggplants, olives, smoked scarmoza, parmesan, oregano, basil
Pina e Leo with tomato sauce, mozzarella, grilled eggplant, sundries tomatoes, oregano, basil
Now imagine what they taste like and wipe that drool off your face! It’s that sort of pizza with which any extra topping is exactly that – an extra; and a pure and simple Napoli or Margharita is enough and that, signore e signori, is a sign of quality. Every bite is a burst of flavour and the crust is exactly as it should be. It’s a culinary break from life and back to Southern Italy without violating any pandemic-related travelling restrictions. And the pizza prep videos on instagram are pure food porn!
Ecco, andiamo mangiare!
And because I have almost forgotten about it and now have it stuck in my head, here’s the best Pizza song out there.
Quarantine = Baking Time. But then any time is baking time and I‘m only self-isolating not quarantining and that was a bad rhyme anyway, a so-called unreiner Reim, and we don’t want no unrein, dirty, contaminated stuff, just everything disinfected and hand-washed often. And I can do better. Give me a second for a better opening rhyme.
There you go:
There was a young lady in isolation
Who dedicated her time to the creation
of lots and lots of baking
and currently in the making
is a French and buttery revelation!
To kill the time in these times where killing the time alone at home kills the pandemic, I set out for a project that requires time and patience en masse: I made Croissants from scratch! Et mon Dieu, c’est magnifique! The secret to a perfectly flaky, tasty pastry, of course, lies in the butter. Anything tastes better with butter. And when you bite into a croissant, you gotta taste it. Every bite must feel like it’s worth all the calories and like a pure act of sin and indulgence. So butter use plenty.
Apart from 250g butter, we also need 25g fresh yeast (hard to get by, I know), 500g all-purpose flour, some more on the side, 125g full-fat milk, a pinch of salt, 200ml cold water, 40g white sugar, an additional 3 tbsp of milk and 1 eggyolk.
If you want fresh croissants for the day after tomorrow you better start baking today. That’s how long it takes. But it’s worth investing the time and patience. Oui, oui!
We start easy by simply getting all ingredients ready and out of the fridge about an hour before we really get going. Butter and yeast should be at room temperature. Mix flour and salt in a bowl. Pour water, milk and sugar in a cup and heat it up in the microwave. Just a tad, not boiling hot. Crumble the yeast into it and stir until its dissolved in the liquid. Make a little dent in the middle of the flour and pour in our creamy yeastfeast. Cover it up with flour, cover the whole thing up with a towel and let it rise for half an hour. Time to do nothing, relax, vacuum the apartment, do the laundry, exercise, check instagram and twitter (very important in times of a pandemic. You really don’t wanna miss out on all the conspiracy theories.).
Ready? Have some water and some flour ready, just in case, and start digging in with your (washed) bare hands and start kneading, adding more and more flour from the outer areas of the bowl until you have a smooth dough ball. If it seems to dry or to wet, add water or flour accordingly. Once you’re happy with the consistence of our dough ball, cover it up again with a towel and let it rise for another half an hour. Time to do any of the previously mentioned tasks or something completely different but this time get back to the kitchen a few minutes early and get the butter, a rolling pin, more flour and some parchment paper ready.
Give the well-risen dough another knead, take it out of the bowl and divide it into four parts. Quarter the butter as well. Roll out the first dough portion so that it’s about DIN A4-sized. Use plenty of flour while doing so and frequently turn over while rolling. Place a slice of butter in the middle and roll it out until it’s appr. postcard-sized. Now fold in the longer sides of the pastry, then the shorter ones in such a way that they’re overlapping. Wrap it up in cling foil and store it in the fridge for at least 4 hours. Repeat with the other three portions.
*4 hours later*
Unwrap each portion and roll it out lengthwise, again with the aid and add of plenty of flour and plenty of turn-overs. Two things might happen which we don’t want to happen 🙁 the butter breaks. If that happens, just let it warm up to room temperature or let the room warm up, too, and try again. If the dough is too sticky, it’s gotta go back to the fridge for a little longer. If all goes well, we fold it back up, without the long sides (that was just to keep the butter in), just the overlapping shorter sides. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Yes, we’re doing that whole procedure 3-4 times. French Origami for buttery delights and manifold layers of tender flakiness.
Yum!
After the last roll-out, there’s no fold-in. Instead, we cut each pastry into lengthy triangles and roll each triangle up, starting with the long side. The recipes I found suggested to moisturize the surface before rolling it up so it sticks together but I didn’t and it still stuck. Bend them slightly into croissant shapes and put them on a baking tin lined with parchment paper. Leave a decent amount of space in between for they will rise and shine, and shine even more if you brush them with an eggyolk-milk mixture and put them in the preheated oven at 190°C for 15-20 minutes.
Smells good, doesn’t it?
Das Beste was einem Croissant passieren kann, ist mit einem Stück Butter bestrichen zu werden.
Pablo Tusset
The best croissants, however, don’t need extra butter. They are rich and intense and tender and flaky and tasty and buttery and hey, if you start now, they’re ready just in time for Mother’s Day. So hush, little darlings, and off you go to the kitchen.
