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
This is a new section on the blog! For a big, big endeavour. And also a big, big maybe. Due to the current events aka Covid, it is absolutely uncertain if I will be even allowed to travel and do what I’ve been planning for months now. But hope is (second) last to die and what’s the point giving up on a dream now because it might not come true when the outcome is beyond your control? Every day, I allow myself a solid fifteen minutes to worry about it, same with all the other potential and real catastrophes going on. The rest of the time, I pretend it’s gonna happen because what else can I do? So as we stand, let’s pretend! Fake it till you make it has always been my motto.
In August 2020, I will hike the John-Muir-Trail.
213 miles, and an elevation change of 47,000 feet, approximately.
Three weeks. All by myself.
And here, I will keep you updated, write about my experiences, and let you virtually come along on my journey. Not in a live feed, because I’ll be off the grid, but there will be a lot about me preparing and to provide you some background information, followed by a post-trail shortened diary (short: PTSD. Oh, wait, that’s already taken.).
The mountains are calling and I must go. – John Muir
So keep looking here for one of the greatest solo adventures I’ve ever tackled!
Despite my great proclamations of being unproductive – and I really am with anything related to actually getting my shit together, I guarantee you that – it seems lockdown finally unleashed the
BAKER CAT
inside of me and whilst I’m not gonna join the sourdough society, I am doing my fair share of baking and I am willing to share the better results and best recipes with you. As always, feel free to adjust and as always, each and every recipe comes with a story. I’ve read somewhere that food bloggers write such long introductions to make it more difficult (for AI?) to steal their recipes. Well, you may steal mine, I don’t care, I’m here to share, recipes and life stories and what not, unleashing my poet within (who lives right across the street from previously mentioned baker cat, and they get along just fine. Most of us do, in here) and maybe, hopefully, and upmost, for your entertainment. So Allons-y, vamonos, let’s head to the kitchen and travel back to a sweet treat from my childhood, a national treasure even, suitable for Nicolas Cage and really, it should be printed on the US Constitution. In the States, they are known as Harlequins, Half Moons, or Black-and-White-Cookies (editor’s note: they are not cookies), here we’ve got to known and grown to love them as Amerikaner. So I thought since I cannot hang out with my real-life Americans, I’m gonna bake myself some. Others bake their knight in shining armour, or, German idiom, sich seinen Traumprinzen backen, and quick question: why do we bake a prince of all people? So many royal duties. I prefer a knight. Quite more useful when in distress and also he’s gonna be off a lot and I need my independence and alone time. Anyway, I bake new friends to hold and hug while I meet the old ones online. Which tasted amazing and were gone soon enough. The former, not the latter. When we were kids, we always got to choose if we wanted an Amerikaner or a Berliner for coffee. Not that we liked coffee back then, it was usually hot cocoa or tea. Berliner are a some sort of sweet dumpling, fried and filled with jam, and have as many different names as buns or rolls have in English. Don’t order a Berliner in Berlin, that’ll lead to a lot of confusion or you end up with an escort from the capital. In Berlin you order Pfannkuchen, which down here in the south of Germany are the name for pancakes, the lovechild of crêpes and American Pancakes -, elsewhere they’re called Krapfen which is not to be meddled up with Karpfen, because that’s fish and nothing you wanna have coated in sugar and filled with jam. Unless you get the Mardi Gras one with mustard inside. That could go well with carp. Back to the States, though! Amerikaner are called Amerikaner in most of Germany. Apparently, as I learned during a thorough and intense research, that name was a no-go in the GDR (surprisingly), so they referred to them as Ammonplätzchen, where Plätzchen equals cookies and Ammon is short for Ammoniumhydrogencarbonat, some specific baking soda used in the original recipe. Wikipedia says, the name “Amerikaner” either derives from said tongue twisting soda, too, or from the typical WWI Brodie helmet because it resembles its shape. It is also starring in a Seinfeld episode as a metaphor for racial harmony so I say let’s bake in the name of equality and against racism!!
(Includes a manual on how to eat it, too!)
For 8-10 Amerikaner we need:
lots of patriotism, 50g soft butter, a Star Spangled Banner, 40g white sugar, 1/2 package of vanilla sugar, a pinch of salt, 1 egg, 125g plain flour (I usually like to use spelt but I am convinced that this one calls for wheat), 1/2 tbsp of starch, 1/2 package of baking soda (or, I guess, Ammoniumhydrogencarbonat) and 40ml of full fat milk. Which all goes into a bowl and gets whisked up until smooth and gooey. The texture should be less liquid than for example pancake batter but still batter-y and not dough, though.
If you follow the recipe measure for measure (don‘t be Julia), it should be perfect. Also, have the oven preheated at 180° Celsius. Also, always read the whole recipe from beginning to end first so now you don’t have to wait for the oven to be heated up. With the oven and our batter ready, we take a baking tin, put some parchment paper on it – pro tip: if you put a dash of water in each corner on the baking tin, the paper will stick to it. Parchment paper has a tendency to try and fly and flatter around. You’re welcome. Now, the well-equipped kitchen probably has a piping bag buried under other hardly ever used stuff in a kitchen cabinet drawer somewhere. Go search for it. The less well-equipped kitchen-owner does not need to despair – all it takes is a little plastic bag, like a ziplock bag but without ziplock. Simply put it over a measuring cup and fill the batter into it. Pull up the sides and tie it up with a rubber band. Pull the filled bag out of the measuring cup, tilt it and cut off one of the bottom corners – et voilà, there is your improvised piping bag!
Let them cool on a rack turned over and prepare the icing in the meantime. The traditional Amerikaner is covered half in icing sugar, half in chocolate. Which is how I did it. However, the sugar icing is compulsory and from there you may go anywhere – your imagination is the limit! Especially for or with kids, decorating with gummy bears or Smarties and such is gonna be great fun. If you wanna stick to the basics, you’ll need approximately 150g of icing sugar and 2-3 tbsp lemon juice whisked up. It’s important that the mixture is thick and white before spreading it on one half of each Amerikaner (or all of it if you wanna decorate or have an all-white supremacy). For the black half, take a pan, fill it halfway with water, put a metal bowl in and melt baking chocolate in it and spread it thickly and smoothly. Ideally, you have a brush for that but I’m from the bad-equipped kitchen squad so I used the convex bottom part of a teaspoon and the result leaves no ground for complaint – I definitely have said it in an earlier post: when it comes to cooking and baking, I improvise like a Jazz musician. So let our impro session cool down and dry, and then best eat them the same day or otherwise store them in ziplock bags (with zip this time) in the fridge and they‘ll still be soft and delicious the next day. And that‘s that.
Hmmmm…. a sugary, highly philosophical treat (according to Jerry Seinfeld)
….is that title of a satirical masculine cookbook by Bruce Feirstein. And this is a recipe. Not from the book. And counterproductive for all alpha males out there. So everyone with a fragile masculinity should probably stop reading and start on more testosteroic activities – The Manly Art of Knitting should do the trick, another literary gem. Sadly, you will miss out on a delicious springtime dish and that means, there will be more for me, yay! And I prefer betas anyway, less bugs and technical fuck-ups. Usually, a quiche needs three things: a flaky pie crust (which can be bought, but here we’ll DIY), an egg-milk-mixture, and chopped up ingredients of your own choosing.
Alright then, here we go:
For the pastry mix 225g plain flour /125g cold (!) butter, sliced and diced / 1 egg yolk / 1/2 tsp salt together. Have some cold water and some flour ready. Knead knead knead and add water or flour until you get a nice, sticky but not too gooey consistence. Roll it into a ball, wrap it in cling foil and let it chill in the fridge for an hour.
Preheat the oven to 180°C/315 Fahrenheit.
In the meantime, peel and boil 6 middle-sized potatoes. Once they’re done, take them out and mash them with a fork. Add some salt, pepper and nutmeg.
Next, we’ll need 300g each of white and green asparagus. Take a big pot (the asparagus should in its length fit in) fill it halfway with water, add a little salt and a piece of butter and get it to boiling. Peel the white asparagus and chop off the rear end. Now depending on the thickness and state of the green asparagus, maybe chop off the end, too, and maybe peel it, too. Green asparagus doesn’t necessarily have to be peeled unless it’s overly hard and wooden on the outer layer. As soon as the water is boiling, put in the white asparagus first and add the green after 1-2 minutes. Close the lid, reduce the temperature to simmering and leave it in there for 5-6 minutes. The asparagus shouldn’t be completely done but it should be significantly softer. Strive for nice and bendy. Take them out of the water, set them aside and let them cool down.
Quiche is like revenge. A dish best served cold.
I lovelovelove asparagus. Spargelzeit = Liebe.
Take the pastry out of the fridge and invite it to a dance: it’s waiting to be waltzed out (I’m aware you can’t say that but in German, we say auswalzen and I kinda like the mental image. Your kitchen work top is the dancefloor and you spread out in all directions.). The pastry should be round(ish) and big enough to cover a greased quiche tin and leave enough for the edge. Slightly press it into the form, take a fork and perforate it.
Spread the potato mashed on top of the base and slightly press it down with a fork. As firm as the ground coffee in a mocha but not as firm as in an espresso machine. Now comes the artsy part. Cut the asparagus in half and slice 100g cooked ham in stripes, approximately as wide and as long as the asparagus. Start on the outside of the inside of the quiche tin and arrange it like this, working yourself towards the centre: a ring of asparagus, followed by a ring of ham, followed by a ring of asparagus and so forth. It should look similar to this. Probably prettier. I’m not good with decorating and arranging food.
Good news is: if it doesn’t look pretty, it doesn’t matter, it’ll be covered anyway in: 100ml cream, 100g sour cream, 2 eggs, 50g grated Parmesan. Whisk all ingredients together and pour that mixture over your culinary craftwork. Sprinkle some grated parmiggiano on top and bake it in the oven for 40 minutes.
Switch the oven off but leave it in for another 5 minutes before taking it out and letting it cool down (ideally) or at least as long as you can resist the irresistible aroma of baked goods. The combination of Quiche dough and mashed potatoes makes it extra flaky and crumbly. Compared to your standard quiche recipe, it tastes less eggy. I love eggs, ut I don’t like it to be the dominant flavour in my quiche. And now: Enjoy! If there are any, store the leftovers in the fridge and have them with a salad on the side the next day for lunch.
The probably obligatory (and four weeks behind) quarantine commentary you‘ve not been waiting for. But what else are you doing anyway?
Hello from within the Covid-proof walls of my apartment in the middle of Freiburg. It’s March the 653rd or so, I lost count. Anyway, it‘s anno Coroni and like all of you, I’m living the teenage experience and follow Angie’s national curfew. Although, not to brag, but I started self-isolation before it was cool aka before it went viral. A week prior to all of you, in those innocent days at the beginning of March, when the dangers of Corona were belittled and the advisory precautions met with mild amusement and little understanding. Feels like a century ago, doesn’t it? That was one month ago. Anyone seen 28 days later? Yeah, that’s where we are on the timeline. So there I was, on sick leave, and observing how the world followed my footsteps (I’m not an influencer, I’m an influenza). I had a major breakdown before the ERs. I dropped out of society and suddenly, everyone self-isolated, too. I will not tell you about how these past few days and weeks have been for me. That is a topic for another time. Today, I wanna reassure those of you who feel bad, or guilty, or intimidated by all those instaposts, TicTocs videos, all the social media proof of how productive and active everyone is. Learning new languages, trying out recipes, baking loads of loaves of bread, binging the whole Digital Concert Hall, FaceTiming everyone and anyone, renovating homes, working out, and being fabulous human beings. Don’t feel bad if you do nothing of the sorts. I spend a great amount of time just sitting and staring out of the window. I’m not even thinking clever thoughts to justify it. Just blank, mindless, empty staring. And you know what? That’s cool. Yes, of course I still go running. If you know me or you’ve been following this blog, you know that running is my therapy. Now, it has also become my survival mechanism. Anyway, that’s about it regarding my active lifestyle. Energizer bunny has finally stopped. And I hate it. But apart from my personal anti-motivation, we are experiencing an unknown situation. And that is scary. And fear paralyses. Energizer bunny is as frightened as anyone. It’s a wild circus of rumours, false news, and conspiracy theories and hovering above it the big question of how long this will last. Economy and humanity seem to clash, people are polarized, easily offended and feeling very, very insecure. Some struggle with home office in their non-suitable for home office homes, some fear for their job, some have already lost their job, some cannot see their loved ones, some have to endure lockdown in toxic company – however your situation is: it is a pandemic and you gotta cope with it. How you cope is up to you (as long as you don’t harm others, of course, basic moral standards apply). I for myself need to feel at least to a certain degree like I’m in charge of myself and in control of my life. So I came up with a set of everyday tasks I wish to complete. None of them are major but they all improve my overall well-being, physically and psychologically, and create a sense of structure in this wibbly wobbly timey wimey era. What I like about this list is that it is achievable and realistic and very often I end up doing more and if I don’t – well, then at least I did this, right? So if you feel lost, maybe this will help you, too, and that’s why I’m sharing it with you. Here it comes, in no particular order:
Eat one proper meal.
That means cook, or support your local restaurant and order something, or sit down for a decent Brotzeit, or treat yourself with a nice breakfast. Doesn’t matter. But make sure, at least one of your meals is proper. Sometimes, that’s my only source of food per day. Happens. I’m not a big eater, or rather I’m not anymore since I lost my appetite and had lost my taste buds for some weeks. But at least, if that is the case, it’s not some crap I shove in but something nutritious, something healthy, something sustainable, something made with love. No need to pressure yourself to finally try out all those recipes you’ve bookmarked or highlighted. Go with your comfy-zone. The important thing is: Eat. And enjoy it.
Pancakes with wild herbs, later served with asparagus and wild garlic pesto.
One Act of Kindness.
I gave all my Enid Blyton CDs to my neighbours’ kids. I donated blood. I wrote various little letters with tiny little presents and delivered them myself to the recipients’ mailboxes. I went grocery shopping for others who couldn’t. I’m being extra friendly and polite, especially to supermarket employees. It’s the little things. And it’ll make you feel less worthless.
Read a book.
Not a whole book a day (unless you want to). Even if it’s just 5 minutes, or 2 pages, do it. I’ve gone back to reading right before bedtime, when the phone is already on silent mode and I’m all wrapped up in my warm 2,20x2m duvet, feeling protected from the chilly night air (because my window is always open at night. I feel like suffocating otherwise) or on my French balcony, enjoying the sunshine (I know I am very lucky to have that opportunity) and watching the less busy pedestrian zone below. I have just finished Frankls Man’s Search for Meaning, Haruki Murakamis What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, and J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan (Tinker Bell is such a little bitch in the book. WTF.). Right now I’m reading one of Arto Paasilina’s books because they’re easy to read and light and quirky, and John Muir’s My First Summer in the Sierra in preparation for the summer. The first few days of being stuck home I could only read cheap thrillers. I simply couldn’t concentrate on any “heavy” literature. Again – whatever works for you is great. Dan Brown is as good as Marcel Proust during quarantine. Just don’t read Twilight. Honestly, that was so bad, I couldn’t finish it and it had already been degraded to a Klobuch (aka the ones that lie in my bathroom, next to the loo, so I have something more interesting than shampoo bottles to read. Although, it is with great shame and regret that since phones have gone smart, Klobücher have become an endangered species). So read anything but Twilight (the same is valid for its equally popular fan fiction).
Reading like a Pro.
Exercise.
I run, as mentioned above and in various other occasions. But I also try and start my day with 15-20 minutes of stretching, planking, Yoga, whatever. The best thing is, I suck so much at Yoga (so much, Rachel Bloom should make an anti-Valencia song with me), it makes me laugh so much at how much I suck and what better way is there to start the day than with laughing about yourself? Not everybody is a morning person like me, and if you’re not – try take that time each day, and give your body some stretches and some healthy exertion. Don’t feel like you gotta come out of lockdown totally ripped. But do if you want to. And even 5 minutes is better than nothing.
Hot‘n‘Sweaty run along the Dreisam. That‘s me trying to smile but I was staring right in the sun so it looks very squinty and tortured lol.
One Mental Health Exercise.
Well, because I need it. And since I can’t get the Therapieplatz I desperately need, that’s the least I gotta do. But even when you generally feel fine in that department, it’s never wrong to take the time and maybe just breathe for 5 minutes, or meditate, or even let the tears of fear and insecurity come and give your anxieties room. Don’t suppress them.
Check up on your family.
Or whoever you consider family. I try to contact my Mum and my brother every other day. Can be a short text, a voice messages, a call. Whatever. But a quick update on everyone’s well-being helps. Especially since my Mum and I have only just started reconnecting and we have a long way to go and I am very insistent on our almost daily updates, as superficial they may be.
Tidy up
or clean something in the apartment. To make sure that chaos doesn’t reign. One tiny task is enough, and usually, once I’ve started, I do a little bit more. No need to go full Marie Kondo.
Plan your JMT.
Which is, agreed, very unpractical advice for you unless you plan on hiking the John-Muir-Trail in summer like I do. Assuming the world is back in working order by then (please be). But even if it is not – we don’t know and we can’t do anything about it (apart from staying at home, keeping our distance, wash our hands, you know the drill) so how about we focus on what we can do? All other questions regarding my future are too overwhelming at the moment (it is very difficult to plan a future when you don’t even know if you’ll make it through the day) but with working on my summer plans every day for a little bit I savour the anticipation, and I control the situation. I’m in charge. And I can be in charge of it from my home-is-my-castle. Whatever your JMT is – hold on to it.
Reading up on Mount Whitney in preparation for the JMT!
Contact at least one person outside your comfort zone.
Because now is probably the worst time to have a textophobia. I tend to eliminate my contact to a minimum and give everyone the silent treatment when I’m not well. Since I usually just happen to see people, I am now, like all of us, depending on non-face-to-face communication and in order to make sure I do and at the same time make sure I don’t get overwhelmed by the pressure of doing so, I have decided one person per day is compulsory, more than that is optional and that works surprisingly well I must say. I’m also dedicating specific periods of time for communication and I have noticed that my text messages or voice messages are fewer but much more elaborate and meaningful. If you happen to get one, it means I made time for you, and dedicated this time to you, and show you my appreciation by giving you my time and attention so feel honoured and loved. And don’t be mad if it takes me forever to reply.
So there you go. I hope you find inspiration in this or you felt at least entertained for the 3 minutes it took to read this and whatever you do: Here’s the obligatory reminder and well-wishing:
We run, not because we think it is doing us good, but because we enjoy it and cannot help ourselves, the more restricted our society and work become, the more necessary it will be to find some outlet for this craving for freedom”
Sir Roger Bannister
Even for newbies on the blog it should be a well-known fact that running is an important part of my life (you can find my first post about running here). I‘m on an average of 4 runs a week, with a distance ranging between 10-19k, the standard being 11 or 12k. I‘m an all-weather runner. I love long Dreisam sessions in the sun where I most definitely will pull up my shirt and go crop top, see my wibbly-wobbly mozzarella ball of a belly bouncing up and down, get embarrassed, let the crop top flop, until it gets too hot so I scould myself for body-shaming myself and the top gets cropped again.
Captured that moment when I exposed my blazing white belly to the sun on a run for the first time after a long, dark winter.
In winter, on the other hand, when the temperature drops towards or even below freezing, I wear nothing but running leggings and a T-shirt (yes, you sissies, no long-sleeve) and gloves (because no matter what, my fingers will go numb. That’s the only part of my body that seems to be affected by the cold and behaves as it befits a lady). Sometimes, I get lucky and it starts snowing while I’m out there and the snowflakes dance around me while I run and it all becomes an early morning whirlwind of snow. Magical. I love to feel the coldness on my arms, I love to see my breath and I love the fresh and cold air and I love to come back home and enjoy the hottest shower ever, lobster style, and boil myself back to room temperature till my skin’s all red and my bathroom a hot and steamy Turkish bath.
And then there‘s rain.
Wenn man nur lang genug in den Regen sieht, ohne einen Gedanken im Kopf, spürt man, wie der Körper sich löst, wie er die Realität abschüttelt. Regen besitzt eine hypnotische Wirkung. – Haruki Murakami, Gefährliche Geliebte
It costs quite an effort to get motivated when its already pouring. I usually find myself procrastinating, fiddling around, checking Instagram, there might be something new, you know? So I unnecessarily delay what I will eventually do anyway: go out and go for that run. I guess it would be much more convenient if I wore rain gear. But I don’t. Don’t like them. They’re itchy and no matter how active and permeable they pretend to be, they are not and make me sweat in the stinky way. They increase my body temperature and I am already someone who’s never cold but always hot so hard pass. Ergo it is the same range of clothing as for every other run (although for heavy rain I wear my old pair of running shoes in order to not ruin my shiny new ones yet. Only reason I still hold on to them. Soon, they’ll be dumped for good and the now shiny and new ones will become the old ones and replaced by shinier and newer ones. It’s the circle of a runner’s footwear life. Nants ingonyama ♪♫). Dressed and ready and having picked the right playlist, the moment of stepping outside gets delayed further more by another safety pee, just in case, another insta check, just in case, and then I’m out of excuses, I leave the flat, jog down the stairs, leave the house and the shelter of our roofed patio and step into this inconvenient, wet world. I’m like 90% sure Susannah Clarke saw me on one of these occasions when she wrote
She wore a gown the colour of storms, shadows and rain and a necklace of broken promises and regrets.
Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell
With that mood settled, I run off and it’s ew for 2 minutes and then I don’t mind anymore. Oh, isn’t it the sweetest pain in the world, when it rains these hard, aggressive, needle-point like raindrops that prickle your skin and you suddenly feel so, so alive? Especially when you’re indeed nothing but broken promises and regrets. It will lift your spirits. Also, people can’t see your tears if you go for a cry run, which I do a lot. Echt. (Which reminds me of another of those distracting side stories you’re all probably very annoyed with but they give you sneak peaks into my past or present life, so yay, and hey, you may always just skip the parenthesis, that’s what they’re here for after all: I use to have a huge crush on Kim Frank. And one day, he went back from blonde dye to his natural hair colour because he didn’t want his fans to like him just for how cute he looked as a blonde. Well, turns out I did so this was the end of my Echt-fan phase. Yes, I’m that shallow. (guess I wasn’t a real fan, cause real = echt, for non-German speakers (woah, lots of bracketswithinbrackets. Inceptional! And I‘m gonna close them all now, adding an old-fashioned smiley to add yet another closing bracket and you managed to read through all of this, you have probably forgotten where we were so maybe we continue with our main plot, shouldn’t we? Ready? Here we go: :)))))
We have been out running for a while now. We are thoroughly soaked, our shoes squeak from the water we’re treading (I call it the Kneipp-effect of rain-runs). We come back home feeling alive and refreshed.
And that’s how you get back from a rain run. Notice the drop on the tip of my nose where Echt would be wondering if it was the rain or if I cried ♪♫ Spoiler: it‘s both.
And if we’re lucky, we get to stay inside, make a Chai Latte in our favourite mug to hug and warm up with, and watch the rain pelt against the windows, as if it tried to get in and aggressively so because it knows it isn’t welcome and we can feel saved and sheltered from the demons within and without and protected from and by the pale curtain of rain estranging us from the world and vice versa.
Said the very brave and rhetorically well-educated Winston Churchill. Or at least it’s widely accepted that he said it. Doesn’t matter if he did, the words remain true and he certainly had the background to know what he was talking about. Ladies and gentlemen –
Welcome to hell.
My personal hell and just so you get an idea of what is happening when someone goes there – maybe you have a partner, a relative, a friend or a colleague going through something similar, too – and what you can do to support them. Maybe. Everyone’s different after all. So, here I am, spiralling down and not in an Alice-in-Wonderland happy trippy fashion but down into the abyss of me where there is nothing but a suppressing darkness, a void, an overwhelming nothingness. Sow Ay knows what I‘m talking about. He has a talent to capture the worst and most distinct aspects of mental illness(es) in cartoons and he brought me over the edge so many times because I could relate to someone with something that is impossible to put into words (and yet here I am, trying, lol).
Where am I? Oh yes, spiralling down. I got a text this morning, saying “if you’re spiraling (spelled with one l only because American and I’ve read somewhere that is because newspaper used to have to pay their journalists by letter so every letter saved was a penny saved. Or rather, cent, saved. Don’t know if that‘s true or merely a myth but it sounds plausible, capitalism and all. Do you think they charged extra for CAPITAL letters? Hehe. And yes, you can be completely and devastatingly depressed and still make stupid jokes. NEVER assume someone’s happy because they laugh a lot and banter around. Never. Not so long ago, my friend’s mum told me she loved my laugh and that it sounded like a laugh that wants to be heard and heard often. And now I sit here and it breaks my heart because yes, it wants to be heard and I love laughing but it gets harder every day and I can’t even fake it anymore and I really really don’t want it to fall silent. Anyway, the text continued “it can be stopped“ and I genuinely laughed at that because it is such a sweet attempt to comfort me and nonetheless doomed to fail. The thing is, I experience all of this from two different angles. There’s emotional me, feeling all the feelings. And then there’s brain me, observing my behaviour. Scheler and his philosophical anthropology would be proud of what a prime example of a human being I am. Self-reflected, objective, and observing myself with a contemplative eye and from an almost neutral distance. An ability that makes us special from all other living beings, Scheler says. Another human specialty according to Scheler is that we can say no. We can exit out. Of anything. Of life. And isn’t that, well first of all true, because apart from yeast that kills itself off to produce delicious alcoholic beverages, we are the only ones with the will-power to end our lives on purpose, and isn’t this scary and at the same time very reassuring? To know the way out has genetically or whatever, been planted in our system, just in case? The human ejection seat. Unfortunately, the latter doesn’t get a say in what the former experiences.
When Not to do is the Answer cause To do is out of the question.
The main problem is that little word, that verb, mostly used as an auxiliary but here in its full semantical purpose. To do. German tun. We even named our verbs after it. Tun-Wörter. So here is a lesson: the widespread assumption about depression that you don’t have the strength to do anything and just stay in bed is wrong. Yes, it’s a common symptom. Yes, it has happened to me, too, occasionally. And for many, this is how their depression takes action – by taking the action from them. I, generally speaking, am a very active and energetic person. Energizer Bunny they call me. Squirrel on speed. I do get up. I get ready. I go for a run. And boy, do I need those runs. You have no idea. How often have I woken up way too early, waiting for it to be day enough that it is finally socially acceptable and a decent time to go running? Too often. I‘m always on edge, always ready to go, always stressed and under tension. I do a lot of things. Like, my schedule is packed. So how could it even be a thing that I have problems mobilizing my motivation, my power, my energy, myself when I clearly do A LOT when I’m depressed? Because I re-shift all of the above mentioned attributes. Because I know I need to have an excuse, I need to be busy otherwise to be able to defend myself against myself why I haven’t done this or that yet. Why it’s been two months and I haven’t sent out a single application yet. And everybody keeps asking and asking and asking and telling my how they’re not the least worried and convinced I’ll be doing something amazing and I know they mean well but y’all be very disappointed because I don’t believe it. I can‘t even get started because to get started you need to have a vision and I used to have so many and since some point last week or the week before they’re all gone and there is nothing but this infinite vastness and nothing beyond it. There always were ideas, dreams (unlikely and unrealistic as they may have been). They were there, and now it’s all gone and gone for good it seems. There’s nothing but a big pile of well, nothing.
So this is how it goes:
Anything triggers me these days. This time – you may laugh because it’s ridiculous – it was a WhatsApp group chat about a reality TV dating show. (Quick side note: I’m not good with group chats. They make me very anxious. In my second-to-last panic attack I quit all my groups, was labelled a drama-queen by the same guy who then invited to join his new fancy group chat. And I felt ready and allowed him to proceed. And it went well. Until it didn’t. From one moment to the next every single text intimidated me and sped ud up my heartbeat and not in a good way but in the bad panicky way and for the next couple of days I read every single message sent by the other group members (and we’re talking HUNDREDS here, at least) and I had funny comments to make and thoughts to share, some definitely genius and hilarious, some more of eye-rolling or face-palming quality but mentionable nonetheless and I couldn’t. I just couldn’t and every single new notification felt like someone punched me in the stomach because why couldn’t I?? After months of consulting I couldn’t even handle a stupid WhatsApp group about a trashy Netflix show? And that’s where I realized there is no point. Maybe if I had started earlier. Maybe. But as things are now, I’m nothing but a massive failure and I have 863+ texts to prove it. And it’s too late. It feels like the only reason I quit my job was to make sure they’re making sure someone will be there to take over so I don’t feel like betraying and abandoning Anne, my orchestra, FB. And now I can be assured: once I’m gone they’ll all be okay (even though now they say they’ll miss me). They’ll get on and are probably better off without me anyway. And that’s good. I want them to.
Bojack Horseman once said (and I love this show):
And one day, you’re gonna look around and you’re gonna realize that everybody loves you…but nobody likes you. And that is the loneliest feeling in the world.
And you stand corrected, Bojack. Because one day, you’re gonna look around and you’re gonna realize that everybody likes you… but nobody loves you. And THAT really is the loneliest feeling in the world.
Why am I telling you all of this? I don’t know. I think it is because I am sick of crying all night, and during the day whenever I am alone. I’m sick of not being able to sleep properly. I am not sick of listening to all Mahler symphonies over and over again because I’ll never be sick of Mahler but I don’t think it’s the healthiest music to listen to when being depressed. I think the reason I’m telling you, oh wonderful anonymous internet, is because there are people I really want to tell all this and much more but I can’t and it’s the same stupid I can’t, the anti-do I was talking about, that keeps me from doing. And somehow the safety barrier of a keyboard and a screen gives me the necessary confidence to talk about it. Write about it. All I really wanna do though is call J or call M, have one of them come here and be able to just be weak and sad and lie in their arms and tell them that I am afraid and lonely and cry and I know they offered and meant it and I know so many others offered and meant it, too, and therefore I don’t only feel like a failure but like betraying friendships and letting them down and then I wonder why anybody would even benefit from having me as a friend and I honestly can’t think of a single reason.
So my advice to you is this: don’t be mad if people pull back. Don’t be mad if they retreat into their (emotional) bunker and ghost you. The worse it gets the more difficult it becomes to stay in contact with the people they hold closest and the easier it is to chat with anybody else. Sending out reassuring messages without expecting anything in return helps, though. And makes it worse. Because it evokes guilt. Because of course the pressure is there to reply. But overall these messages help a little. And a little can mean everything when you’re balancing on the gallows.
And because it is Wednesday and I am feeling blue I had another of my famous late night baking session. Today is my Dad’s birthday (or would have been, for that matter) and every year, I try to make something with crumbles, zu Deutsch Streusel. He loved Streuselkuchen, plain and simple – a sweet yeast dough (500g plain flour / 100g white sugar / 300ml milk / 100ml veggie oil, the-answer-to-life-the-universe-and everything grams of fresh yeast, a pinch of salt) topped with crumbles (400g plain flour / 250g white sugar / 250g butter), baked in the oven for appr. 30 min at 180°C. Since I’m not the biggest fan myself, and my Dad’s not around for eating it, I rummaged through my mind and freezer and found a bag of hand-picked blueberries from hiking in the Vosges last summer. Perfect! This recipe has been tried, tested, and approved by my colleagues on 4.1 – and therefore I am happy to share my
BLUEBERRY CHEESECAKE WITH GINGERBREAD CRUMBLES
First, we need a shortcrust pastry. Easy. 250g plain flour / 100g white sugar / 150g butter / 1 tsp baking powder / 1 egg. Mix and knead (IMPORTANT EDIT: I was today years old when I learned it’s pronounced nIIIIId, not nEd. Pronunciational revelation. A dough needs kneading. Niiiidz Niiiiiding. Nice.) and chill in the fridge. The pastry, not you. No, you get out and go to a symphony concert and listen to Tchaikovsky’s 6th, the Pathétique, and if you feel like shedding some tears because life or because you, too, are feeling a little blue, go for it. That’s what B minor is here for.
I’ll be back before you can say Blueberry pie.
Bruce Willis as Butch Coolidge in Pulp Fiction
Back from our emotional musical intermission, line a greased springform with the pastry (or remember that you threw yours out and use a square Mediterranean clay form instead so the blueberries get to swim with turquoise fish. Mix the following ingredients: 800g low-fat curd (aren’t we healthy!) / 1 pk custard powder (aren’t we lazy!) / 120g brown sugar (aren’t we sweet!) / 3 eggs and some egg liquer (aren’t we eggstravagant!) / and, most importantly frozen or fresh blueberries ad libitum.
Pour our now violently purple (nod to Schube’s for coining this expression in his amazing, hilarious, and very entertaining Potterless-Podcast) mixture into our baking form.
Doesn’t that look fantastic?
Now to the important bit: THE CRUMBLE. Generally, you make them exactly as mentioned above in the basic Streuselkuchen recipe. Oh, fun fact about Streusel: in Colmar, France, there is a tiny little Tarte Flambée restaurant where they have one that says “Pommes Streusel” and of course I know it is basically an apple crumble served on Flammkuchen base but for us Germans, it translates as “French Fry Crumbles” and I find that very amusing. Anyway, let’s get this cake done so no further interruptions! Of course you can just go with the normal Streusel ingredients. Alas, I felt fancy and inventive and I still had some gingerbread cookies left from Christmas and so I crumbled them up, mixed them with flour and melted butter and ta-da: Streusel with a whiff of winter.
Pepperkarka drenched in butter and streuselled up. Oh sweet, sinful indulgence!
After sprinkling out Streusel on top of the cake, our blueberry cake goes into the oven at 180°C for, well, I wanted to tell Siri 50 (fiftYYYYYYYYYYYYY) minutes and she refused to hear the absence of an n at the end and kept setting a timer for 15 (fifteeNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN) minutes and after the fourth attempt, I was too annoyed to try again and I gave up and deliberately changed the baking time to 55 minutes approximately. And that turned out to be perfect.
And while we enjoy a slice in the middle of the night, because why not, let’s read a very long poem by Robert Frost, titled Blueberries from which I shall quote the beginning and bid you farewell with blue tongue and full stomach.
You ought to have seen what I saw on my way
To the village, through Mortenson’s pasture to-day:
A linguistic deliberation on phrases and their imagery.
Sometimes my mind goes to strange places. There’s a part of my brain that just refuses to sleep and randomly decides in the middle of the night it’s bored and the one-digit a.m. times are perfect for partying. And so it knocks on the outside of its little brain compartment, making itself noticed, metaphorically pulling away my duvet and nudging me – cat owners and parents of little kids can relate – until I grudgingly give in and wake up, with quintessential questions in my mind such as “orange – was the colour named after the fruit or the other way round?” [SPOILER: the first one] or I suddenly have the perfect comeback back then at that incident a bazillion years ago. Mind you, my comebacks are the best, they just take forever. Treppenwitz, as we call them. I am extremely witty when given enough time. Like the culinary world, I follow the trend from fast-food and quick-wit to slow. Gut Ding will Weile haben. Little literary fun fact: did you know that Shakespeare thought of women being witty as an equivalent to them being sexy? That’s why especially in his comedies all female love interests are always witty as fuck. Yes! Intelligence is sexy and it took our society far too long to make nerds officially more desirable than bodybuilders.
Side note: I sure appreciate a defined body. But in the end and if I had to choose, I prefer long-sentence elaborate conversation over testosterone loaded primitivity. Healthy mind and healthy body is the secret. Mens sana in corpore sano. Now you know. So go workout and read some Proust while doing so.
I mean, there’s a whole instagram account about it!
Another side note: I’m witty and already sexy, so technically that makes me double sexy, so how come I am still single, helloooo?!? (dm if you fit the profile ;))
My most recent nightly brain rave was triggered by the Insta account @the.language.nerds and their story on how to say “to decide” in various languages. Unfortunately, that post is long gone but I remember the French and Italian say – literally translated – to take a decision and I like to think of it as picking up the options, like two pieces of fruit, one in each hand, and carfeully weighing them against each other before taking the one that seems more desirable and tossing the other one away. The English on the other hand don’t take. They make. To make a decision. So proactive. That’s how you build an Empire. And the Germans? Wir treffen eine Entscheidung. Hello, options, so very nice to meet you! One of you will be granted a second date so welcome to the Bachelor of opportunities!
Jede Entscheidung, die man nicht bei einem Bier treffen kann, kommt mir übereilt vor.
Pablo Tusset, Das Beste was einem Croissant passieren kann
The other possible translation for treffen is to hit, as in hit a target. Because obviously you decided well and hit the jackpot. Mitten ins Schwarze. Hitting the bull‘s eye. German efficiency at its best. Adn then I was done thinking. I though. And a few hours later, in the middle of the night, I woke up saying – yes, really saying it out loud – „aber wir sagen doch auch „eine Entscheidung fällen!““ And then I thought about that a lot. If you consider the above mentioned expressions as strong images, think about this one. The only other things we „fällen“ are sentences in court (to rule) or trees (to cut down). Isn’t that sort of gloomy? Deciding is either definite, it’s authorized by an higher authority, it’s binding, and you gotta live with the consequences. Before we take like the French and Italians do, we have the whole court trial, listen to prosecution und defendant and call the witnesses to the stand. Or we take the axe and go Paul Bunyan on our options. Seems quite radical and brutal, doesn’t it? There‘s no way back once the tree’s down and it involves an act of violence and destruction. I think I even sent @the.language.nerds a dm about it. And then I thought some more, especially regarding my recent history of major decisions and that really life-changing (overdue) step a very dear friend of mine had to take, too, and thus needed some moral backing-up and of course I got you, woman, I got you.
Time to Fell a Tree and a Decision.
As a metaphor for my dear friend’s problem, imagine a tree. An old, mighty tree, with thick branches and twiggy twigs, deeply rooted in the ground, solid, strong, deutsche Eiche par excellence, rich crown and full of leaves. It shields you from the sky – yes, it’s protecting you from the rain and is blocking out the hot summer sun, but: it also blocks the view up to the sky and stars, where dreams are born. The tree has grown for many years. It had good years, it had bad years. And it stayed firm. But now it’s rotten inside. It has to go. Even though it still looks fine on the outside. You are you wanna chop it? That’s gonna be a lot of work. And require lots of strength. And dedication. And justifications, to kill such a monument of time. Sounds pretty intimidating, doesn’t it? Well, unfortunately, yes, sometimes that is the case. It’s not gonna be easy. It’s gonna be effing hard. And it’s gonna hurt. But you can do it. Because once you’ve done it, once you’ve made that decision you prolonged but knew you had to “fell”, once you literally got to the roots of your problem, then you will be able to see the sky again. And all those possible alternatives to the same old view you were scared of giving up. Yes, there will be blood, because wo gehobelt wird, da fallen Späne (the German equivalent of “You have to break an egg to make an omelette”, literally “Where there’s planing there’s chipping”) and there will be a very empty spot with a sad tree trunk with resin oozing from its wounds to remind you of the hurt committed. But it’ll heal. And soon you will be looking back at it and it will be covered in moss and grass, with butterflies and birds and other animals nestling there – in my case squirrels, because I love squirrels and I want a pet squirrel please, and until then I have a virtual, and an actual address to go, the Eichhörnchen rescue center of Freiburg YES THERE IS A FREAKING SQUIRREL STATION IN FREIBURG and I am in love but I am also heartbroken because “Bitte haben Sie Verständnis, dass Besuche in der Eichhörnchen-Station nicht möglich sind, da diese für die Tiere (und mich) Stress bedeuten… ” ??? so I actually don’t have an actual address to go to but I understand your reasons and I still dig your work, Steph, and one of the main reasons I like my Günterstal running track every other day is because I meet so many squirrels on my way and sometimes they even run with me before scurrying up some tree. I’m in love.
Oh, do you know The Adventures of the Black Hand Gang? THE Englisch Lernkrimi for kids. It’s the best.
Mystery crime story on the left page and a corresponding picture puzzle on the right and despite the fact that I didn’t understand a single word at first and only cared about what to look for in the picture, the most vivid thing I remember next to Ralph (or was it Frank?) and his trumpet was that one of these young investigators, Keith, had W. S. attached to his name, short for “With Squirrel” because he really did have a pet squirrel and dear Hans Jürgen Press (that’s the author), let me tell you: I loved the puzzles, I loved the stories, but “with squirrel” is up to date amongst the most difficult phrases to pronounce. / wɪð skwɝrəl / Th and the squ and the english r-sound. Especially after a standard-vowel-pronunciation ignoring name followed by another th like kɪɪɪɪɪ:ð Why would you make such an adorable animal such a nuisance to pronounce? So frustrating! And I didn’t even have one. I am and have always been Without Squirrel. Nut cool. [In order for my non-German readers to relate, please re-read that whole paragraph out loud but substitute every single squirrel with Eichhörnchen.]
But let‘s jump back to my tree metaphor! (because I clearly lost my thread again)
Back to chopping down our tree. You will still see what once had been. Wonder if that tree might have been able to heal itself. Even though you know it wouldn’t have. And after enough time, it will become a memory, something that shaped you, that left its traces, but made way for new experiences to grow and flourish in its place. And with that beautiful picture, my mind was finally at ease again and went back to sweet dreams of forest clearings, wise and brave decisions and a flourishing future yet to come.
I have a stupid cold and so I am in the bath tub with poison ivy green menthol and eucalyptus essence or chained to the bed (or rather couch, since I prefer to sit out my illnesses and diseases there) and furthermore so, I am incredibly bored. I tried being productive and read some of my academic texts, and continue with my philosophy book but I can’t concentrate because my brain is all wibbly wobbly and cotton candy and my throat keeps reminding me of its miserable existence whenever I swallow (not what she said). I couldn’t even continue Marvelous Mrs. Maisel – a show as marvelous as its title – because my mind couldn’t keep up. And despite feeling very fatigued, more than dozing off is not on the menu so entertainment for the bored generation sick, represented by me, was needed. Netflix offered Season 12 of
TBBT.
A show that should have stopped after season 4. From there on, it became boring. Ausgelutscht, as we like to say. QED by season 12. It’s not really bad, it’s actually totally watchable but the admittedly original idea has long ago been used up and gone and I noticed I didn’t care the least about where the characters were heading. It lost all drive and pace, the main ingredients for a sitcom. Also, I have a quantum physicist brother, I don’t need to see fictional Sheldons, I have my own, down in Down Under (love you, PJ!). Alas, 24 mediocre episodes later, I was back to square one. Time to check Amazon Prime and oh my, what do I discover in ‘recently added TV shows’?
Buffy, the Vampire Slayer!
The day has been saved! And already head-banging to the opening hard rock riffs, I happily clicked on play, ready to reminisce in my favourite teenage TV show, every Wednesday evening, 20:15 Uhr. Quick excursion to my teenage years and a traumatic story: I was sick with a fever and begged my parents to allow me to watch Buffy because – the younger among my readers may not know this – back in the day we had to wait for a whole week till the next episode was broadcast and binging was a. verb solely reserved for alcoholic excesses or overeating and if you missed an episode, well then, bad luck. The previous episode’s preview promised an exceptionally scary monster and I simply HAD to see it. So after begging and begging, my parents finally agreed and it SCARED THE SHIT OUT OF ME. Fuck. Up to date the scariest monsters in the history of TV monster hunters. Ladies and Gentlemen: The Gentlemen.
Not only did it cause the worst nightmares, I was also alone the next morning and was terrified they might show up, so I carefully scanned my room and emptied one of the cabinets so I could hide in them in case I heard a suspicious noise. Did I mention we lived in an old house? There’s nothing but suspicious noises in old houses.
Back to 2020.
Buffy has been successfully clicked on (and that took a while because my ex and I are very adult and he still gets to use my Netflix whereas I get to use his Amazon Prime but we haven’t spoken in a while so I hadn’t logged in into his account on my iPad because I didn’t want the first words between us to be “what’s your password again?” so I’m watching on my old laptop and I keep forgetting it doesn’t have a touchscreen) and the famous loading wheel is turning aaaaand suddenly I’m greeted with a “Komm her, du Pappnase” and realize, the episode’s in German and there’s no OV available! Come on, Amazon Prime, wtf! Yes, I watched Buffy with German subs back then but that was because I didn’t have a choice or knew better. Synchro is in most cases cringeworthy, especially with that kind of show. Exceptions are: the Disney classics, House of Cards (Kevin Spacey’s Synchronsprecher has the most mesmerizing voice), The Simpsons. Kudos to whoever did those. Well, being sick and thus annoyed per se, that is an absolute No-Go so I went from strong female lead chasing monsters to hot guys chasing monsters instead:
Supernatural.
Ah, the Winchester brothers. Sammy and Dean. Saving people, hunting things, the family business. A guilty pleasure? Maybe. But. Whatever you may think about the quality of that show, it is much more than what it appears to be. The first season is straight up what you expect. Two trained tough hot dudes hunting monsters with an overshadowing story arch affecting both brothers. Absolute and shameless guilty pleasure. Stereotypes get established, cliches fulfilled, and it has all the ingredients a shallow, suitable for mass consumption TV production needs. And then, for unknown reasons, they did the right thing and decided not to take themselves serious. And hilarity ensued. From Season 2 onwards, Supernatural has become a Persiflage of itself, of the genre, of everything it established within the first season. The main structure has remained the same: big Winchester-related story arch, new monster every single episode. But there are running gags:
Dean eating, for example. And boy, can that guy eat. And yet stay in shape. Which is also frequently commented on.
Basic gist: Dean is tough, eats and drinks, chick magnet, but really has a soft spot. Sam is more of a sissy, always hides secrets from his brother, his hair gets longer and longer every season, nickname Moose. Both frequently die, are Antichrists or demons or something like that, yet they will always carry on driving in Dean’s Impala and continue hunting down monsters. OSTed by classic rock tunes. The plot becomes more and more absurd but by the time you realize you don’t care because you care so much about these two and the things the writers might put them through this time. You can sometimes read in the actors’ faces how annoyed they are by what their characters have to suffer. It’s sarcasm. And so meta. Hardly any other show plays so much with its levels of narratation. The most meta episodes from Season 1-10 (because I haven’t watched any further yet), in chronological but not personal preference order:
Any episode featuring Felicia Day.
Season 2, Episode 8 “Hollywood Babylon”. Sam, played by Jared Padalecki, getting visibly uncomfortable as they are passing by the Gilmore Girls studio (editor’s note: JP played Dean on GG, in case you really didn’t know and yes, it it very confusing that Dean is Sam and not Dean). Set in a Hollywood horro film studio, it covers all the cliches.
Season 4, Episode 18 “The Monster at the End of this Book”. Where they find out they’re books. That the prophet didn’t know what to do with all the info he got so he published fantasy horror fiction that became true within the Supernatural Universe. Favourite quote: “I’m sitting in a laundromat reading about myself sitting in a laundromat reading about myself,”
Season 5, Episode 8 “Changing Channels”. The one where Sam and Dean find themselves in all famous TV formats – Grey’s Anatomy, Full House, Knight Rider, Japanese Game Show for example – having to play by each genre‘s rules. Also featuring the trickster aka Archangel Gabriel aka Richard Speight Jr whom, on a side note, I find weirdly sexually attractive. Hilarious episode, lots of slapstick, and fantastic commentary on TV genres.
Season 5, Episode 9 “The Real Ghostbusters”. Fan fiction and LARP. Need I say more? Next!
Season 6, Episode 15 “The French Mistake”. Dean and Sam end up in a parallel universe and do not only have to come to terms with the fact, that they’re a TV show but even more one that’s filmed in CANADA! Ready for some real inceptional shit? Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki play Dean and Sam Winchester that play fictional Jensen Ackles and fictional Jared Padalecki playing Dean and Sam Winchester. Boom. Mind blown. So freaking good. Including live twitter commentart. Whoa.
Season 10, Episode 5 “Fan Fiction”. Supernatural meets High School Musical. With a very freaked out Dean when witnessing fan fictional romance in the family (“You know they’re brothers, right?”) and with Deanstiel. Plus catchy tunes. And yes, goosebumps all over with that cover song:
So yes, anytime Supernatural becomes more and more absurd and ridiculous and you start to get bored, (it really went down after Season 5 and I almost stopped watching. I’m glad I didn’t. Hang in there, it’s worth it, I promise!) it hits you with one of those top notch prime entertainment episodes.
Not to forget this show created and introduced two of the best side characters there have ever been: first, we have the angel Castiel. Thanks to the actor behind him, Misha Collins, the genius behind GISH, formerly know as G.I.S.H.W.H.E.S., I started watching Supernatural in the first place and learned to be my abnosomest self. #deathtonormalcy
Castiel is as socially awkward as I feel most of the time and you gotta love every single scene where he hilariously (hello there Fremdschämen) fails being human and as well as the undeniable hate-love-relationship between him and Dean. Also, Assbutt is without further debate the best insult out there and according to Urban Dictionary“An exclamation used to distract Angels just before you throw a Molotov at them.”
(And now an official GISH mascot.)
Then we have on the other side: Crowley. And has there ever been a show where we didn’t adore Crowley? Doctor, Ten, any opinion on that?
It’s gotta be a Good Omen if there’s a Crowley on the show. This one’s played by no other than Mark Sheppard and couldn’t you just listen to his accent and voice forever? The mean demon soon becomes a Dean man aka an unwilling sidekick for the Winchesters and even as King of Hell, he remains as platonically involved as Castiel, and we, the audience, get to enjoy a very classy, gentleman villain with style and taste.
And here we are now, almost finished with Season 10, an empty package of Dolodobendan next to me, and the smell of Pinimenthol rubbed all over my chest, and a little less bored me, and a hopefully slightly entertained you.
I can’t sleep well at night – no news under the sun here. Anybody who has shared a bed with me knows I constantly wake up, move around, do full-body cat yoga (actual footage of me sleeping^^) lie awake, wake up too early. Unless they have the wonderful gift of solid, safe and sound sleep and never notice anything.
When I did get to bed at last I was unspeakably tired; the stretching out, and the relaxing of the long-tense muscles, how luxurious, how delicious! but that was as far as I could get – sleep was out of the question for the present.
Mark Twain, A CONNETICUT YANKEE IN KING ARTHUR’S COURT
Normally, this is how it goes from there:
Energizer bunny gets up, starts her day and keeps on being busy as a beaver until nighttime, usually between midnight and 1am, when she dares to go to bed hoping for Morpheus to embrace her. Lol. As if. I think that ship has sailed for good. But again: I know the drill. I know there is the occasional (maybe like once a month) long night’s sleep where I go to bed at 10pm and sleep till 6 or even 7am. But apart from that my normal sleeping time settles between 5-6 hour, various awake phases included. And don’t you come and suggest something like developping a go-to-bed ritual. Believe me, I tried them all. There are some little helpers, so here are my top three Einschlafhilfen (love that word) aka my audio friends to help me fall asleep:
Tom Hiddleston reads (whatever. Really doesn’t matter. He has a very sexy yet soothing voice. Just type it into the YouTube search bar and listen)
Gustav Schwab: Sagen des klassischen Altertums. This version. So monotonous, it must be the most boring audiobook there ever was. (Even though the stories per se are pretty juicy)
If I go to sleep to early, I will wake up at 4am. Like now, for example. People at work are then very happy because usually that leads to early morning baking sessions. Hold on. It just hit me. I am a born baker! I am an early morning person and I like baking. I could prepare your croissants right now and have all my buns and German bread variety and Brezels ready for you when you are. (In order to QED my talent, here are some tried and tested recipes). Did I tell you how sometimes, in the morning, there is this irresistible smell of croissants from the bakery downstairs? Ever since that happened on the first morning after I moved and didn‘t have any cash at hand (Germany is a cash country), I put aside an emergency croissant stash. Cafe Schmidt croissants are one of the best and most buttery. Not as good as the French make them, of course. A perfect croissant doesn’t need extra butter. Even though some Spanish novelists disagree:
Das Beste was einem Croissant passieren kann, ist dick mit Butter bestrichen zu werden. // Das Beste, was einem Stück Butter passieren kann, ist, auf ein Croissant gestrichen zu werden.
Pablo Tusset, DAS BESTE WAS EINEM CROISSANT PASSIEREN KANN
Alright, breakfast ordered and crumbled, and back to topic. Now that we established my (ab)normal sleeping pattern, here’s what’s been happening lately. It started on Christmas Eve, after my very professional Instagramm Silesian Christmas Dinner Cooking: (saved under Highlight, CHRISTMAS DINNER – hit the Insta button in the upper corner if you wanna watch it). I honestly did not expect so much positive feedback. Or any feedback at all. But people seem to enjoy it. I‘m a natural talent, who knew?! I should be one of those YouTube Channel girls. Give make up tutorials. Lol. Anyway, it was nice to get reactions, and positive ones, too 🙂
Right after I was done eating, I napped for a solid hour. And solid it was. I almost didn‘t master to get up and head over to M’s. Christmas Day continued to be nap day. As usual, I woke up shortly after 6am and went about my day but had two very long naps during the day. Same on the 26th, although one of those naps started out as a pretend one to escape an uncomfortable social situation and then I just fell asleep for real. Okay, that one could have also been related to the fact I donated blood that morning. But still: pretty unusual for La Loverman. In the evening, I had plans to meet up with Jojo, and when he cancelled, I happily dozed off on my couch with the wonderful knowledge there was no reason to leave it any time soon. Well, you might say, it was Christmas. The famous Neverwhere and Neverwhen zone of the year, where time has its own laws and the Feiertage mess up with your daily routine. It didn’t stop there, however. Ever since, I need my daily nap. I‘ve become the narcoleptic Argentinian in Buz Luhrman‘s Moulin Rouge, but prettier. I am just so overwhelmingly tired all the time. My arms and legs are filled with lead, and don‘t even get me started on my eyelids. I am so, so tired. All the time. Or rather, my body is. My mind still goes Speedy Gonzales and I’m as giddy as ever. But at the same time, I feel an exhaustion I’ve hardly ever felt before. My concentration span went down the drain, which is not ideal when you need to work and study and and write and figure out your future and generally get your shit together and instead, you barely manage to wrap yourself in a blanket and instantly fall asleep on the couch and then struggle to get up again. I know this is a common symptom when dealing with mental health issues and the last weeks have been an extra-emotional rollercoaster but since I’ve ever only had the panic attacks, the restlessness, the overthinking, the being-stabbed-in-the-stomach pain, the malnourishment (in both directions) and the exercise compensation, I’m new to the whole sleep exhaustion. Insomnia I can handle. This? No way, José. Maybe it means I‘m processing stuff? Recovering even, maybe? Oh, how wonderful that would be. Some very pressing issues have been resolved within the last days of the year (yet at the same time, new ones have been created or more precisely, revealed) so I reckon it’s all taking its toll. However, being simultaneously so very tired and so uneasy is a dangerous combination because they contradict each other and I have neither the time nor the energy to give in to both but as things are right now, I don’t have a choice. I must follow the spur of the moment.
My wish for 2020 hereby: lose the overwhelming, heavy tiredness. It weighs me down. Or even better: keep it. But have it come by night so I can finally have a proper, solid good night‘s rest.
