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
…on her side and was already on the point of falling asleep.
Was she tired? Probably. Was that why? Nope. It was because she made the mistake of reading a book that sounded a m a z i n g in theory – yet was a complete fail in practice. Sandra Newman’s JULIA, based on – you probaly guessed it already – George Orwell’s masterpiece 1984. I must have read it at least 20 times and it never fails to leave me completely devastated. And it’s still so valid today. The only bad thing I can say about it is that it brought us one of the worst reality TV franchises – looking at you, Big Brother. Who’s watching now, huh?
So, anyway, this woman comes along and probably thinks to herself: let’s explore Oceania from a feminist POV! Very en vogue, that sort of retelling of male-focused classics, and generally an interesting and promising concept. If done right. And thus she conferred with the cultural heirs of Orwell and eventually got the rights to rewrite on of my favourite novels EVER from the perspective of Julia, Winston’s love-interest (to simplify). A friend gave it to me saying she found the first pages too tedious to read and asked if maybe I wanted to give it a try? Sure I wanted! I mean, on top of the intriguing idea, what a great title. However, I purposefully lowered my expectations – after all, no matter how good, I don’t think anyone could out-do the uncrowned king of dystopian novels. And yet, I should have buried those expectations at least twenty thousand leagues under the sea. Lo(w) and behold, it was bad. So bad, I felt compelled to write a brtual(ly honest) review on GoodReads.com. Here’s my full review, including spoilers:
I had high hopes for this yet was careful not to expect too much – after all, there was no way it could live up to Orwell‘s masterpiece. The first half is really dreadful to read and gave me nothing. Julia is nothing but a sexdriven cynic who believes she has everything figured out. As soon as the book reaches the Winston-Julia-plot from the original, I felt it got more interesting. Honestly though I can’t say if the writing changed or if it was just my excitement for what I knew was about to come. Probably the latter, because Julia’s experience in Room 101 is unnecessarily gory, her encounter with Diane (?), the Inner Party woman, and her monologue on 2+2=5 felt like something you’d find on Sparknotes. The worst part is the ending. The reason why Orwell‘s 1984 has so much impact today is because it denies you any glimpse of hope. Having Julia join the resistance that overthrows the government and Big Brother felt simply wrong. Too much of a fairy tale ending where the knight in shining armour aka soldiers/rebels saved the day and the nation.
Probably a good read for anyone who can’t stand a dystopian ending. Apart from that, would sadly not recommend. Bonus point for making me want to re-read Orwell now.
So please, do yourself a favour, and don’t even bother to read it. Life is too precious and there are so many better books out there.
Sometimes it feels like I’m carrying a bird, ehm, a burden of course – clearly a Freudian slip because as you might have guessed from the title, bird is the word and isn’t the English language so fascinating considering these two words rhyme? #englishpronounciation I take it you already know the famous poem by Geroge Bernhard Shaw, so on with the subject! I wanna introduce you to a very specific bird, outside of biological realms, yet skin deep, (l)inked to me for all eternity. This is its story. And so it goes.
Birds and books
Birds are one of the most fascinating creatures in art and literature. Two literary birds had particularly affected me in some way or the other, and despite the fact I read one of them in the bleak December, Nevermore was not one of them. Fritz Zorn’s Mars has already been mentioned here some time ago – you can read it up here in case you have forgotten or found this blog only recently. Till today, it remains one of the most intense books I’ve ever read. And it’s even more intense if you sit down with some friends, a bottle of red, and read it out loud. Celebrate every sentence in its blank brutality. The darkness of the words and the (fictional) reality they create are a look beyond the abyss of humanity. We live in a world that shares a terrifiying amount of things from dystopian novels. Maybe that’s why I like them so much – it is still lighter reading than the news. And lighter than what’s going on in my heart.
Birds and books are a more intimate relationship than the birds and the bees.
Haruki Murakami: The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle
On an intellectual level. Take Haruki Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. First of all, love the title. Most definitely better than the German “Mister Aufziehvogel”. That on just doesn’t flow. Or rather, fly, in this case. Because bird, you know? Secondly, the opening sequence is among my favourite literary scenes ever and one with high Identifikationspotenzial, involving yet another bird, a stealing magpie, to be precise. Click here to read some more about what Rossini has to do with Murakami and me (and find an original pasta recipe from a real nonna).
These two very different books have two things in common: a bird on the cover, and the fact that you can open either of them at any random page, and you’re sure to find a memorable quote and/or meaningful sentence (unless you end up with one of Murakami’s really weird description of sex scenes. His birds and the bees are gewöhnungsbedürftig to say the least.)
Anyway, this is the novel that got me hooked on Murakami. The wind-up bird book cover ended up as my office desktop wallpaper when I was still at the theatre – because it was all rewind, function, rewind, function, repeat, repeat, repeat. And it nearly made it onto my skin. Why? The wind-up bird symbolizes the struggle of a free spirit trapped in the fixed schemes of a society where you have to pull yourself together, wind-up the mechanic for functional mode and do it all over again until it breaks. In the end, I decided against that. And I’m glad, in hindsight, because I broke shortly after. And I’ve been malfunctioning ever since. No need of a constant reminder. I got a bird tattoo, though. A different one. And Zorn and Murakami were some of the inspiration behind it. One might call them its founding f(e)athers. The question was of course: Where would the proverbial eagle land? Where would it settle and nestle on my body? And then: What kind of bird in which pose? Without feather ado I proceeded to put my ideas onto paper and started drawing – and discovered: my drawing skills are mediocre at best and I became more and more frustrated with what was in my head and what was on paper.
Some birds are not meant to be caged, that’s all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. [STEPHEN KING, THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION]
However, with much persistance and determination, I managed some decent motives after all. They were still drafts and I was willing to let Jessi, employee at TCs, refine the chosen one into a finalized design.
She immediately grasped what I had imagined, et voilà, two days later, she had transformed my clumsy attempt of a bird into a skillful and terrific piece of art:
See that tiny speck of blue? And isn’t the whole design simply amazing? So glad I let her do her thing. And then let her do the actual thing. Before the needle started humming, however, bird product placement had to be done: I have this rather prominent beauty patch on my left side and we considered all the options – placing the bird before, behind, above, below it – and all of them were meh at best. So what was the logical thing to do? Working it into the design.And so I was ready for two dreadful hours of pain. The pain is less painful and more tedious. A constant scratching and nagging and rapping and tapping at my chamber door – damn you, Nevermore, get out of here!! – and you get into this sort of carthasis, enduring and almost meditating in the pain until at some point you have die Nase gestrichen voll and you’re jolly well fed up and you start getting really annoyed by the needle’s sound, by the dull persistant pain, and you keep thinking “looks done to me, what the f*** is she still tattooong for?” And of course it is not done yet and you know it. But it feels nice to be mad at someone else and blame them for your inconvenience.
A bird tattoo is not cheep. But worth it.
So yeah, that was my brief feathered tale. Needless to add, you have to tweet this, just for the pun of it.
UPDATE: The first review is out! Check it out here: Pizzicato
You already know a lot about my world, now it is time to get to know another one: As of today, Taro’s World is streaming worldwide on all standard streaming platforms! Who is this Taro dude, you may ask. Well, he’s a fictional character, an alien, living in the Universe of Sound, and his adventures are told in text and music. Fabrice Bollon, French, conductor, composer and my former boss had written a suite for children. In three movements, we grow older with Taro as he explores the musical wonders of his world and takes us along. After a initial recording just of the music, Fabrice decided something’s missing. And that’s where I enter the stage. He knew my style of writing and quite liked it, so after both our time at that specific theatre had ended, he asked whether I was interested in writing a fairytale to his composition. One that supports the music, that accompanies the music, that adds up to it and completes it. One that helps get the educational message across without being too much of a lecture. And foremost: one that challenges the audiences’ fantasy to be fully engulfed by the music. Simple, really. Lol. Otherwise, I was free to come up with whatever I was inspired to in the music. And so I started writing. And doubted I could come up with anything even remotely acceptable. And in the end, I did. A few composer-lyricist-sessions and one awesome, très, très French 6-course-meal later, our joined opus was done. In February 2022, our combined efforts were brought to life with the Jena Philharmonic Orchestra under the baton of Fabrice Bollon and with opera singer Robero Gionfriddo reading my stories. Children were invited to attend and draw whatever they imagined while listening. Deutschlandfunk Kultur, one of the more important radio stations in Germany, broadcast the whole thing, including interviews and repeatedly saying “Texte von Julia Thekla Liebermann” and I was THRILLED. Some people who more or less accidentally listened in, texted me and congratulated me and I was so immensly proud, I can’t even. So please listen in (royalties, muahaha)! I sure have evolved since then and there are many things I would have done differently. But overall, I am very happy for my first major commission. Hope you like it!
„Taros wunderbare Welt“ wurde vom Dirigenten-Komponisten Fabrice Bollon und der Autorin Julia Liebermann als charmanter Einstieg in die klassische Musik konzipiert, sowohl für Kinder als auch für Erwachsene, die mit diesem Genre nicht vertraut sind. Taro, ein Kind vom Planeten Trujillo, wird eines Nachts von einer seltsamen kleinen Melodie geweckt. Seine Abenteuer führen durch immer raffiniertere und überraschendere Klangkonstellationen, die beliebte Klassiker auf den Kopf stellen, jede Facette des Orchesters erforschen und eine Vielzahl von Musikstilen auf einzigartig vergnügliche Weise erlebbar machen.
Taro’s Wonderful World was conceived by conductor/composer Fabrice Bollon and author Julia Liebermann as an introduction or initiation into classical music both for children and adults unfamiliar with the genre. Taro, a child from the planet Trujillo, is woken one night by a curious little melody. His adventures take us through increasingly sophisticated and surprising sonic constellations that light-heartedly turn favourite classics upside down and inside out, exploring every facet of the orchestra and combining a wide variety of musical styles in a uniquely enjoyable way.
Hand’s up one of the best Scandinavian crime novels I read in a long time. And I’m not saying this because of the cover. Okay, maybe, because I love puns. I am an avid reader of Henning Mankell and his Wallander novels, of Jo Nesbø‘s Harry Hole and of course I’ve read Miss Smilla’s Feeling for Snow / Fräulein Stillas Gespür für Schnee, where the title sounds like an Astrid-Lindgren-Fairytale but is quite gruesome. I’ve read the Stieg-Larsson-Trilogy and seen the movies (contrary to popular opinion, my least favourite). All these books share a very distinct style which makes the Scandinavian fictional criminal world so appealing. It is their humble understatement. The opposite of American boldness you might wanna say. So many thrillers focus too much on their hero(in)es’ private turmoil and try to make up for it by vivid descriptions of especially gruesome crimes. Less is more, as they say, and Arne Dahl’s debut is no exception. There are hints that give you what you need to make the good guys seem human beyond their professional capacities. There are horrific crime scenes. But they are just presented as plain facts and don’t require the neon signs and arrows screaming in a Trump-like voice LOOK, BLOODY MURDER, SLAUGHTERFEAST, THE HORROR. You might say, Scandi thrillers are as cold as the countries they are written in. Definitely not a cosy read. And yet I feel so much more connected to the Wallander, Hjelms, and Holes in this world than to [insert American thriller protagonist of your choice]. I equally love Andrea Camilleri‘s Sicilian crime novel series so it’s not that I’m solely attracted to coldness and gloominess in climate and style. I simply enjoy when an author doesn’t overdo it in getting his message across or creating a mood. The good old “showing not telling’. When I read any of the previously mentioned, I instantly travel to Sweden, Sicily, Denmark, you name it. Hjelm, the lead investigator of Bad Blood, as well as his colleagues who are equally important and contributing to the plot and case, becomes more alive through imagination than on paper. There are attributes each reader will agree on but it leaves enough room of interpretation that no two Hjelms will be the same. The perspective switches between the parties involved. The writing is transparent, occasionally unexpectedly funny and humorous and the pacing is neither too rushed nor too much dragged out. Personally, I’m not a big fan of too much politics in crime novels, politics in itself is criminal enough that I don’t need it in fiction, too. But despite some clear politically motivated plot lines, it did not lose me along the line. A seemingly unspectactular but nonetheless captivating and enjoyable read and a definite recommendation.
Disclaimer: I read it (well, all of these, really) in German translation, hence no favourite quotes today. And I’m in a hurry, so can’t look them up either, as I normally would. Sorry.
Luckily, the mountains are ancient and when we’re long gone they will still continue to be. And that, dear readers, is my philosophical lame excuse as to why more than half a year has passed since our mouther-daughter hiking trip. A giant leap for mankind but a significant fraction of a second for the Alps! After our somewhat casual hike to warm up – read up here – our second tour brought us much closer to the sky. After an early Birchermusli breakfast (and some strawberries, milk and cornflakes for the holiday spa feeling), we packed our backpacks, put on our sturdy Meindl hiking boots and set off – to the bus stop! It is crucial, upon a trip to a Swiss village, to take at least once the famous Postbus; little buses that asker you safely through the serpentines up to a better starting altitude. And unlike the Italians, you neither feel like throwing up nor see your life threatened because the Swiss drive as accurately as a Swiss clock. While they still indeed bring mail up the mountains, the post busses have become quite characteristic and have accomodated to hikers’ and bikers’ and skiers’ needs. Our Postbus takes as from Davos Dorf up to Flüela Ospiz and XYZ HöMe. The weather is cloudy with a 50-50 chance of getting wet or sunny – we’re living on the edge 😎 [as you noticed, I switched to historical present, to add some live action drama feels ** which I forgot halfway through as there was a long gap between starting and finishing this and honestly, right now I’m too lazy to change that]!
On a steep rocky path, we ascend quickly and leave the road behind. Whenever we look ahead, the impressive mountain range looks back down to us and I keep asking my Mum in proper impatient kid’s voice “Which one is ours? Which one is ours?”, eying the one that looks like straight out of a trigonometry textbook.
The one right in the middle, in perfect triangular shape, that’s the one I was hoping for – in vain.
Spoiler alert: it wasn’t that one. Our designated summit was further on the right from the photo above, hidden behind the hiking signs. But you can see the long-stretched flank leading us up to the famous Schwarzhorn. A telling name. After the first altitude boost, our path leads us through the valley, we pass trickling waterfalls and screes, the sun is as decisive as a cat as to whether to come out or not, the air is refreshingly cold and our spirits are high. In steep serpentines on vast stone fields we ascend the ridge between two summits (the middle one, s. above). The higher we get, the more snow patches. And needless to say, I gallop towards and into the first one, shouting SNOOOOOW!!!, taking selfies, leaving prints.
Pants are for losers! Celebrate the shorts!! (I’m freezing merely seeing this and I know for a fact I did not back then)
On the ridge
It might look like a straight line uphill but looks can deceive. The snow is slippery, a nasty wind hauls and for the first time, I debate putting on long pants. Eventually, I would. A lot of “Gruezi” to the descending hikers make it difficult to catch our breaths and each plateau looks like its gotta be the last one for sure – until we reach it, and realize there’s yet another level coming. However, each plateau offers a chance to look back and allows us to see the ascend we’ve made. How tiny and significant the once so impressive mountain range looks like from high above!
On Top of the World
At least in this very confined space and Alpine area. Baby, it’s cold up there but here we are – above 3.000hm and a 360 degree panoramic view. I wish you could have seen it. It was magnificent. Thanks to modern technology I got a text message welcoming me to Italy and, more importantly, I was able to take this video for you, my dear fans and followers, and had to take off my gloves doing so, lost all feeling in my fingers, so appreciate my sacrifice and be jealous.
On top of the world aka Schwarzhorn. With a thick cloud layer pressing down on us.
Funnily enough, on the summit your phone welcomes you to Italy so apparently, we travelled further than we though. Since the temperatures got nastier by the minute, we said our ciao, bella cima, ciao, ciao, ciao and started our descent. Our path took as along the previously mentioned mountain range that, back down from garden gnome perspective, grew back to its overwhelming size and massiveness. Along our hike, we passed through vast gravel fields
along crystal clear mountain lakes
we traversed quarries on nearly invisible paths and confirm once more that what might look like a short distance from above, can easily be a 4-hour-struggle. After literal ups and downs we arrived on the real ridge and started our proper descent back into the valley. Dark clouds hovered above us, strong cold winds teared at us and we were very keen on getting down. Warning! Now if you ever find yourself up there, at this very ridge, and turn to the right to follow the marks, be aware that there is a shortcut that requires climbing skills but is not labelled as such. Unlike in medieval German folk tales, don’t take the right path but the one on the left leading down. Otherwise, you either have to turn around eventually or break a leg. Literally. Hals- und Beinbruch, everyone!
Our descent would have been nothing but lovely, green pastures and slopes, and an extraordinary panorama – which it still was
– if it hadn’t been for the weather turning quite nasty, windy, rainy, cold and too uncomfortable for our liking. In the end, we just hurried along; had to stop here and there because my Mum’s hiking boots fell apart, and my cold fingers had to sos – save our soles – by tying them to the shoes with anything that remotely resembled a rope. MacGyver would have been proud. Note: 1.) Saving soles is much easier than saving souls. 2.) It is a lot easier to prevent shoes from falling apart than me. 3.) That went off-topic fast. Sorry about that.
A hot Swiss chocolate awaited us at the Berghütte, wo wir einkehrten, a word, that encompasses the whole experience of being on any sort of outdoor excursion by foot or bike or whatnot and visiting a chalet or inn upon sight, because it looks cosy and promises (ful)filling food for fatigue folks. It’s that little Schlenker you make on your way down, that little detour for the leibliche Wohl. Einkehren, for the literal translators amongst you, does not mean the same as turning (yourself) in. Einkehren means Gemütlichkeit, means a well deserved rest for your sore muscles , and an increased appetite from the fresh and pure alpine air. If you’ve ever had a Rivella or an Ovolmaltine made with fresh cow milk above 1,500m altitude, you know what I’m talking about. Funny how none of these expressions have an English equivalent. At least none that sounds as cosy. Think Boxing Day cosy. But in the outdoors.
Sandro and Selänä, the mountain hut pigs at where we einkehrten.
(For the non-German speaking readers: the first headline is a very bad Dad joke. Kalauer, Kalauer, as we like to say. You should not be surprised)
My mum and I went on a holiday together. Just the two us. Six days in a hotel in Davos, Switzerland, with half-board and plenty of mountains to conquer! German Summer 2021 has been basically non-existent while other countries were suffering from heatwaves – f*ck climate change, so for our September holiday higher up in altitude we packed lots of rain gear, wind gear, bad weather gear, warm undies, woollen leggings and whatnot to be prepared for the worst. and got the best: 4 1/2 days of solid sunshine, the occasional mountain weather phenomenon and just one rainy afternoon. We couldn’t have been luckier.
I hereby invite you to tag along and let me be your mountain guide through the Graubündner Alpenwelt. Maybe you will find inspiration for your next active holiday or maybe you will get infected with the Gipfelfieber and my love for mountaineering.
“Because it’s there.” – the most famous three words in mountaineering, by George Mallory upon climbing Mt. Everest
TOUR #1 – Davos Dorf – Weissfluhjoch – Weissfluhgipfel – Parsennhütte – Davos Dorf
Disclaimer: We didn’t check the exact distance or altitude nor the time but to give you an idea, I can tell you what my smart watch told me at the end of the day // Distance: 22.3km // Altitude: ↗️324 ↘️1.300 // Duration: 6h including railway and generous rests
After a lush breakfast at Hotel Bünda, we packed our backlogs and headed towards Parsennbahn, the Parsen red railway funicular to lift us from 3,609ft to Weissfluhjoch at 8,835ft with a change of carriage to chair lift halfway through. We stepped into bright sunshine and despite the fresh breeze, our jackets would not be needed anymore that day. From Weissfluhjoch, lazy tourist take another cable car to the top whereas my mum and I climbed the steep rocky path to Weissfluh summit at 9,327ft. It’s a 45 min hike and sure-footedness a must but no mountaneering experience required. Due to all the tourists and buildings up there, we felt robbed from that particular feeling of reaching that highest point on your route, when you’ve beaten nature and get that endorphine shock of summiting. It felt sort of unsatisfying or, as the Germans say, the Belohnungsfaktor blieb aus. Nonetheless the view was spectacular. We ambled about half an hour along the platoon and peeked down into the valley and along the horizon before our descend. Instead of taking the more popular route towards Strela pass we descended upon the other side – through vast stone deserts.
Parsen is a famous skiing resort – and that took its toll on the landscape. Ski slopes in summer are one of the most depressing signs of human arrogance above nature.
Hobby geologist sure get their money’s worth – the stones, rocks, boulders are quite unique. They come in all sorts of colours and often, one side of a stone is in a totally different colour than the other!! My backpack was much heavier at the end of that section and I have quite a collection now. Shortly before we arrived at Parsennhütte, we entered a scenery of lush meadows and pastures and had a lovely lunch break before taking the panoramic route along the mountain flank. Our final descent towards Davos was interrupted by an extended blueberry picking break, the first of many. I mentioned it before (here): my mum has incredible blueberry instincts. If there are any, she’ll find them, no doubt about it. She’s a truffle pig but for blueberries (maybe a bit more civilized) and any hike will inevitably contain an episode of berry picking whenever it is the season.
The last section of our first hike went straight down in very steep and narrow serpentines. The midday sun was burning hot and we were glad some part of the way lay in the shadowy forest. Since it’s the little things, and I tend to have an eye for them, I found a picture book toadstool and we admired it adequately. ➡️
The rest of the day was dedicated to sun bathing on the hotel’s terrace and becoming more and more impatient for dinner, followed by a private sauna session and early bedtime – for tomorrow, the first REAL alpine hike would take place.
Grueziwohl, my friends!
A visual tour of our hike for those who don’t care for reading or need additional fuel for the Gipfelfieber!
DISCLAIMER: I simply wanted to post this late night sketch with a few words and then a few became many. Whoops.
I remember when I watched Babe, one of my all time favourites, for the very first time, on a VHS cassette. Babe, the brave and heroic shepherd pig with a heart of gold – stunning the whole nation when simply trying to make his dog mamma and itsFarmer Hogget proud. If you haven’t seen it, do it now. Your heart will lighten up. It is so wholesome.
Within the movie, we learn that all sheep have some sort of international codex. Say the words, and all sheep will listen to you.
Mäh, ihr Schafe, Mäh, ihr Schafe
Bleibet treu eurem Glauben, eurer Rasse, auch im Schlafe
Auch im Schlafe
Mäh, ihr Schafe
Well, I grew up with three small flocks of fluffy animal clouds. And believe me, I tried it. Many times.
Sheep are wonderful beings. Not only are they fluffy (not quite Alpaca but still a solid 7 out of 10 on the fluffometer), they also taste great – yes, we ate them, and I despite us being rather poor, we were certainly spoiled with our meat. It came quite as a shock when I moved out and had to discover how expensive lamb is and that a student’s life and budget didn’t allow for it to be my everyday meat. Even today, I am still lam(b)enting this great culinary loss I had literally taken for granted as a kid. Sheeps are also great weathermenwools. Whenever it’s raining, look at your sheep and check out what they are doing. If its a short shower, they will seek shelter. If its rainy season, wenn sich’s einregnet, as we say in Baden, they won’t bother going under cover. Eventually, they have to get out there anyway. You see? A woolproof weather forecast, every single time. Impressive, eh? No wonder lifestock are called Nutztiere in German, utility animals.
Sheep are much more than that, though. Some of ours had very distinct personalities. Especially the three rams. Aristoteles, Brutus, and Cicero. The eldest, Aristotle, had a deep dark unfathomable face. He was always calm and observing and radiated so much authority, his flock would follow him blindly. Brutus on the other hand was exactly that: brutal. His favourite pastime was running up and ramming his forehead against the stables and he wouldn’t hesitate to do the same to anyone approaching his harem. His forehead was all swollen and rough and red and bulky and he looked like a proper hooligan. A wooligan, hehe. I for my part wouldn’t go near him. I was properly scared and rightly so. Cicero, though young and cocky, was far less aggressive, playfully testing how far he could go before my Dad and Dolly, our German shepherd, would put him back in his place. With growing age, he became more philosophical, just like Aristotle. Telling names, all three of them.
In hindsight, I am eternally grateful my Dad forced me to be a part-time shepherd every other morning before school. I didn’t transform into a natural early riser till my early twenties, so believe me when I say, I loathed it. On the other hand: Mary Julia had a little lamb, Mara, that needed to be fed with a bottle. Whenever Mara heard me coming, there was an excited Baaaaah from the crowd, followed by some shuffling and there she was, running along to greet me, wagging her tail, like a dog. I remember, when I was sick once and couldn’t go see her, I was so upset, my Mum decided to bring her home, into my brother’s and my bedroom. Needless to say, 9-year-old me was delighted. 2-month-old Mara on the other hand was perhaps a little too excited and peed all over my brother’s English workbook he had left lying around on the floor (for further tipps on how to educate your children to tidy up their stuff, follow me). Practical as she was and unaware of any sense of embarrassment, my Mum wrote a letter to his teacher, explaining the rather odd circumstances and asking whether it was possible to order a new book. A year later, when I started secondary school I had the same teacher. As he read out my name, he looked at me, raised his eyebrows and said: „So you’re the little sister. How’s your lamb doing?” Still a better excuse than the dog ate my homework.
When my Dad fell ill, we sadly had to give up our flocks. They now live happily ever after with a nomadic shepherd and it’s comforting to imagine that Mara got to see the whole wide world.
And to end this post on a less melancholical note and come back to our key words “sleep” and “sheep”: As a kid, my favourite place to nap was downstairs in our sort-of-living room, on a sheepskin right in front of the piano. Sometimes I was so comfortably snuggled up, I refused to leave and would stay there all night. It’s one of my few thoroughly happy childhood memories. Bliss. Hope my pencil sheep has peaceful dreams. I count on it.
I’m a middle-of-the-summer child. Consequently, my birthdays have always been within the summer vacays – school, university, theatre – and all my friends were usually oot and aboot (whenever I write that phrase, there is a little Rose Tyler in my head mocking the Scottish accent in Tooth and Claw, NewWhoS2E2), travelling the world while I was stuck in real-life farmville. My brother’s birthday on the other hand is in November. Same day as Boris Becker, who once was less of a media person and more of a very passionate and successful tennis player and since my whole family played tennis (although less successful) that was such a neat thing to have in common. I share my birthday with Ginger Spice but I wasn’t (allowed to be) such a big fan of the Spice Girls so definitely felt a sting of jealousy that he got a childhood hero both my parents approved of and I didn’t. -Especially since it’s a rare thing they shared the same opinion on something! And yeah, his classmates sang a tone-deaf happy birthday on his special day and if he had ever pursued a career in managing an orchestra, I bet he’d gotten a professionally played symphonic rendition of the worldwide classic, too. Not for me. Spielzeitpause.
I don’t wanna complain [she said after complaining for a whole paragraph] – I had bbqs, camp fire and everything outdoor. My two long-time boyfriends had their birthdays #1 on the day after and #2 on the day after the day after my birthday. This way, we could celebrate together. Not the reason I picked them. But I guess I gotta follow the pattern. Handsome, nice, smart single men out there – if your birthday is on August 9th, you might be the lucky one, and next in line XoXo :-*
However, one major thing my brother got and I didn’t – we’re slowly approaching the recipe y’all waiting for – were chocolate hedgehogs, one of my Mum’s specialties. “They melt in the summer, it’s too hot, you can’t have them” she would say, and add: “But Per will share them when it’s his birthday” and of course, his birthday came and the chocolate hedgehogs looked so yummy and squeaked EATMEEATME and my brother, being a proper big brother ergo being mean to his little sister would be like “You gotta be nice to me all day, they are MINE and if you don’t do what I tell you you won’t get any.” Imagine grumpy cat even grumpier. That’s me just remembering this.
How the tables have turned – and our lives upside down, or rather, down under, where my brother lives now. And guess what – it’s too hot in November to make ornamented chocolate desserts! Hah!! Rache ist süß, and so are these tasty treats, oh sweet revenge, does it sting yet, big brother, does it?
Obviously, I made them, here, for his first birthday abroad. And sent him a picture and told him I was gonna eat’em all. And therefore, this recipe is dedicated to all little sisters out there who were ripped of a sweet treat simply because they were born in the wrong season….
The Recipe
Step 1 – Basic Stuff
Knead 160g plain flour, 60g white sugar, a pinch of salt, 100g butter to a smooth dough and chill in the fridge for at least an hour. Roll out and cut out 12 hedgehog bases. I made a cardboard template, similar to a raindrop and appr. 9cm long and 7cm wide. Bake in the preheated oven (190°C) for about 10 minutes, then take them out and let them cool on a cookie rack.
Step 2 – Filling Part I
Crumble a (storebought) sponge cake base. Heat up 50g white sugar and 3tbsp water on the stove. Add 2cl Rum and pour the liquid over the crumbs. Mix and mingle and let it soak for at least 30 minutes.
Step 3 – Filling Part II
Whisk 3tbsp milk, 1 bag of cream pudding (not sure what exactly that is in English – the German is Sahnepudding but chocolate pudding should be fine, too. The chocolater, the better, as they say!) and 2 eggyolks. Boil 500ml milk with 150g sugar, add the pudding mixture, let it boil up again while stirring and then keep stirring till it has cooled down a little. Whisk 150g butter until frothy and add it spoon by spoon – or, as a very innocent Julia once thought was the correct verb, spoon it, which definitely means nothing else than transporting food with a spoon from A to B, A and B preferably being bowl and mouth. Pour the whole thing over the sponge cake crumb mixture, add some ground cinnamon and ginger and let it cool down completely.
Step 4 – Hedgehogging
This is a literal translation from the original recipe: place the filling on the hedgehog bases and carefully mold it into hedgehog shape. That’s all it says. Like, any advice on how to? My experience is that its best to put a tablespoon of filling onto each cookie and if there is any left, distribute equally. Take a teaspoon and mold it into a sorta smooth round shape with the back of the spoon.
Step 5 – Cover your traces and spike it up
Liquefy 350g dark bitter chocolate glazing in a water bath. Have 40g almond slivers ready. Now comes the tricky part. The glazing dries up incredibly quickly, so you gotta be incredibly fast in covering your hedgehog fillings and spiking it with almond slivers. If I were you, I would cover half a hedgehog and spike it and then do the other half because that stuff dries up sooooo quickly, it gets incredibly frustrating when the almond needle cracks up your chocolate glaze. Once you’re happy with the amount of hedgehog spines, transfer your little treats to a cool place where they will last several days. Theoretically. Usually, they don’t live that long for other reasons. Omnomnom.
Reviews from people I shared them with (not my brother, obviously): “I only wanted to have a bite but it was so tasty, I couldn’t help myself and ate it in one go” / “they are so ornate” / “they looked and tasted simply wonderful”Five Stars all around ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️
Happy Birthday 🎶 to my brother Down Under, a belated Happy Birthday 🎶 to me, and generally plenty of Oh Happy Days 🎶 to all of us.
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.
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.
