How to decide

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.

https://www.instagram.com/p/B50jHFHgY9L/
Johnny Kääpä’s Instagram

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.]

Jumping David Attenborough GIF by BBC Earth - Find & Share on GIPHY
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.

Super, and naturally abnosome.

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.

https://giphy.com/gifs/scary-buffy-the-vampire-slayer-qBjlPcxhCVfoY
Season 4, Episode 10 “Hush”

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:

Jensen Ackles Pizza GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY
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?

Doctor Who Reaction GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

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.

Goodbye, Stranger. Bless you. Achoo.

Oh Sleep

A complaint due to recent events

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:

  • Rain sounds
  • 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.

Thanks for reading and good night!

Smells like Tea Spirit

That lovely featured image up there was once the famous result of a (serious and scientificially substantiated) Buzzfeed quiz, approved by Winston Churchill and recommended by The Doctor. Later on, I got “as British as Stephen Fry walking Corgies”, which is an equally desirable result – Stephen Fry, if you read this, I wanna walk Corgies with you and chat about Wagner like we used to back in 2014. Well, there weren’t any Corgies but there was sparkling wine and we met at the opera and did indeed talk about Wagner for a very brief yet memorable moment and I’m sure he remembers it just as well as I do.

Despite the fact that I have lost all the lovely quirks of RP over time (sniff) and nowadays speak a boring, commonplace English full of mistakes, I preserved my love for British baked goods because nothing shouts cosiness like a 5’o’clock tea with sweet treats fresh from the oven. So here are two exquisite and sophisticated contributions for a tea party suitable even for Dame Maggie Smith – Maggie Smith, if you read this, you are most cordially invited anytime. And please bring along your equally witty counterpart Penelope Wilton aka Harriet Jones, (former) Prime Minister (yes, we know who you are) and look forward to some delicious:

LAVENDER SHORTBRAD

A short bread for the British
but a long journey from the lavender fields de la Provence to my kitchen!

This was my first attempt at shortbread and for someone who loves the crumbly buttery texture and sweet delight of shortbread, I am flabberghasted I waited so long to DIMy! It’s so simple!!* You’ll need nothing but 175g plain flour, 50g white sugar, more white sugar for sprinkles, 1 teaspoon of dried lavender petals**, and 115g (cold) butter, pre-scliced and -diced. Mix all ingredients in a bowl and shorten the paste, wrap it up in foil and let it chill for an hour. Something I can’t do, though dough can do it. Preheat the oven at 180°C. Roll out the by now super chill dough on parchment paper to a height of appr. 1,5cm and make it fair and square. Or more rectangular, see below.

*It is so simple that while writing this, I had to pause here and start making shortbread. It is now in the oven and it smells. So. Fucking. Delicious.*

**I learned the word petals in Don’t Starve. Gamer’s pro tip: petals make your stranded character happy but they are not very nutritious and bad fuel for your camp fire, too. Also, I love that game.**

Carefully heave the dough on the parchment paper onto the baking tray. Take a fork, summon all restrained anger in your life and go rogue on the dough and perforate the shit out of it. Then take a knife, be less angry, and slice it up into rectangular shortbread pieces – as can be seen on the picture above. Sprinkle sugar on top of it and bake the short bread for 33-35 long minutes (because the smell is irresistible) in the oven.

Saviour them and indulge into this sweet and crumbly treat with a provoncial twist.
Done!! Next!!!

LEMON BARS

If life gives you lemons, make lemon bars! Now that we feel very fairytale and flowery with all that lovely lavender aroma in the air, let’s add something sweet and sour to the tea time table and bring some mediterranean flair into the kitchen. They are even easier to make than the lavender shortbread so you’ll have no excuse and since several weeks have passed between writing down the lavender recipe and this one, I have fresh lemon bars cooling off right now and yet again, it smells fucking delicious in my flat. You’ll need 115g sliced and diced cold butter, 50g white sugar, 175g plain flour to be crumbled and then knead into a dough. Grease a square baking tin and spread the dough all nice and flat and bake in the preheated oven at 180°. Set the timer for 15 minutes. (I now have an iPhone and Siri and isn’t it extremely convenient how you can just tell her to set a timer for 15 minutes without figuring out how to clean your hands from dough kneading remnants so you don’t flour your phone? So convenient!). While the dough is getting warmed up to become of a super crumbly texture, we whisk up 2 eggs, 115g white sugar (I recommend icing sugar but plain white sugar works fine, too, I guess), 60g crème fraîche, 1 fresh lemon (zest and juice). Warning: if you have a tiny little cut on your thumb, it hurts as hell to grate the zest off because all the lemon drops dripping down onto and into that insignificant wound you forgot about truly sting/ks. Whisk, add 3 tsp of flour, whisk some more and pour the lemony liquid over the pre-baked base and put it back in the oven for another 10-15 minutes, when the liquid has just started to be firm.

Now be patient and let it cool off completely – I know that’s the most difficult part – and slice it up into squares or bars or triangles or whatever fancy figure you have in mind. Bite into whichever shape you’ve chosen and enjoy the crumbliness, the sweetness and the tingling sensation and imagine a cup of Lady Grey to go with it.

And because we can’t have a British-themed baking adventure without at least hinting towards the current very unpleasant situation and pending decision, here’s the obligatory Brexit joke:

Why does Britain like tea so much? – Because tea leaves.

The rottenest heart in all creation

Mikhail Bulgakov, THE HEART OF A DOG, Harvill Press, 1999

I stumbled upon this beautiful edition outside an antique book store right across the street from the theatre and simply had to buy it. Look at the cover and the author-protagonist-correlation! To all the Nepper, Schlepper and Bauernfänger out there: I can easily be fooled into buying a book. Just make it look tempting. I’m a victim to artsy editions. The aesthetics of a book matter as much to me as the content. Naturally, this gem joined my comprehensive collection. Собачье сердце was written in 1925, in the aftermath of Lenin’s death and at the height of the NEP (a market-oriented economy policy and one of many revoultionary developments from Russian Empire to communist state. Imho, the Soviet Union is one of the most fascinating chapters in modern history. I recommend the introductory works by Jörg Baberowski, a historian specialised on the Soviet Union and the Stalinistic Terror. Fairly comprehensible to read, too.). The novella wasn’t (allowed to be) published until 42 years later, in 1987 – the year many great things saw the light of day. Me, for instance. But back to Bulgakov and 1925. His Twenties are not roaring, they are howling and barking and generally fairly miserable. At least Sharik, our furry protagonist is:

Oooow-ow-ooow-owowo! Oh, look at me, I’m dying. There’s a snowstorm moaning a requiem for me in this doorway and I’m howling with it. I’m finished…

(first sentence)

Drama queen much?

In the cold, cold winter night our story unfolds, professor Philip Philipovich – mind you, not a comrade, but a citizen, a gentleman even, a dog can smell that! – is also roaming the streets of Moscow and in the snowstorm’s whirlwind their paths cross and events take an unexpected turn for Sharik. For the better, it seems. Triggered, tempted and lured by a irresistebly deliciously smelling sausage, Sharik willingly follows him into his home, “absorbed by a single thought: how to avoid losing sight of this miraculous fur-coated vision in the hurly-burly of the storm and how to show him his love and devotion.” Life in Philip Philipovitch’s 7-room-apartment (7 rooms for 1 comrade – what an outrage for his Bolshevistic neighbours!) is quite the opposite of the proverbial dog’s life , and soon his mood shifts from despair to high self-esteem, pride, and a good deal of arrogance. It doesn’t take long and Sharik behaves like he owns the place and deserves this wonderful new life of his:

Perhaps I’m good looking! What luck.

Damn, I wish I had that self-esteem.

[I gotta interrupt here for a very meta event. It’s 5am on a Friday morning and I’m watching Pointless on YouTube (skip to 28:07) while writing this and the categorie that comes up the second I start writing about a fictional dog is FICTIONAL DOGS. So meta.]

“I am handsome. Perhaps I’m really a dog prince, living incognito, mused the dog as he watched the shaggy, coffee-coloured dog with the smug expression strolling about in the mirrored distance. I wouldn’t be surprised if my grandmother didn’t have an affair with a labrador. […] Philip Philipovich is a man of great taste – he wouldn’t just pick up any stray mongrel. “
[MIKHAIL BULGAKOV, THE HEART OF THE DOG ]

Of course, Philip Philipovitch really did pick up any stray mongrel and not the long lost dog of the tsar family and not as a random act of kindness either (sorry to break it to you, dog pal). Comrades and Comradesses: meet professor Philip Philipovitch, expert for rejuvenation and on the quest to unravel the secret of eternal youth. Sharik is his latest (or from where we currently find ourselves in my plot synopsys more precisely his next) project and will soon experience drastic change in life. An interspecies operation is about to happen! Frankendog or The Soviet Prometheus you might call it. And don’t give me that “it’s actually Frankenstein’s monster, not Frankenstein” speech, because if you actually read the book you’d know that Frankenstein is indeed more monster than the monster… Back to Philip Philipovitch’s laboratory. Halfway through the book, after nursing and caressing Pooka Sharik to live up to his name (that translates as “little ball”), a fresh dead body, formerly known as Elim Grigorievich Chugunkin, 25, unmarried, sympathetic to the Party, plays the balalaika in bars, poor physical shape, enlarged liver (alcohol) is delivered to Philip Philipovitches door, ready to have his testicles and pituary gland removed and transplanted into a heavily sedated dog. For those who are as ignorant as me when it comes to the pink walnut in our head: that’s the part responsible for releasing hormones. Bulgakov was a medical doctor, so he knows what he’s talking about. Bulgakov was also an excellent writer, in case you hadn’t noticed. Ooow-ooow, I could I’d just copy and paste the whole text because there are so many mentionable sentences! But then you’d miss my wonderful comments on it and it’s too nice a book to own to read it online (and reading online is tedious unless its my blog of course) so I’ll go with an unusualy high percentage of quotes that is so out of proportion, if this was a term paper for a literature class, I’d fail it. The narrative perspective switches back and forth between an omniscient commentator, scientific observation protocols, and personal dog’s point of view which is a hilarious technique and adds to the general grotesque, brutal and brilliant deadpan humour consised onto 128 highly entertaining pages.

And now meet and greet the one and only, the hybrid, the medical miracle, the latest craziest creature in creation: Poligraph Poligraphovic Sharikov. Half-human, half-dog and not a pleasant company. He walks and talks – and sometimes the man barks indignantly – but really, he swaggers and swears. He’s an alcoholic bully with basic education and a weakness for chasing cats.

Sharik can read. He can read (three exclamation marks).

He’s the perfect allegory for the foredoomed dream of the the Soviet Übermensch, a Bolshevistic satire, a proletarian joke, a ridicule of the Russian Revolution. Needless to say, Philip Philipovitch is not amused by the outcome of this and the plot denses towards a drastic solution against the drunken bully without manners or etiquette. Philip Philipovitch aimed for Brian Griffith and got the fucked-up black sheep dog of the family instead. The Heart of the Dog is hilarious, on point and dead funny. Phantastic and preposterous.

And if it wasn’t for some old groaner singing ‘O celeste Aida‘ out in the moonlight till it makes you sick, the place would be perfect.

Making cents

A movie night with Leo and the Joker or: how a pun got lost in translation and has been bothering me ever since.

It’s the hot topic of late 2019, the second fashionable clown after Pennywise and despite the title serious business no laughing matter: Todd Philipp’s [btw, if you read Todd, don’t you automatically think of Bojack’s? In my world, the director of THE movie of the year totally wears beanies and sounds like Aaron Paul] Joker is hitting box office records and people’s nerves. You love it or you hate it. There’s no inbetween. Like licorice. Or Marmite. Although the answer for those two is without any further debate: Both are disgusting. Anyway, since anyone and everyone in the world wide web gets to express their opinion on any of these topics, you get to enjoy mine, too.

Hooray! And you know, I don’t throw that word around lightly.

{Todd Chavez, in: Bojack Horseman]

Mesmerizing master piece or pretentious piece of shit?

Long story short: master piece. Short story long: continue reading. I will not bore you with googable facts because you can – duh – just google them. And you probably already did. And read through the imdb database. I’ll also assume you have already seen the movie i. e. no spoiler warnings because a) if you’ are ‘re reading this you’re probably very bored and that means the option of watching Joker has already been exhausted and b) my blog, my rules, and in any case not a step by step review. Just some thoughts I’d like to get out so I can get on. Also, there is not much to spoil. I mean, yeah, there are crucial plot points but generally speaking, Joker has about the same plot-length-ratio as Thomas Mann’s Der Zauberberg. Up until about halfway through the movie nothing actually happens. It’s a character study, but a pretty intense and sensitive one. Very delicately the director of less delicate movies such as Hangover 1, 2, or 3 brings us closer to Arthur Fleck and carefully establishes him as the eponymous (anti)hero – brackets on purpose – who identifies as the Joker only towards the grande finale and thus only then has truly made the transition from sad, pathetic clown to the mocking grimace of a spoiled society that created him. For a DC movie it quite atypical and has peaked a yet unprecedented level of interest in the public within that genre, specifically in regards of sympathy for the devil villain and how much this one might be a hero after all. It’s literally outstanding in the DC franchise not only because it exists on his own and is only loosely linked to the universe it origins in. Imho, it would work as well (if not even better) without the scenes connecting Arthur Fleck’s perfectly-on-its-own (mal)functioning world to the Wayne family. They felt forced and unnecessary. I mean, yes, Arthur’s quest and pending question of Thomas Wayne being or not being his father – a question that remains unanswered btw – has crucial impact on Arthur Fleck’s state of mind and nourishes his ever growing mental illness. Thomas Wayne is Schroedinger’s Cat because the box doesn’t need to be opened. Both answers are equally valid and both would have maybe different but similar-in-effect consequences. What name that father figure bears, however, is irrelevant. Wayne interessiert’s?, as the German pun goes that was already old when I was young. Meh, let the fandom have their easter eggs. I frantically pointed out anything Whovian in Good Omens so who am I to judge?

Rise of the Phoenix

Joaquin Phoenix is Arthur Fleck is the Joker. Period. And this does in no way minimize Heath Ledger’s performance. Both Jokers have to be regarded as different characters, based on the same comic villain but otherwise related only in terms of similarly oustanding performances. Same goes for Jack Nicholson whose portrayal probably lives up most to the comic palette colour scheme. Oh, and there’s this other guy, Jared Leto, mocked and memed by the internet… Well, to be honest, I slept through most of Suicide Squat so not sure what to say about his joker. Anyway, our spotlight is on Fleck (“spot”, btw can be translated as “Fleck” so spotlight on spot, hehe). His Joker is a character and case study. From the very beginning I was mesmerized. There is no actor, there is Arthur Fleck and you believe it. He’s dead on. He owns the movie.

Smile, and the world smiles with you.

Laugh like Fleck and it’s creepy. His laugh and his grin and his smile are equally cringe and painful to watch. A uniquely human expression of joy and happiness is perverted into a physical condition that surfaces at the most inappropriate times. A natural symbol of happiness is put ad absurdum. It’s almost unbearable to watch Fleck break out into laughter, immediately followed by this grimace of torture. I for my part felt his suffering. I felt repulsed and pity at the same time. Plessner once defined laughing and crying as the borderline symptoms of humanity. When Arthur Fleck laughs, there’s both. And inbetween there’s a smile. A smile that could be all or nothing. Arthur Fleck is philosophy’s laughing animal at the mercy of a corrupt and capitalistic society with no mercy for the weak or unfit(ting). A society where smiles are worn as masks and a clown’s face, the ridicule of the smile, becomes a symbol of rebellion. Oh, and after that movie, you’ll be humming this tune forever. Not cool, king.

Where there’s music, there’s dancing and Fleck, for one, dances. A lot. He dances himself into some sort of trance that transforms him, soothes him. Dancing is his catharsis. And of course there’s the famous staircase dance, where Fleck dances off the chains of a deranged society and breaks free. Such a liberating scene and you can’t but help cheer for him, cheer him on, and then you feel bad because you remember you shouldn’t because wasn’t he supposed to be the bad guy?

And so when we are a-staring at Fleck Fred-Astairing down a staircase, that’s where everything changes. And the audience feels confused wether to sympathize or not, because let’s be real: it is so easy to relate. My actions would be less violent, probably, but the motivation? All too familiar.

Right. One more thing before getting to THE pun that bothers me: the end. I would have loved for the movie to end in the TV studio scene. Two scenes come to mind:

  1. When he’s in the studio, pulling the gun. We all know what he wanted to do. What he practiced and trained for. And we all know what happened instead. Wouldn’t it have been perfect though if we never knew whom he’d shot?
  2. Even before, the very second he dances out onto the stage in the studio. We would never know if he was actually there or dreaming it all up as he had done before. (I’m aware there is the theory/rumour out there that the whole plot didn’t happen, that Fleck made it all up and has been in an asylum all along. I’ll let you decide for yourself how you like that interpretation.)

Both scenarios would have made for a rather unresolved but artistically wise ending. Let me know what you think!

And now to the one thing that has burdened me for so long: that pun. Fairly towards the beginning, Arthur Fleck’s social worker and drug prescriber reads out from his notebook/diary:

I hope my death makes more cents than my life.

Boom. Simple existential crisis that, by the use of homophones get transformed into something else, and is put onto a whole different level, making a person’s life (or death) a capitalistic good, putting a prize on humanity and an individual’s existence, and aren’t we all li-ving in a material world? (and I am a material girl). Anyway, German subs translated it as “Ich hoffe mein Tod macht mehr Sinn als mein Leben”. Sinn. Sense. Not cents. Nonsense!! Which makes it a pretty standard depressive lamentation but ignores the fact that first of all he is, indeed, a joker, and this is a joke, and secondly the implications of a monetary reinterpretation. Not very centsitive, I must say. I was truly upset. And for two and a half men days I should remain ever so, contemplating the flawed German subtitle system and wondering what could be done about it. And then I found the answer. Ummünzen, verb, German: to take something and give it a new purpose/meaning in a different context/environment; derives from German Münze = coin. Booyah. Could have been perfectly implemented in the story. I imagine the previously mentioned social worker and drug prescriber reading out that sentence from Fleck’s diary, pausing, looking him deep in the eye, and commenting: “Sie haben Sinn umgemünzt auf eine kapitalistische Lesart.” Oh. So satisfactory. And a very smart sentence, if I may say so.

My friend next to me had no idea what I was going through in that scene and was completely oblivious to the whole sub(ti)tle dilemma. I was so glad she was there with me though. Joker is not a movie I’d be able to watch on my own. Throughout, I felt physically so uncomfortable, I didn’t know what to do with my hands, writhing and squirming and trying to shake off that feeling of uneasiness. It certainly helped to know she’s right beside me so we could endure it each for ourselves but together nonetheless. “Endure” not because it is a bad movie. I guess you got that. Endure not because it’s full of violence, even though that was one of the biggest concern of the Sittenwächter (in English “guardians of the public moral” which is such a typical complicated compound translation and sounds like another Chris Pratt space movie). There have been worse acts of violence in movies, even in lesser restricted/non R-rated ones. The coldness, the plainness with which it is shown, though, that’s brutal. It feels wrong to watch. And that makes it so uncomfortable.

And I most definitely wanna watch it again.

We have arrived at an intellectual chaos

Clearly we have, because that what it says up there right before the .com. And on the intro page. Here is a more detailled version of said intro text, one that gives you more background and details. Also, when I wrote the following, I didn’t have that intro page yet so this is future Julia commenting on past Julia’s post.

I’ve started blogging way back in 2010, when I moved to Birmingham, UK. Almost everyone those days went abroad somewhere and they all started sending out semi-personalized newsletters (which I’m simply not a fan of) or they created a blogspot account – blogspot, the StudiVZ of blog pages, way before tumblr and wordpress won over the German market. I wrote in German, for my friends and family back home in order to keep them informed about the weird and wondrous adventures and encounters I had in the industrial town also called “Venice of the North”. I vividly remember how annoyed I was because I didn’t have a proper laptop, just my tiny little netbook that was a pain in the ass to write with, so I spent my freetime at the university’s library and their computers – not being able to figure out how to change the keyboard settings from English to German, which annoyed me even more but I got used to it except for the even more annoying fact, that y and z are the other way round on each language’s keyboard. So annoying. I did write one very passive agressive article about it though and from then on just didn’t care anzmore.

Soon I adjusted to living in Bham, made some British friends i.e. had adorable British accents all around ♥ and decided to let them in on my outsider’s perspective on their country and culture. My blogspot’s name was subsequently changed to a pun – of course – because I had just learned the phrase “what a sight to behold” from my good Gloucester ginger Friend Ellis and since almost everything I saw was worthy to behold, I tried to do exactly that and thus thought it a very fitting title. And ever since my blog was known as “What a Site to Behold” and marked my entry into the English speaking world of puns and, if I may say, I have acquired some pretty decent skills since then. One of the few site-effects of writing in English, you might say. Hehe.

Back in Germany, I kept blogging, now foremost for my UK friends and as a means to keep up my language skills in general and specifically to practice my writing skills because after all, there are yet so many words or phrases that I don’t know or don’t use correctly and I still suck at prepositions (ugh, those tiny two-letter words, in, of, at. I hate you and your random rules) so I saw it as a fun opportunity to improve, to express myself and to impress others. As it is so often in life, my blogging activity slowly subsided and my blogspot (that had meanwhile been transfered to tumblr) became dormant for quite some time until I did a relaunch and for the first time used The Intellectual Chaos (.tumblr.com) as my online identity. Soon after, tumblr just didn’t do it for me anymore. I love the tumblr community and that whole platform is hilarious and a nerd paradise for all fields and topics. But I wanted something for myself. And so I bought this domain right here. And then nothing happened. Because life. Of course. Yeah, I experienced a little with the templates, I chose photos, I wrote About Me-s and whatnot. But it took me a while to actually publish something worthwhile. I’m more self-conscious than I used to be and I am my own worst critic (and enemy). I’m glad you can’t see how many unfinished drafts are in my Posts-folder just because I’m not content with my writing or insecure about whether I should even write about this or that because there are so much people out there who know so much more about whatever I write about and who is interested in what I write anyway! Funnily enough, most of the stuff I publish in the end has been written within an hour or two, when the muse kissed me and the words just pour out of me onto screen. Like this text, for example. It’s 6.22am right now, I’m all snuggled up on my couch in a pompous blue velvet blanket, nicknamed the Pornodecke, with a mug of coffee beside me. The only sound being the clickediclickclack of my fingers running along the keyboard. (And the crying child upstairs. And the city’s cleaning car outside. And the trams passing by. And a feww early birds chirping.)

We have arrived at an intellectual chaos.

…are actually not my words but those of one of my favourite authors: Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. The Russian writer and historian, 1918-2008, is most famously known for his literary contribution – both fictional and non-fictional from first-hand experience – on Soviet labour force camps, thus raising international awareness of Gulags and Stalin’s regime of terror. So far I’ve only read The Gulag Archipelago and One Day in the Life of Denis Ivanovich because Solzhenitsyn is nothing to read on a light summer’s day. It’s intense. Right over there The First Circle is waiting for me and I’m only two books further up on my reading list away from it (sidenote: one of them is a short story by Bulgakov. He, too, is a Soviet literary genius. Just three words: Master(piece) and Margarita). Solzhenitsyn’s views on politics and society in 20th century’s Soviet Union are clinical, cold, and judgmental. Brutally honest and absurdly funny.

Surely one would wonder if it is inappropriate to use an expression that stems from such a gruesome chapter of history. Maybe. But then you see, the quote perfectly sums up the ridiculous atmosphere under Stalin where the intellectual elite was at the mercy of the government’s ever-changing mercy and favour. They were at constant battle with themselves, trying to maintain their artistic aspiration and stay true to themselves while never knowing if what they wrote or painted or composed or in any other way artistically or intellectually produced would be praised and celebrated or despised or deemed “too western” which would have them put under observance, and them and their families in great danger and possibly eventually in Gulags. Or worse.

I have arrived at an intellectual chaos.

Not because I go through the same. But because I know the tiptoeing around what the art wants to and the critic doesn’t want to say. Because I, too, find myself in a constant battle – with myself. About what is going on in my head, what I want to say, all the things I think, all the things I think that want to get out but I’d think too much about the consequences of making them public, what others might think. My mind hardly ever stops. I don’t sleep well, I am constantly restless, my thoughts go from here to there, they jump back and forth, and go on a rollercoaster ride, and if I didn’t have some sort of means to get at this out, it would be literally mind-blowing and not in a good way. I have so many interests and ideas about all and everything. There’s chaos up here in the thought department and it needs channelling. And found it here. It’s one way to cope. Getting the words and thoughts out – and trying to ignore my inner critic when I hit that “publish” button.

I am a living stream of consciousness. I am an intellectual chaos. I am THE Intellectual Chaos.

[The feature image is by Polish artist Alicja Posłuszna: Indoctrination/Indoktrynacja, 2016. Go check out her instagram! And if you feel like buying me an Intellectual Chaos present, I won’t stop you ;)]

Moin Moin and Omnomnom

It’s October 31st, and there’s reason to celebrate. No, not Halloween. It’s my good friend and colleague ACC’s birthday. Admittedly, I am going to a Halloween party later tonight and I am dressed up as Eleven (the Doctor, not the Stranger Thing) but birthday treats before the tricky ones. Now my friend ACC is a true Hamburger Perle and far away in the south of Germany in a tiny little town called Freiburg, she misses the steife Nordbrise a lot and not even the Höllentäler can provide some comfort. What she misses even more: Franzbrötchen. Hamburg style cinnamon rolls. Very difficult to get in Freiburg, although Café Auszeit makes quite decent ones as I’ve just learned.

Since I love baking and sharing my baked goods and especially love sharing my baked goods with the people I love, baking something with love for ACC was the natural thing to do. Since I am very bad at planning ahead when it is personal and not for work, I got the idea the day before, the literal shower thought. So I googled recipes and found an original Original-Hamburg-born-Franzbrötchen recipe. YAY! … that required a pre-dough that would have had to settle for 20 hours before making the main dough with it which would then have to settle for another night and so on and so forth. A quick calculation clearly showed: no way I could finish it in time. Even though I am dressed as a Timelord. Hence I had to improvise: on one of the best dessert food blogs our there, Zucker, Zimt & Liebe I found an alternative for those with little time. As usual, I took the steps more as vague guidelines. Or, as my current alter ego would say:

– How do we do that?
– Oh, I’ll think of something.
– You’re just making this up as you go along.
– Yep. But I do it brilliantly.

[Doctor Who, Season 28 / 2, Episode 6, The Age of Steel]

And actually, I’m pretty pleased with the results and overwhelmed by the aroma of cinnamon in my flat that promises warmth and cosiness on a wet cold autumn day, ideally paired with a literary journey to Zamonien,

Where old books dream of bygone days,
when they were wood and bark.

[Walter Moers, The City of Dreaming Books]

Seriously: If you haven’t, read those books. And then read them again. And again. And again. Let the Orm embrace you.

And now congratulations! You made it to the recipe!

Heat up 300 ml milk and 65g butter on the stove. Stir and let it cool to lukewarm. Very important: no chunks! Mix 450g flour of your choice with 1 bag of dried yeast, 60g white sugar and 1 egg. Pour in the butter-milk and knead with your hands until you have a dough that’s still gooey but not sticky. Add more flour if necessary. In the end, you might have to flip it around with a wooden spoon before you take it out of the bowl. Then give it a proper beating (baking is good for angermanagement and saves you an expensive therapy session), put it back in the bowl, cover the bowl with cling film and a towel and store it at a warm place. Leave it be and give it time to rise overnight. In the meantime, make some delicious oatmeal cookies with dark chocoate drops and salted caramel milk chocolate drops. Believe me, they are the best!

2 sticks salted butter / 2 large eggs / 1tsp salt / 1tsp baking powder / 1tsp baking soda / 1tsp cinnamon / 1tsp vanilla extract / 1 cup white wheat flour / 1 cup (darkbitter) chocolate chips / 1 cup raisins / 1 cup oatmeal / 1 cup brown sugar / 1 cup granulated white sugar

Cream butter eggs baking soda/powder cinnamon sugar together with egg beater. / Add flour. Cream in. No chunks. / Cream in oatmeal half cup at a time / Chocolate chips also half a cup at a time. / Throw away the raisins and swap them for Hershey’s salted caramel milk chocolate drops and then also half a cup a time.

10-12min in oven 360 (Fahrenheit), ergo 180° Celsius
Let cool for a minute before removing with metal spatula or they will fall apart.

Now that we’ve successfully cookie monstered and are happily nibbling on one of those monster cookies, let’s get back to our real goal. Fast forward to the next morning, we melt 80g butter and whisk in 100g sugar – I used a 50-50 brown-white-ratio – and 3 tsp cinnamon. Take a baking tin, put some parchment paper on it and preheat the oven to 180° Celsius. The dough should have doubled in size by now. Beat it up again. Basically, you could call this step the punch line. Roll out the dough until it is rectangular with a = 50cm and b = 30cm. Sort of. I never measured it but as long as the sides are roughly in that ratio, you’re good. Pour over the cinnamon cream and spread it evenly.

Roll the whole thing up tightly from side the longer side and cut yourcinnamon sausage into trapezoidal pieces. It should be 8-10 pieces.

Now flip them over so that the they “sit” on the short end. Set them on a baking tin with lots of space inbetween and use the wrong end of a wooden spoon to gently notch each Franzbrötchen in the middle so that the sides sort of fold over it. Cover the sheet with a kitchen towel and let it rest for another 15-20 minutes. Mix milk and egg yolk and slightly brush it onto the Franzbrötchen. Sprinkle a little more cinnamon on top and bake in the oven for appr. 20 minutes.

Can you already smell it? Mhmhmhm…… soooo good!

Best served fresh from the oven and still warm.

Now tried, tested, and approved by Hamburg’s finest export.

Happy birthday, girl!

Indulge and enjoy! ♥

My things really are written with an appalling lack of practicality!

Could be me, to be honest, but comes from non other than one of the greatest German composers:

J O H A N N E S B R A H M S

1833-1897

Johannes Brahms. The all-time bachelor with a beard and belly so mighty even Santa Clause envies it. More than 200 songs, concert pieces, chamber music, a very mighty requiem and of course his symphonies – four delightful and wholesome pieces I adore like a litter of kittens. Equally. Now that the season of wuthering heights, storms and falling leaves is here; winter just around the corner, it is the perfect time to put on your favourite oversized boyfriend hoodie (no boyfriend required), snuggle up on your couch, enjoy a steaming mug of hot chocolate, and switch on Brahms’ Symphonies No. 1-4. What do you hear? For me, it is the wind howling outside. The window lattice rapping, tapping (not above the chamber door). A slight cold draft through the cracks in the wall. And you inside, wrapped in wool, with a hot cocoa in your hands, preferably leaning against the hot tiled oven. You get the picture. THIS, and all this, is what Brahms’ symphonies sounds like to me. Very cosy, very comforting, yet you can sense the discomfort just on the other side of your four walls. But for now, you’re out of harm’s way. You got your hot beverage, you’re all snuggly and cuddly, you feel safe and warm. And you appreciate it – because you are aware of the outside world and its nastiness. I don’t even have to imagine it because that’s exactly what the weather is like tonight. Brrrr. Since I had chocolate brownies today it’s Yogi Glückstee instead of hot chocolate, but apart from that the symphonies are on! Classic Friday night.For me and in musical terms.

Actually, what would fit the occasion ebven better is a chocolate mug of sadness with the best recipe intro story since the dawn of food bloggers:

There’s just something so… sad about chocolate cake for one. In a mug. So… not right. It should not be this easy to make your own cake in the microwave, for one thing. Maybe that’s what bothers me- how close I am to making chocolate cake. Every. Day. Just for myself. Just for myself in my apartment. Using my Sleepless in Seattle mug. Swarmed by cats as I dig in, all hunched over it, wrapped in a shawl I knit for myself. Plucking a stray piece of cat hair off my Chocolate Mug Cake for One. Feeling the thick cake hitting the bottom of my empty, loveless womb.  Waiting for death. So, you know, ENJOY MAKING THIS RECIPE.

Some Kitchen Stories

Alright, with these existential-critical words and edible sadness filling our wombs and nourishing our love handles, let’s focus on Brahms and his rich and romantic oeuvre. As a dedicated french horn player (if only I practiced accordingly) of course one piece of chamber music gets a special mention here:

TRIO FOR HORN, VIOLIN AND PIANO, op. 40, E-flat major

I was fortunate enough to enjoy a life performance with David Pyatt at the Barber Institute of Fine Arts in Birmingham, UK. Brahms himself was a french horn bro. Bro, not pro. He explicitely wished for this particular piece to be played on the natural horn (i.e. without valves), due to its “truer” sound. Which brings up back to our title quote: no valves = a nuisance and highly impracticality for modern day horn players. Back in 1865 however, the birthyear of opus 40, no valves was the common practice (literally). According to legend, Brahms wrote it in Baden-Baden, so right around from where I am writing this. It is said, that the beautiful landscape surrounding him was the inspiration for this trio. Or, as a (human) trio from the States I once shared a train cabin with, said it:

Germany is so Bob Ross-esque!

Unfortunately Brahms and BRoss – another proud beard bearer – lived in different eras but at least we get to hear the rossesqueness of Baden-Baden in four movements musically painted on a canvas partitura, capturing blooming nature and black forest romance. Between these and cheerful hunting tunes we find the core and heart of the piece: a poetic and lamenting third movement, Adagio mesto. It resulted from the aftermath of Brahm’s mother’s death – who was an avid French horn fan, too.

I won’t overanalyze and theorize too much. I believe music is best heard and not to be scientifically taken apart. Let it affect you, let your mind wander and your feelings evoked and enjoy the deep and rich sound of Brahms.

♥ ♪♫♫♪ ♥

Pasta alla Nonna

Pasta is the best. Period. There’s absolutely no arguing about it. Fuck low carb. Fuck zoodles. Zoodles. I mean come on. I love zucchini. But I want them WITH my pasta not AS my pasta. That’s just not right. Talking about zucchini, why are the Brits the only one calling them courgettes? French cuisine, o là là, bon appétit, mais pourquoi? It’s like their fable for gâteau (pronounced more like ghetto, in the Brummie accent that is. I’m from the Black Forest Ghetto, yo, and please, love, can I have a cuppa with that?). Brits equate French expressions with haute cuisine. Alors, back to topic.

Pasta. An art in itself. Pasta means simplicity and elegance. Pasta is designed to be flawless in its raison d’être – transporting sauce to mouth in the best manner possible. Pasta and sauce is legit the perfect combo. An al dente dream of two components complementing each other perfectly.

Even expensive pasta is still incredibly cheap. Pasta is easy to obtain, easy to prepare, easy to share. It takes 10-15 minutes to boil and cook some pasta. In the meantime, you may chop some garlic and chilies, sauté them in a splash of extra virgin olive oil, aka the only kind conservatives approve of, stir in the now cooked and draines pasta, sprinkle parmiggiano on top of it – et voilà: Soul food at its best. And: you will always cook too much pasta. And eat it all anyway.

Pasta comes in many shapes. Linguine, fettuccine, orechiette, farfalle, conchiglie, parpadelle, penne rigate, tagliatelle. spaghetti, rigatone, vermicelli – their names alone are poetry and by all means NOT TO BE OVERCOOKED. Looking at you, Mom. My favourites are paccheri (al pesce spada, mhmhmh), rigatoni and tagliatelle, or Nudelneschdle, noodle nests, as we like to call them.

With many shapes come many shames. No fat shaming, no, but wiht the rise of the low carb movement began the downfall of pasta. As with any food, pasta, too, does no harm consumed in moderation. More importantly, it fills you up quite nicely and hugs you from the inside. A life without pasta is sad. Look at all those health hipsters instagramming their overpriced Quinoabowls whereas I get to munchmunchmunch my bowl of penne for half the price and twice the satisfaction. Not really news: Low carb is not about eating healthy. It’s about being skinny. Also: Pasta bellies are the cutest. At least mine is. It’s been a long path till I learned to accept and embrace my little food pouch. And sometimes I forget that it’s actually cute (shout out to all my exes who assured me exactly that despite my disbelief. You were right). So here’s to the carbs, here’s to pasta, here’s to the bread to nibble on before dinner is served and to soak up the last bit of sauce from your plate. No sauce to be wasted!

Now that you’re all convinced (if that was necessary in the first place) of the greatness of pasta, it’s about time we make some! Last summer, in Italy, in the back of beyond in a small town called Broccostella, Frosinone, I learned from a real Italian nonna the secrets of pasta-making. First of all, we need the right soundtrack:

When the phone rang I was in the kitchen, boiling a potful of spaghetti and whistling along with an FM broadcast of the overture to Rossini’s The Thieving Magpie, which has to be the perfect music for cooking pasta. – Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

This is the perfect music because it is a) Italian, b) entertaining, c) easy listening and d) overly dramatic, like the Italians. And e),you can ballet dance through the kitchen, conductiong and tiptoeing and feel like il maestro of music and mangiare. Any Rossini ouverturre will do that for you.

Now we need the following INGREDIENTS:

400g flour (80% Spätzlemehl, 20% plain white flour) / 4 eggs. Yep, that’s all.

Now the problem was that nonna’s foreign language skills were as bad as my Italian. But since the language of pasta is love, and universal, and with a practical approach and lots of overly dramatic (s. d)) hand gestures involved, we managed. And this is how it goes:

Form a flour crate and crack the eggs into the middle/pit.

Take a fork and whisk the eggs with the flour, afterwards use your hands to knead. Knead knead knead. Stretch and spread the dough with your hands, fold it once, use your thenars to spread it again. Repeat indefinitily. WARNING: You’ll need lots of force and pressure. Pasta (making) is not for the weak. Nur die Harten kommen in Garten. Only the tough can make that stuff. Once you’re convinced there’s no strength for kneading and spreading and stretching left, you may put the dough aside. Sprinkle some flour on a big wooden board. Now we need a mattarello. Which sounds like warfare, like a machine gun rattling, like the angry arrabiata moglia waiting for her marito to dare come home late and drunk again…. So treat her kindly. She’s got a weapon and really strong arms. In our realms, we refer to il mattarello as rolling pin or Nudelholz. So peaceful. Instead of violently, we use our mattarello to carefully drag and stretch the dough even more in all directions. For this, we wrap the dough around the mattarello, place our hands in the middle, apply light pressure and slide our hands slowly in opposite directions, away from each other, towards the ends of the wood. Keep pressing and stretching and stroking the dough towards the outside, basically. Like a cat that wants SERIOUS cuddle, not the cute one. Repeat indefinitely. Once the dough is thin enough, roll it up once more r e a l l y lightly, then remove the mattarello.

Take a knife and cut slices of 3mm, unwriggle them, put them in a bowl and give them a flour shower.
Ta-daa! You’ve made your own pasta!
Now al dente it, serve it with a high-quality truffle pesto, and enjoy!

Buon Appetito!