Getting your angry on

I thought I'd post that picture, of one of the Communist statues in the post-Soviet statue park, outside of Budapest. Seen during my first visit to Budapest.

To the potatoes: Ferdinand degenerated during the latter-half of the day, after the parents had left (a little past 7) to go to a birthday party. We fought a little, I thought everything was OK. I asked him to start working on cleaning his room while I got ready to make a little something for dinner.
I came in and started working on cleaning his room, while he just sat there and moped. He had done very little whilst I was in the other room and had said he was done -- not that he was put-a-fork-in done but rather he'd completed his work.
He seemed to sour before my eyes. I think this happened:
He formed an idea in his head, started repeating it and then started believing it, until he fully did. He told me he was upset because he'd thought he'd got to do NO fun things the entire day -- that the whole day was consumed by un-fun things. He then proceeded to sulk and was pissy for the rest of the night. I think he even tried a mini hunger strike. He refused to eat more than one egg for dinner.
He proceeded to not talk to me for the rest of the night, at his dinner alone in his room, read in the room. I cooked dinner for myself, went upstairs and listened to Talk of the Nation. He came up around 8:10 and started to watch TV, not uttering a word to me. At nine, I asked him to go brush his teeth and get ready for bed. He turned off the TV, threw the remote down onto the chair and stomped down the stairs. He slammed the bathroom door. He came out after awhile (I was washing dishes) and slammed his door.
One should know: we'd play-fought for quite a bit, he'd talked with his mom and otherwise not done too many productive things for a large part of the day (he came home at 2:45 or so.) It was a huge struggle to get him to unpack and repack his backpack and he took a long, luxurious bath once he got home from soccer practice, at about 6:45.

Life is tough, isn't it?

I really think he worked himself into a froth. I think he wanted to be pissy and angry and frothed.

As William Goldman wrote for the Princess Bride movie:

"Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something."

To round it out, a picture of a house in Denmark. From the sailing trip with the Kretzschmar family.

Mustard -- a love story

I wish this post had some kind of better subject matter. But it doesn't. I'm like that. I'm that way. I could talk about Halloween, or notes on what happens when one over beats cookie dough (such as my au pair child did) or other seemingly more interesting things. But to me, they're are merely seemingly and never really.
Instead, I will write of mustard. That's right, mustard. Because I love the stuff. It might very well be hard-encoded into my genes to love mustard -- it may be a trait I pass down to my prospective children.
Mustard is to me what chocolate is to many other people. Yet, mustard is so much not-fattening. And so cheap! Which doesn't exactly bring me to in any other than a superficial way to my subject: Bautz'ner Mustard, or in the native language, Bautz'ner Senf. (Senf is mustard in German.)
It's a middle-spicy mustard, it's slightly pale in color but is not a French mustard. Nor is it the incredible Sierra Nevada Porter & Spicy Brown Mustard, the best mustard in the world. That I've tasted so far.
But the German mustard is delicious. It is incredible. It does create an addiction to Wiener Würstchen dunked in the mustard.
It's like crack, without the drugs, chemical dependency and an incredible taste. As seen in the photo above, the glass of mustard (for Europeans sell mustard [often times] in glassware that is meant to be reused -- in France mustard comes in the much more useful wine glasses) features the, or, Unser Sandmännchen -- Our (diminutive) Sandman. He's a feature of German TV, especially East German TV.
And he's not scary like the 3D talking piece of toast. Which is a nightmare for another day.

One-liners

The below post outlines why I have a problem with writing such short posts. Because I feel the reader is owed more content. Because I feel a one-liner does not do the reader justice. However, I'm a human. Which means that I'm not always consistent about what I feel.
And I feel that what my host father, André, said about music deserves to be written down. And, I figure, to fluff it out I'll write about the night.
Nothing spectacular, nothing involving recipes. Sad. Maybe I'll write the cookies recipe down soon, with pictures! And maybe I'll do the snicker doodle recipe too.

He (André) said 50 cent, the rapper, has created many perfect songs.

That is all.

The night and day:
After a fight with the boy over cleaning his room, he cleaned his room, played computer for an hour as I went out to get bread and read the economist.
He contested that whenever I tell him to do X Y or Z before he may play the computer, I increase the workload or trick him and seemingly don't allow him to play at all.
I said no, all I'm asking you to do is clean/tidy your room and when you don't do it fully, me telling you to finish cleaning it is NOT me making more or new work up. It's the same work he hasn't yet finished.
I then said, arguing for me for 30 minutes merely detracts from the amount of time he'll ultimately have to play on the computer.
I then (being the mature adult I am) suggested to him things he could do to finish tidying up his room, emphasising that what I was suggesting was neither all he should do nor some kind of binding contract.
When Anja came home, she was happily surprised at how clean or tidy his room was. I punched him lightly in the back and said "Told you so!"

On buying bread: because everything's closed on Saturday, I was asked to go buy bread. I did, however, the normal baker was out of bread. (It was also manned by a new-to-me employee with a slightly tepid attitude.) I went to the baker down the street in the Netto shopping complex. I walked back home and I saw Nadia on my way back, waiting for her bus with her two au pair kids.
We hugged, we talked. Life is apparently better with her, she's taking free German classes (I don't get how it works) and looking into doing a year of civil service here in Germany. We talked until her bus came -- we said bye and I walked home.

After the parents came home, we got our cold weather clothes on and went to the Bio-Dad and his partner's house for dinner. Theo, Ferdi's half-bro and his mom (the partner) were there hosting us. We talked, drank wine, Theo showed me his (awesome) model train set. We ate, we drank expresso, I drove us home. I couldn't really see out of the window for the first few minutes to to condencesion.

We got home, after I had trouble parking (I have a hard time backing up in the dark when I can't see out my rear window) and found the cat waiting for us. Ferdinand proceeded into some sort of pseudo-crying fit over his new bedroom furniture. Anja had suggested in the car that Ferdinand get their old bed -- the parents are getting a new one becuase Anja had trouble sleeping on the old one. Mind you, it's just Anja, but Ferdinand has the idea that this bed isn't good enough for him. I think. But, it was past midnight and past midnight is not a good time to discuss anything with Ferdinand -- he just needs to sleep and discuss in the morning.

Such is life.

Still, saying that 50 Cent songs are perfect, or incredible . . . Atrocity. Really.
And, because I round out posts, here's a picture of a poster found in Tulcea, Romania:

A note on alcohol in Germany

A feeling of obligation exists at the onset of each blog posting. Or the beginning of each written work. The trepidation is engendered between the inception of the idea and the moment the writer sits down to write, or, while he is writing. It is often times so much that the written work is never started for fear of not finishing, for fear of lacking the content should the work be written.
What a bastard, this feeling of obligation is.
I should write here about my summer travels, or, about my fall travels. Or about something important, something interesting, something other than mundane or vaguely alcoholic. Alas, this is not my way. For:

A sense of amazement and relief swept over me on Wednesday evening after I'd settled in at the bar the English club was meeting in. After I'd checked to make sure no clubbers had arrived yet, I went to the bar, checked the menu written in chalk and decided that I was going to have a .4 liter Budweiser. Not a Budweiser we know in the states but rather the Czech Budweiser, (Booed-vy-ser.)
It was from the tap. It was only two euros. I knew I was back in Dresden, that I was back in Germany, that I was back in a place I love to be. And, that the beer is affordable and cold here in Dresden. And that I love that.

And then, in club, when I said how nice was it was to only pay two Euros for a beer, I was told that you only pay one Euro in the Czech Republic.
Still. It's nice to be back in Dresden and to have a decent, cold beer at a price I can afford.

But, to round out the post, here's a picture from the mud volcanoes I visited in Romania. And these were the mud volcanoes I did not pay to see but rather hiked to.

Recipe: Wine-Fruit Brownie Sauce

Wine-Fruit sauce for Brownies

Adapted from: Rebekah in Germany

Note: This recipe is a work in progress

I invited my former Volkshochschule classmates to the house for dinner on Saturday night. The family was out for the weekend; I had the entire place to myself. Only Ingrid, a classmate from Columbia, replied. She brought her husband and son along.

We started out with a beef stew made with a ¾ to ¼ red wine to water base. As a side I’d roasted Kohlrabi. However, in trying to keep them warm I managed to burn most of them to a crisp. Note to self: don’t leave Kohlrabi in the oven while baking anything else. Also, I learned NOT to use sea salt on roasted kohlrabi. The sea salt adds too much saltiness in too little space. Ingrid’s husband seemed to like them though; we had an entire conversation revolving around Kohlrabi. It’s a cousin of the turnip. I’ll write its recipe later.

I also picked up .40 Euro cents garlic bread baguettes. Quite delicious by themselves and go great with the beef stew.

After the stew we moved on to a “Bavarian Apple Torte,” which did not turn out as planned, and brownies coupled with the subject of this recipe: a syrupy wine-fruit sauce. As I wrote, brownies. Gotta love ‘em.

The definition of a perfect brownie changes from person to person. To me, perfect is on the just-cooked, fudgy side; the cake side is reserved for cake. However, this recipe is not for brownies. It’s for a sour, sucker-slapping syrupy fruit-wine sauce that goes with, on or next to a brownie.

The wine to use changes with the fruit. Peaches and nectarines go well with a white wine, possibly with a splash of red. Strawberries and raspberries go better with a red wine, possibly with a splash of white. But, ultimately, the cook should make the decision on wine-and-fruit paring. I’m no wine authority. It doesn’t hurt to remember that red wine usually goes great with chocolate. However, a glass accompanying dessert is probably better than putting peaches in a red wine sauce.

Wine, wine, wine. Wine is a beautiful thing. And wine is an inexpensive thing here in Germany. I find myself using it all the time when I cook now. The not-very-good tasting wines are downright cheap. They’re close to the price of organic milk, if not cheaper in some cases.

I used terrible-for-drinking (and downright cheap) boxed wine for the sauce. Not space-bag boxed wine but honest-to-god, wine in a box. Much like milk comes in a 1-liter container, so does crappy wine. It cost under a euro. 9.5% alcohol content.

The sugary taste of the sauce gets both chopped down and spiked with the lime. I’m very much a chocolate and fruit person, so this recipe is love to me. The sour, with the wine, really brings a new taste to the brownie.

My personal favorite matching is raspberries with anything chocolate. When I made this with nectarines and juice of about ½ a lemon it contrasted beautifully with the sweetness of the brownie. Ingrid’s husband and I were in love with the combination. Ingrid and her son didn’t like the sauce because of the sour. I loved the sour. The recipe and pairing are, alas, not for everyone.

The recipe calls for boiling or cooking/reducing the wine to about half of where it was. One can reduce it more, or less. The alcohol taste was gone from the sauce when I called it quits on reducing.

I’ve yet to work on presentation. You’re on your own for that.

This recipe/concept came (to me) from a fellow expat who’s living on an Army base here. In a previous life she cooked professionally. We’re in good hands.

Ingredients:

2 cups chopped fruit, separated into 1 cup each

2 cups red, white or rose wine

1-2 tablespoons white granulated sugar, to taste

Juice from ½ a lime or lemon

Directions:

In either a deep sauce pan or a small pot add 2 cups of chosen wine. Bring to a boil, mix in the desired amount of sugar until its dissolved and half the fruit. Boil or cook/reduce the sauce until it’s about half the amount it was before boiling. The previously strong (warm/hot) alcohol taste should be gone. Add the rest of the fruit and serve with the brownies or other dessert.

Profound questions about God -- or, puberty

Thursday night, dinner. We were talking about Ferdinand's confirmation classes. And Ferdinand professed that he doesn't believe in God. He then asked me if I do. I answered no, I'm an atheist. Then the conversation devolved into Ferdinand denouncing a God who can allow bad things to happen in the world.
"I ran into the wall today trying to get the ball. God didn't stop me from running into the wall and it really hurt," he said. (I'm both cleaning up his English, because I forgot his exact diction.)
He then went on about how "everyone" says God is with them, or everywhere, or always helps, or some such, but God never helps him. (Never mind how self centered the view is.) Also, he says, God never helps anyone. How could God (as opposed to a god, I think. Although I don't think he understands enough to make that difference)allow all the suffering in the world if God is in fact God. And his pencil broke (as far as I understood.) And a god that exists wouldn't allow his pencil to break.
Near the end his voice started to crack, to lose it. Then he started to lose it. Then he started to cry and complain about God, and complain about having to go to Confirmation class, and about this and that and everything. Because he didn't get a choice to go to Confirmation classes. Because it's so stressful to go to Confirmation and then have to go to soccer straight after.
Yes, his mom said. I made the choice for you.
Yes, your life's so hard, Anja said. There's so many other children out there whose lives are so many times more stressful all the time.
Ha.

He's still crying.

He then brings up that I don't believe in God. Which means nothing in the context.

He professed again to not believe in God. He said he was full, was going to bed. Slammed the bathroom door. Crying in the bathroom. Slammed the bedroom door. Crying in the bedroom.

He muttered to himself about how unfair life and God are.(audible to us through the closed door. The his door opens into the upper-middle cavity of the room in which the dining room currently is. Half is entry way area, half is the dining room table and the rug it sits on.)

"Ferdinand, you haven't said good night to Wheeler"
"Yes I did!"
"No, you didn't"
He opened the door, looked at me and said "Good night Wheeler."
I said good night and he closed the door with the force of a child gripped by emotion. Or hormones. Or emotions caused by hormones.
"You didn't say goodnight to me."
"Good night Mama!"

He's only 12 yet exhibiting symptoms of puberty in the context of an existential crisis.
I've always thought existential crisis come later on in life. Not for him. However, I think it's merely a shallow existential crisis. Possibly caused by something going on at school. Involving the pencils, or possibly the pens. I'm not sure.



For dinner:

I stuffed a pork roast with dried fruits, apricots and prunes and the likes with a side of pears in wine and butter sauce and some wine gravy. The pork was mediocre at best. I think I overcooked it and put too much pepper in the rub. And, should have punctured the muscles to get more seasoning in the meat, not just on the outside.

I do like how the pork looked, however. To me, it is a yin and yang of apricots, possibly some other yellow dried fruit, and prunes. An omen of the dinner conversation? Maybe.

Recipe: Irish Soda Bread

I could make excuses or give reasons for not having written about vacation yet, but I won't. Instead, I'm going to share a recipe for Irish Soda Bread that I made last week. Before I give the recipe or subsequent notes on it, I'll rap about it because I personally love recipes with a story behind them -- a recipe with no notes, no story, no nothin' is not only less appealing to me but also dry. I should say, the whole reason I made the soda bread was a beef stew which I'll hopefully make soon again, takes pictures of and write up. A glut from two grills the last two nights engendered the beef stew, which spawned the soda bread.

I think sourdough bread goes better with beef stew, or lamb stew, or pork stew rather than soda bread, but this may just be nostalgia speaking. The soda bread goes well with the beef stew, is semi-authentic and as a plus the bread is great – it merits repeating – with a little butter and good honey.
I picked up the recipe from allrecipes.com (credit to “MP Welty”) and changed it for my tastes. My tastes at the moment are for whole wheat goodness wherever and whenever possible. So far this has been an apple crisp, the soda bread and pancakes.
Below the recipe will be given in both metric and imperial, but small measurements will be given exclusively in imperial. I personally use metric because I'm in Germany and actually I found measuring by grams to be a bit easier than the normal packing and sifting ways. However, I've found with American recipes, this difference can be a bit of a problem.

I made the soda bread with 50 percent normal flour and 50 percent whole wheat. Next time I’ll try all whole wheat. The original recipe calls for only normal flour.

I added a little bit of extra sugar to my batch – gave the bread a slightly sweeter taste (Ferdinand [my au pair child] told me it tasted like cake, which I don’t agree with at all) that made it incredible with a spread of butter and honey.

Irish Soda Bread belongs to the chemically-leavened bread group. Instead of yeast, soda bread uses baking powder and baking soda.
The dough has a liquid baste that should be applied to the top of the bread as the baker sees fit. I found it problematic to add the baste more than once or twice because of the lost heat of the oven. However, I think the basting helped develop the crust of the bread.

The original recipe calls for a cook time of 45-50 minutes at 375° F/190° C. When the bread is formed into a big ball, the middle stays a little doughy while the crust begins to get a bit too cooked. I suggest decreasing the temperature and cooking the bread for longer. It’s done when a toothpick stuck into the middle comes out clean.

Annotated ingredients (metric):

Dough

250 grams all purpose flour (<-- I used a 50/50 mix. Haven't tried all whole wheat or all all-purpose) 250 grams whole wheat flour OR 500 grams whole wheat flour OR 500 grams all purpose flour 50 g white sugar (I used a little more than 50 grams [probably 60-65] -- gave it a sweeter flavor that went incredible with a little butter and honey as spreads)
1 teaspoon baking soda

1 tablespoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
115 g softened butter or margarine
235 ml buttermilk
1 egg

Dough-baste
55 g butter, melted
60 ml buttermilk

Ingredients imperial:

Dough

4 cups flour

4 tablespoons white sugar

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 tablespoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 cup margarine/butter, softened

1 cup buttermilk

1 egg

Dough-baste

1/4 cup butter, melted

1/4 cup buttermilk

Ingredients metric:

Dough

500 g flour

50 g white sugar

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 tablespoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt

115 g margarine/butter, softened

235 ml buttermilk

1 egg

Dough-baste

55 g butter, melted

60 ml buttermilk

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to a few degrees below 375° F/190° C

2. Mix together all the dry ingredients. Mix in the butter/margarine. Once the butter is mixed in, add the egg and buttermilk and mix well until a dough forms. Lightly flour a work surface and knead dough briefly.

3. Form kneaded dough into a ball and put on a baking sheet prepared with baking paper. Mark an X on the top of the bread ball lightly with a knife or other sharp instrument.

4. Put part of the dough-baste on the dough ball and put in the oven.

5. Baste the dough 2-3 times over the course of the 50-60 minute cooking period. 50-60 minutes at a lower temperature, 45-50 minutes at a higher (375° F/190° C.)