Things are getting a bit wonky here in the land of the metric system. I’ve been doing a fair amount of measuring lately, and am slowly realizing that my estimations are, at best, loosely grounded. A litre is the same thing as a quart in my world, dry and wet cups are equivalent, oven temperatures in Farenheit and Celcius are always 200 degrees different. When I need 100 grams of something, I refer to the amount of chocolate I can comfortably eat in a sitting. A kilo? Why, a kilo weighs as much as half of an uncooked chicken.
These basics make it a bit tricky to accurately predict the results when baking, so I’m sticking to cheesecakes for now. They, in turn, are sticking to their pans. Maybe it’s the 250 grams of flour? A gram’s the same as a pinch, right? It takes forever to measure 250 pinches, but the alternative is to use one of those finicky little scales. I’m pretty sure that the only people who need that level of accuracy are selling weed by the ounce, so the metric system doesn’t apply anyway.

My language school colleagues and I exhaust our meager vocabularies minutes into each class, leaving us little conversational recourse beyond smiles and nods. Our solution? The lovely Thai woman pats people soothingly on the shoulder, the Taiwanese woman writes out her neighbor’s name using formal Chinese characters, the Romanian woman shows me pictures from her recent sonogram, I offer someone a cough drop from the stash in my purse. There are lots of ways to get to know people; not all of them require a common language. Having said that, I am frustrated: I don’t want to be able to just say the word rhubarb, I want to TALK about rhubarb! Since I’m stymied by both a lack of relevant vocabulary and by a sneaking suspicion that rhubarb fans don’t grow on trees, I am taking my discussion to you, the good people of this tiny corner of the internet.
Rhubarb
During the summer in Colorado, rhubarb is served fresh from the garden in strawberry-rhubarb pies or stewed as a topping for ice cream. It’s a special treat, and even people who really like it don’t eat that much of it.
In Germany, rhubarb is everywhere. It’s a layer in the excellent cheesecake at the local sweets shop, it’s served as a side dish for rich foods, it’s routinely an option as a soft drink. It’s this last one that kills me. Soda is bad for you, right? You should probably not drink soda, and should choose juice instead. But even juice has more sugar than you should really be eating, so you should mix your juice with sparkling water. And while you’re at it, how about drinking the juice of an exceptionally sour plant that has poisonous leaves (but lots of vitamin C!) Sounds like fun, no? The resultant drink, rhabarberschorle, is prettily pink, just a touch sweet, and has a lively burst of flowery/grassy/earthy notes that together taste like Spring. Heaven. It is more refreshing than Coke, more interesting than water or apple juice, and, dare I say, better for you than beer.
I don’t say this lightly (competition is fierce): rhubarb juice is my favorite thing about Germany.

I am having a tremendous time in my intensive German course. The class itself is a wonderland of chic Parisian-Taiwanese women, joke-making Turkish men, an American teenager who drinks astonishing amounts of Coke during the breaks, and various Columbian, Brazilian, Romanian, Thai, Iranian, Pakistani, Mexican and Irish folks who produce a rainbow of accents in German. Our instructors have boundless enthusiasm for acting out words that we don’t understand; these range from ‘listen’ and ‘write’ to ‘divorce’ and ‘mothertongue’. It’s awesome.
The multi-state representation is refreshing when, together, we encounter German habits so foreign to us that we are allowed to call them idiosyncracies. To wit:
-today our teacher told an obviously proud and somewhat shy newly engaged man that engagements are not recognized by the state, that they ‘don’t count’. We made up our own word for kind-of-married.
-both teachers use a system for counting that involves a multi-finger switch between 3 and 4, and which starts with the thumb to represent 1. Thumb and index finger are 2, add the fuck-you finger for three, then remove the thumb and add ring and pinky for four. This is so shockingly poorly engineered that I cannot believe it didn’t get ironed out sometime during the industrial revolution.
-We learned the alphabet today, and found that, while Germany has added a letter to represent s-z, no better solution was devised to differentiate the cursive I from the J than to allow the J’s ass to drop below the line. That’s just lazy, Germany. I’m disappointed by the oversight, especially when the capital I (as written here) is such a crisp, symmetrical product.

In other news, the Irish lady from class reported today that she imports her butter from Ireland – it’s creamier and saltier than German butter. I can’t tell you what a relief that is! I was worried that I wouldn’t find anyone to help me normalize my bags of beans; I didn’t dare dream for a butter-bagger! Thanks, Irish butter lady.

Although I appreciate your confidence in my language abilities, (misplaced though it may be, given that I’ve been in Germany off and on for a year and have yet to reliably learn how to say ‘I am very afraid of dogs,’ or ‘Especially when it’s werewolf season,’ or ‘Let’s Cumbia!’ or any number of useful expressions,) the next post was not, in fact, written by me.
Today’s guest writer is none other than the German! Please to enjoy!

…meldet sich zu Wort. Mit zunehmendem Interesse lese ich den Blog der Amerikanerin und erkenne, dass Stil und Geschmack hervorragende Transporteure von Weltanschauung und Humor sind.

Bei der Erklärung der Welt aus der Frosch- in die Vogelperspektive zu wechseln, macht nicht nur aus Gründen der klaren Rangordnung in der Nahrungskette Sinn. Als Deutscher und als Vertreter des technisch-mechanistischen Weltbildes versuche ich mir kulturelle Unterschiede anhand von geschlossenen Theorien zu erklären. Zunächst also ein Blick auf die logistischen Vorgänge:

Beim Einkaufen beweisen sich die Unterschiede in der kulturellen Dimension “Indivduality” *): Der Weg des Deutschen zur zunehmend international erfolgreichen Supermarktkette ist begleitet von der kollektiven Einsicht, dass diese keine Notlösung für Schlechtverdiener ist, sondern das Ergebnis von Effizienz und Gründlichkeit gepaart mit gesundem betriebswirtschaftlichen Handeln. Der Deutsche akzeptiert dabei, dass die Qualität im produktionstechnischen Sinn definiert ist als “bestmöglich in Bezug auf den Preis” und dass ein hoher Quotient nur durch maximale Effizienz in der Bewirtschaftung der Verkaufsfläche erreicht wird. Insofern wird auch hingenommen, dass der Mangel an Servicequalität systemimmanent ist und den höheren Zielen zum Opfer fällt.

Der durchschnittliche Amerikaner schätzt das “Whole Foods” Imperium und die unendlichen Tiefen dessen Angebotes und bestätigt damit beeindruckend die hohe Punktzahl beim Wert “Individuality”. In diesem Wert unterscheiden sich Deutsche und Amerikaner im 5D-Modell *) am deutlichsten. Klar, dass ein irrsinniges Produktangebot auch zu Lasten Dritter gehen kann was insofern auch ein wenig den leichten Abfall des durchschnittlichen Amerikaners beim Wert bei “LTO Long Term Pragmatic” *) durchscheinen lässt.
Bleibt zu erwähnen, dass die amerikanische Hauptprotagonistin dieses Blogs zwar Individualität schätzt, diese aber nie fraglos der schlechten CO2 Bilanz eines übertriebenen Produktangebotes opfert. Beweis ist, dass wir seit Monaten nie mit dem Auto zum Einkaufen gefahren sind was sicher auch an der logistisch und kulinarisch zentralen Lage unserer Küche liegt.

Nun zur Durchführung: Genuss ist hoch im Kurs und wir haben schon einige wundervolle Erlebnisse gehabt. Die Amerikanerin kann kochen wie der Teufel und das ganze ohne Unfälle! Als Anerkenntnis meiner gelegentlichen Anstrengungen und im Zeichen höchsten Understatements verdiene ich mir dann ein besonderes Lob: “Du kochst vorzüglich Eier”. Ich bin mir sicher, dass ich gute Anlagen habe ein berühmter Koch zu werden.
Hier ist der höhere Wert des Deutschen in der vierten kulturellen Dimension “UAI =Uncertainty Avoidance” gegenüber der Amerikanerin zu erklären, die Ihre Stärken voll ausspielen kann und Expertise und Passion mit dosiertem Risiko kombiniert und sich eindeutig im Cluster 1 “Contest” *) bewegt.
Der Deutsche dagegen zelebriert Spaghetti mit Knoblauch und Olivenöl (in vielen Italienurlauben gründlich erlernt) und ordnet sich damit klar ein im Cluster 6 “well-oiled machine” *).

Wenn man sich die Welt einer neuen Sprache aus der Gourmet-Perspektive erschließt, nimmt das manchmal lustige Wendungen wie neulich auf Sylt:
Häuser sind in Norddeutschland häufig aus rotem Ziegel gebaut. Als Süddeutscher muss ich anerkennen, dass sich diese Farbgebung besonders gut gegen den oft mehr grauen als blauen norddeutschen Himmel abhebt. Dabei unterscheiden sich einzelne Ziegelsteine mit einer farblichen Stufung von rosa über dunkelrot bis braun. Die Amerikanerin bezeichnet diesen Baustil pragmatisch als “Hackfleischhaus”.

Ein andere, gerade noch nicht gesundheitsgefährliche Episode: Aus der Dusche schlendernd fragte mich die Amerikanerin neulich ob das Duschbad in Geschmacksnote “Zitrone” wirklich ein solches sei. Es war kein Duschbad sondern “Viss Scheuermilch”. Wir haben also beschlossen, dass die Amerikanerin nun Deutsch lernt. Dass es gleich ein obligatorischer Integrationskurs werden muss, entspringt ebenfalls dem hohen Wert von UAI *) des deutschen Behördenapparates, ist aber, wie die anderen kulturellen Unterschiede, keinerlei Hindernis für uns.

Der Deutsche

*)

Wer mehr über das “5-D Modell” nach Gert Hofstede und meine Übertragungen in die Nahrungskette nachvollziehen möchte, dem sei der Link anbei empfohlen.

http://www.berlitzonline.com/catalog/htmlincludes/GlobalDivDemo/media/9080/addcontent/Pocket_Guide.pdf

After a sunny, laugh-filled week with my family in Colorado, I flew back to Hamburg today for the longest stay yet: 8 weeks! Lucky; it will be at least two months before I’m ready to get on a plane again. Let’s play:

Bizness Klass

how to play: read through the following comments, and try to decide if they were made by my red-haired, pink-and-yellow-wearing, champagne-swilling, loud-as-hell seatmate, or one of the bitchy mid-50’s male flight attendants, or me.

• Are you married? I’ve been married 38 years. My husband is useless now (waggles finger limply,) he’s too old.
• Here’s a picture of my grandkid. Here’s my son. Here’s a picture of me with my car. It’s a Mercedes 718DL.
• More champagne!
• More champagne!
• I’m sorry, ma’am, we’ve finished the pre-flight beverage service, but we will be back with more champagne after takeoff.
• More champagne!
• More champagne!
• As my associate just said, we can’t give you any more right now, but we will be back with more champagne after takeoff.
• (loudly) Why are those stewardesses men? Men don’t do good service like women do. And they’re so old. Not you, though (to man across the aisle,) are you single? You’re so handsome, and we both like champagne!
• (to me)You live in Hamburg? Do you rent or own? It’s expensive there. How much do you pay? This bag is Chanel. I’ve had it for 30 years. Are you married?
• I want my steak medium rare, with a little red in the middle. Just a little red, not too much. Not too much. Not too much, just a little.
• Ma’am, I will endeavor to microwave the steak to your liking. It may not be possible.
• More champagne!
• More champagne!
• More champagne!
• More champagne!
• More champagne!
• More champagne!
• I paid an extra $400 for this seat. Do you think it was worth it? My husband is in the back, in economy class, maybe he’s having a good time (worried). Do you think he’s having a good time? Did they have steak, too? (Now definitely worried that he’s having more fun than us.) I wish I had the window seat, I said that I wanted it. I was supposed to have the window seat. I don’t know why they didn’t put me in the window seat. It’s hard to see out the window from here (leaning on my lap, digging her elbow into my thigh, her breath fogging up my window.) Hey, waiter, more champagne! (snaps fingers, laughs)
• More champagne! In a plane! Lois Lane! (snaps fingers, laughs)
• Um, excuse me (to the flight attendant,) sorry to bother you, when you have a minute, would you mind checking to see if you have any extra earplugs? My amenities kit only has one pair, and they seem to be defective. Thank you for your help.

That flight made the hubbub of the baby/toddler/boy nephew swarm in Colorado look like that of a light jazz trio playing in the background at an Embassy reception. To do justice to both the tone and the volume, the comments in bold are hers. Mine are in italics because I was cowering sideways the whole time. I’m sure that she thought that I was the most boring seatmate ever – to her questions about how much longer the flight was going to be, I answered truthfully, adjusting for the 15-minute interval since the last question, rather than commiserating and/or calculting how many more glasses of champagne we could get in before breakfast, and MY capri pants had nary a rhinestone on them, much less a diamante cut-out down the leg that spelled P-A-R-I-S.
It was easy to be annoyed by her, especially when she dumped a glass of you-guessed-it on my lap and then called the flight attendant over, explaining that I had had a whoopsie, but she certainly wrung every bit of fun out of the 9-hour trip. Is it her fault that she wrung the fun out of my trip as well? Nope, it’s mine: I should have joined in, listened to her crazy stories, told her some wild lies that would have delighted her, and introduced her to the ever-so-annoying-to-flight-attendants ‘Ginger-Cran-Vodka with a lime and a touch of soda’. I should have shown her that, starting in March, the United Hemispheres magazine has both a hand sanitizer sample (first time ever!) and a perfume sample. I should have put on my sunglassess to sleep over my eyeshades, just for fun, and taken novelty pictures of us with our amenity-kit socks on, all snuggled up in our blankets with our sparkly drinks. In the morning, we could have mambo’d down the aisle to say hello to her husband and bring him a bloody mary that we snuck out of the First Class drinks cart.
Next time, lady, when I see your crazy red hair in line at the departures gate demanding a window seat, I’m going to hope that I get to sit next to you instead of hoping that I remembered the extra batteries for my noise-cancelling headphones.

p.s. I know you’re wondering, so I’ll tell you. Lola (I don’t know what her name was, but that certainly seems to fit,) was not American, she was GERMAN! Funny, no?

My three darling nephews are, for now, both adventurous and reasonably trusting. They are boys who clap their hands for broccoli and who think of pears as a treat. My sister, their mother, makes her own bread, cans her own preserves, and refries her own beans. She feeds these kids great food, and they love it.
I brought the nephews a number of ‘treats’ from Germany and parts beyond this week, including a memory game for ages 6+ that has stumped us all. Let’s play:
Cultural Differences, Candy Edition
how to play: read through the following list of edibles I brought, and try to guess which ones the nephews were fans of. Answer (notice the singular) at bottom.
• Salt Pastiller – Pingvin brand from Norway. Apparently kids have been spitting these out since 1926. The juggling penguin on the front is a perfect foil to the super salty black licorice taste inside. Seriously, though, penguins? Do you think they taste good? Or that they know from candy? They’re a bird that eats fish, kid, get real.
• Salmiakpastillen N – these are tiny black “candies” that are marketed as ‘extra stark’. They are hard as rocks, and are shaped like arrows with surprisingly sharp points. Perfect for toddlers! Also salty, and also licorice-flavored, but these are extra stark. If these were the last candy in the world, one bag would still be a lifetime supply. I bought these at a pharmacy and I don’t know what the ‘N’ in the name is for, but the German assured me that they were candy. Extra stark candy, whatever that means.
• Strong cheeses, including a very old gouda with crunchy bits, a cheddar that was almost too sharp, chunks of parm/reggiano, and a well-aged robusto with a flavor that lasted a long time. A little too long, if the 5-year old’s request for “water, orange juice, anything, help meeeee!” is an indication.
• Various date- and fig-based snack bars with almonds, hazelnuts, coconuts, and dried fruits. These have a tasteless papery coating that helps the bar not stick to the packaging, and which helps differentiate these nutritious bars from, say, a Snickers or a Tiger’s Milk bar or anything else that the boys would want to eat more than one bite of.
• Sage-flavored cough drops, sugarfree.

Answer: the cough drops were a huge hit! I’m the best aunt ever!

If by jetsetting you mean ‘up at 4 am in a highway-access-road hotel in a Kansas City suburb where the closest restaurant (still not reachable on foot) is a Hooters‘ then, yes, I am jetsetting.

Here’s the good news: my work team is arriving today, and I have a full-sized refrigerator in my hotel room (if you’re wondering, I AM plotting to put the fridge in my suitcase and bring it home to Hamburg with me.) Sometimes the work team is made up of pescatarians and people who share my mild aversion to eating heavy pasta before long evenings of work. This work team, instead, leans heavily on the steak-eating side, so I think that we will be able to take advantage of Kansas City’s reputation as a steak and barbecue town. The nice thing about waking up at 3:59 in the morning is that I can chat with the German as he has lunch in Hamburg, and that I have time to do some restaurant research before the sun comes up. So, the barbecue search is on! I’ll report back.

I have a theory. Listen to this, and then I’ll tell you if, by planting that song in your head, it has interrupted the continuous loop it’s been on for four days in mine. Thanks for playing!

I had a huge glass of orange juice today. It was bigger than any coffee I’ve had in Germany. I mean it was big. Dang, man, that thing was huge. It must have been like a pint and a half. God knows how many oranges went into that thing, and it was a medium! I’m going back for the large someday, but I’m bringing a friend – both to help me finish, and to bear witness.

I wanted to tell you about the big OJ I had today, but I didn’t want this to be my hundredth post.

OK, I think that’s all. Talk to you later!

Let’s play:
Where’s the Betster?
Hints:

The decor is modern but comfortable, with velvet armchairs, dark wood end tables, and a tray of glasses next to bottles of sparkling water.

The people here call me Frau Rosenbaum, which makes me laugh every time. They do not laugh in return.

In the waiting room, there is a selection of magazines. Most of them have Heidi Klum on the cover; one notably does not. It’s a Playboy magazine.

Ok, did you guess? It’s the kind of doctor’s office that features softcore porn! That’s right!

Now I’m off to find the person who left the girlie mag in the waiting room, because either they’re bent on redefining our notions of comfort with public sexuality or they think they’re hilarious or both and either way I think we’re going to get along fine.

The German: Posing or Perusing?