Roasted Tomato Soup, baby. Straight off the vine and into your heart.
http://projects.washingtonpost.com/recipes/2009/08/12/roasted-tomato-soup/
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
You Say Tomato?
Back in July I stumbled upon a Tomato Recipe Contest in the Washington Post and thought, what the hell, I could enter something. Never did I imagine that something I made would get picked! But it did!
Roasted Tomato Soup, baby. Straight off the vine and into your heart.
http://projects.washingtonpost.com/recipes/2009/08/12/roasted-tomato-soup/
Roasted Tomato Soup, baby. Straight off the vine and into your heart.
http://projects.washingtonpost.com/recipes/2009/08/12/roasted-tomato-soup/
Thursday, August 6, 2009
A Penny For Your Thoughts Isn't Enough Anymore... Apparently, Neither is 44 Cents
It's no surprise that as we attach ourselves more and more into the underbelly of the digital age that the USPS would be struggling to pay off its debts. I, for one, know that I've contributed to the demise of the postal service as much as I've tried to save it. The automatic debit system applied within most every company out there is completely untrustworthy. I still write checks, still send packages, letters and post cards. Hell, I sent a package to South Korea once. What more could the Post Office want? I'll tell you right now, it wasn't cheap. But, at the same time, no matter how many letters or postcards or bills that I send, I still end up back online. It's a dilemma, to say the least, maybe even a moral one at times, because embracing the digital age comes with pros and cons that are as different as waking up to find it's Friday and waking up to find it's really just Monday.
I blog, I email, I Facebook for crying out loud! I order movies, books, music, art, clothes... all of it, online. I've even gone out on a few dates based on an electronic spark... and not much else (note, I'm still freaked out by Match.com, but that's another story all together). With all of this business completed with the click of a button and the clack of a key, it's no wonder Americans feel so isolated. I think I truly only know three people who own "land lines", one is my Grandparents, so I don't even know if that counts. Even my Nana has a cell phone... she's 82.
I don't know, maybe it's pure nostalgia that gets me a little misty to see that stack of sadly discarded mailboxes, or maybe it's something far more frightening... we really are coming to the end of an era.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
My Life According to Archers of Loaf
Using only song names from ONE ARTIST/GROUP, cleverly answer these questions.
Re-post as "my life according to (band name)"
Pick Your Artist: Archers of Loaf
Are you male or female?
Audiowhore
Describe Yourself:
Scenic Pastures
How do you feel:
Harnessed in Slums
Describe where you currently live:
All Hail the Black Market
If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
All the Nation’s Airports
Your favorite form of transportation:
Chumming the Ocean
Your best friend is:
Nostalgia
What is life to you:
Greatest of All Time
Your fear:
Hate Paste
What is the best advice you have to give:
Let the Loser Melt
How I would like to die:
Step Into the Light
My Motto:
Lowest Part is Free!
Re-post as "my life according to (band name)"
Pick Your Artist: Archers of Loaf
Are you male or female?
Audiowhore
Describe Yourself:
Scenic Pastures
How do you feel:
Harnessed in Slums
Describe where you currently live:
All Hail the Black Market
If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
All the Nation’s Airports
Your favorite form of transportation:
Chumming the Ocean
Your best friend is:
Nostalgia
What is life to you:
Greatest of All Time
Your fear:
Hate Paste
What is the best advice you have to give:
Let the Loser Melt
How I would like to die:
Step Into the Light
My Motto:
Lowest Part is Free!
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Crutches and Corpses
Once, when I was sent out to play, (or maybe just stay out of the way) I found a pair of crutches in the garage and decided to limp around on them like some poor victim of a terrible accident. I think they belonged to my Dad, as even though I was tall for ten, they were too high and hurt my armpits to hold, even adjusted as best I could. More like sprawled out to either side, looking like if I tried hard enough, I might just turn them into stilts. I fumbled around the driveway like this for a while, dividing my time and energy between making up a story to go along with why I'd need these wooden aids for my pretend injury and feeling utterly alone in my imaginary pain. Who plays "Doctor" alone? I don't even remember what I came up with now, things like inventing games for a party of one tend to blur together as an only child. But I do remember my Dad startling me out of my imagination by suddenly appearing from behind his football haze to let me in on one of his assured life lessons.
"You shouldn't play on crutches," he said with authority, "you might end up on 'em for real." As if I could somehow will a broken ankle into existence. I believed him at the time, as if his adage might be some curse I placed on myself. Luckily for me, I showed him, and to-date the only thing I've ever broken is the pinkie toe on my right foot (and maybe a couple of hearts).
I don't mean to suggest that I was a morbid child, you know, to avoid labeling myself, but my lonely pretending rarely consisted of angels and rainbows. Maybe it was a mix of Catholic guilt, or my mother's career in medicine, but something drove my mind to the darker corners of pretend. When I developed the first signs of still-haunting insomnia, I used to pretend I was in a coma to make myself fall asleep. I would lay still and make up stories as to how I had gotten into this state of being. Funny that now I realize that really I was unintentionally experimenting with Yoga. Corpse Pose. Fitting as when I was eleven I had seen real corpses, though they don't call them that in medical school. Cadavers is more or less easier to swallow when it comes to studying the human body.
In sixth grade, my Mom went back to school to get her Physical Therapist license. She used to pick me up from school and take me with her back to her campus. The semester they studied cadavers was a busy one. One night, as it was starting to get late, my homework complete, and unable to find any trouble to get into in the PT Department of UTC, I had sprawled out on a mat outside the room with the bodies to wait for my Mom. She came out and assured me that we could go home soon. I sighed, in the way that only eleven year old's can, covered in boredom and guilt. Instead of my mom chiding me for my impatience, she got a sly look on her face and simply asked me a yes or no question.
"Do you want to see what I've been doing in this class?" The question lingered in the air as I knew it had to do with dead people, but I didn't know much more than the pictures she's been studying in Grey's Anatomy. I quizzically replied, "Sure?". She nodded her head and pointed a powder-residue covered finger at me. "You stay here, I'll be right back".
I bolted up from the blue mat and stood pacing by the door that lead into the carefully closed off space. I pondered what she could possibly mean by that, was she going to show me another picture? A dead pig in a glass jar like I would eventually see in science class? She emerged, smelling of latex and formaldehyde, holding a large, deeply red (ruby red even), human heart. "Whoa", I said and came to get a closer look. She told me it was an enlarged heart, and because of that, it had killed the women from whom it had been extracted. I looked at it carefully, my own heart beating blindly inside me from excitement, fear, and I think pride. My mother was holding a human heart. Whoa.
The next time she took me with her to school I asked her if she knew the lady whose heart she held. "No, baby. The faces are covered up, we don't want to know who they are, we only want to study them." I already knew about people donating their organs to help other people live, but this was a wholly other kind of donation. Some people, including my mother's wishes on her will, dedicate their bodies to science after death so that medical students can get a real hands on learning, from the inside out. As she spoke, again that almost mischievous look in her eye twitched and she asked me calmly, "Do you want to see a cadaver?"
Do I!? You're damn right I do. Not that I said that, I mean, come on, I was eleven, but you get the idea.
I followed her into the refrigerated room under strict orders not to touch ANYTHING, and peered around to find four tables, holding a body each. Just as she said, no identities were needed, their faces were covered, as well as the parts that were not being studied for that exam. I stood, quiet and reverent as a nun, with my hands tucked neatly behind me, staring at what looked like a man's left leg exposed. My mother again put on her powdered latex gloves and began to explain what I lay before me. There was an incision that ran from the toes to the ankle, but no blood,these donatees had been embalmed. The skin had been peeled back to show the inner workings of the top of the foot. My Mom, cool and calm as the room itself, first pointed at the exposed area, saying things like "tendon", "ligament", "bone", etc, then she carefully placed her fingertips around the tendon of the big toe, looked at me earnestly, excitedly, and said, "Watch this".
With baited breath I obeyed my mother and watched as the big toe pointed up, as if stretching out a Charlie Horse. Her fingers had pulled the tendon just so and it moved the pale toe. She released the tendon and silently made her way down the most twisted version of "This Little Piggy Went to Market", making the toes of a dead man come alive with a simple tug of a tendon. I came out of the cooler feeling like I'd been let in on some big secret. Like when you overhear adults talk about the neighbors and leak out stuff you aren't supposed to know about them. My awe was short lived though, as upon revealing my involvement in Mom's studies, Dad freaked out, voice booming as he became convinced that somehow I had been forever scarred by this meet-and-greet with the Grim Reaper.
Really, I just thought it was cool.
I find myself remembering those days as I contemplate my newly-acquired scars. I used to think the fact that I had no scars to show that I had been through intense surgical trauma meant that it didn't really happen, I mean I know it happened, but who else does? Unless you shave my head you won't find the pocked marks from surgical tools used for radiation or the stitched lines across my skull from my series of unconscious battles with cement, dry wall and hardwood floors. Under the cover of darkness (my hair that is), I have no scars to prove what my body has undergone. Without some kind of visible battle wound, my not-so-pretend injuries remain invisible. Tattoos from years ago don't make up for the lack of proof, but maybe I was thinking ink could somehow bring my scars out into the light. People ask about ink much more than medical bracelets. That leads to unseen scars and long stories. I should have listened to my father and known better than to wish for proof of suffering. Wishes often come true, and they don't say careful what you wish for without reason.
I've got some scars now, well scabs at this point really. My robotic implant has left me looking like I've been in a knife fight and stitched up by a demented seamstress. Not like Silence of the Lambs or anything, but damn, when Dr. Kalhorn said he'd use plastic surgeon-like precision, I should have asked for examples of his work. Dr. K did a better job repairing up the tip of my left ring finger when I nearly lost it to a combination of onion rings and a serrated blade at age 17. It doesn't even bother me that half of that nail is numb... that's actually the only reminder that I have a scar there at all.
Turns out, having visible, vulnerable scars doesn't make me feel anymore like someone out there will get what I've been through. It just makes me feel like I should continue to hope that I don't need crutches some day after all, and that I have more valuable things to spend my imagination on than corpses and wounds.
"You shouldn't play on crutches," he said with authority, "you might end up on 'em for real." As if I could somehow will a broken ankle into existence. I believed him at the time, as if his adage might be some curse I placed on myself. Luckily for me, I showed him, and to-date the only thing I've ever broken is the pinkie toe on my right foot (and maybe a couple of hearts).
I don't mean to suggest that I was a morbid child, you know, to avoid labeling myself, but my lonely pretending rarely consisted of angels and rainbows. Maybe it was a mix of Catholic guilt, or my mother's career in medicine, but something drove my mind to the darker corners of pretend. When I developed the first signs of still-haunting insomnia, I used to pretend I was in a coma to make myself fall asleep. I would lay still and make up stories as to how I had gotten into this state of being. Funny that now I realize that really I was unintentionally experimenting with Yoga. Corpse Pose. Fitting as when I was eleven I had seen real corpses, though they don't call them that in medical school. Cadavers is more or less easier to swallow when it comes to studying the human body.
In sixth grade, my Mom went back to school to get her Physical Therapist license. She used to pick me up from school and take me with her back to her campus. The semester they studied cadavers was a busy one. One night, as it was starting to get late, my homework complete, and unable to find any trouble to get into in the PT Department of UTC, I had sprawled out on a mat outside the room with the bodies to wait for my Mom. She came out and assured me that we could go home soon. I sighed, in the way that only eleven year old's can, covered in boredom and guilt. Instead of my mom chiding me for my impatience, she got a sly look on her face and simply asked me a yes or no question.
"Do you want to see what I've been doing in this class?" The question lingered in the air as I knew it had to do with dead people, but I didn't know much more than the pictures she's been studying in Grey's Anatomy. I quizzically replied, "Sure?". She nodded her head and pointed a powder-residue covered finger at me. "You stay here, I'll be right back".
I bolted up from the blue mat and stood pacing by the door that lead into the carefully closed off space. I pondered what she could possibly mean by that, was she going to show me another picture? A dead pig in a glass jar like I would eventually see in science class? She emerged, smelling of latex and formaldehyde, holding a large, deeply red (ruby red even), human heart. "Whoa", I said and came to get a closer look. She told me it was an enlarged heart, and because of that, it had killed the women from whom it had been extracted. I looked at it carefully, my own heart beating blindly inside me from excitement, fear, and I think pride. My mother was holding a human heart. Whoa.
The next time she took me with her to school I asked her if she knew the lady whose heart she held. "No, baby. The faces are covered up, we don't want to know who they are, we only want to study them." I already knew about people donating their organs to help other people live, but this was a wholly other kind of donation. Some people, including my mother's wishes on her will, dedicate their bodies to science after death so that medical students can get a real hands on learning, from the inside out. As she spoke, again that almost mischievous look in her eye twitched and she asked me calmly, "Do you want to see a cadaver?"
Do I!? You're damn right I do. Not that I said that, I mean, come on, I was eleven, but you get the idea.
I followed her into the refrigerated room under strict orders not to touch ANYTHING, and peered around to find four tables, holding a body each. Just as she said, no identities were needed, their faces were covered, as well as the parts that were not being studied for that exam. I stood, quiet and reverent as a nun, with my hands tucked neatly behind me, staring at what looked like a man's left leg exposed. My mother again put on her powdered latex gloves and began to explain what I lay before me. There was an incision that ran from the toes to the ankle, but no blood,these donatees had been embalmed. The skin had been peeled back to show the inner workings of the top of the foot. My Mom, cool and calm as the room itself, first pointed at the exposed area, saying things like "tendon", "ligament", "bone", etc, then she carefully placed her fingertips around the tendon of the big toe, looked at me earnestly, excitedly, and said, "Watch this".
With baited breath I obeyed my mother and watched as the big toe pointed up, as if stretching out a Charlie Horse. Her fingers had pulled the tendon just so and it moved the pale toe. She released the tendon and silently made her way down the most twisted version of "This Little Piggy Went to Market", making the toes of a dead man come alive with a simple tug of a tendon. I came out of the cooler feeling like I'd been let in on some big secret. Like when you overhear adults talk about the neighbors and leak out stuff you aren't supposed to know about them. My awe was short lived though, as upon revealing my involvement in Mom's studies, Dad freaked out, voice booming as he became convinced that somehow I had been forever scarred by this meet-and-greet with the Grim Reaper.
Really, I just thought it was cool.
I find myself remembering those days as I contemplate my newly-acquired scars. I used to think the fact that I had no scars to show that I had been through intense surgical trauma meant that it didn't really happen, I mean I know it happened, but who else does? Unless you shave my head you won't find the pocked marks from surgical tools used for radiation or the stitched lines across my skull from my series of unconscious battles with cement, dry wall and hardwood floors. Under the cover of darkness (my hair that is), I have no scars to prove what my body has undergone. Without some kind of visible battle wound, my not-so-pretend injuries remain invisible. Tattoos from years ago don't make up for the lack of proof, but maybe I was thinking ink could somehow bring my scars out into the light. People ask about ink much more than medical bracelets. That leads to unseen scars and long stories. I should have listened to my father and known better than to wish for proof of suffering. Wishes often come true, and they don't say careful what you wish for without reason.
I've got some scars now, well scabs at this point really. My robotic implant has left me looking like I've been in a knife fight and stitched up by a demented seamstress. Not like Silence of the Lambs or anything, but damn, when Dr. Kalhorn said he'd use plastic surgeon-like precision, I should have asked for examples of his work. Dr. K did a better job repairing up the tip of my left ring finger when I nearly lost it to a combination of onion rings and a serrated blade at age 17. It doesn't even bother me that half of that nail is numb... that's actually the only reminder that I have a scar there at all.
Turns out, having visible, vulnerable scars doesn't make me feel anymore like someone out there will get what I've been through. It just makes me feel like I should continue to hope that I don't need crutches some day after all, and that I have more valuable things to spend my imagination on than corpses and wounds.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
All this infatuation.
I have a crush on someone at the supermarket. It's funny because Jenny always said I expected love to happen in the midst of romantic moment in the aisle in the local grocery store. She said it would be the milk section. This man has nothing to do with dairy- quite the opposite in fact. He is a fishmonger. Antique and romantic too, I suppose. I once started a short story about a Korean butcher named Hank who dealt mostly in seafood and cheese... maybe I somehow willed this crush into existence. He's from Guinea though, and I don't know his name. Crushes are like dreams, and dreams are built on ideas, and those are merely spilled ideas that find a way to dry in the dark, so I imagine it can't be too far from the truth.
I have a crush on someone else, too. He became who he is long before I wrote a single word or heard his heart beat against the weight of my ear. He's as distant as the end of a sentence, and I hold on him to like a comma clinging to an Aside. Others exist out there, though they aren't as well, crushing. Like the skinny tattooed man that casually smokes outside a bar down the street from work. He has a cool lean to him against the bricked building wall that makes my cheeks turn rosy. The Fedora doesn't hurt, and last time I think he had on suspenders... POP.
I have crushes on my memories, on days, on an hour of your time... They are all filled with the same joyful angst as any of their parent-personified. I think my first real crush, we're talking puppy love here, was on my cousin. Sounds shameful, but I merely thought he was beautiful and interesting. I was 7. And Beauty is reckless and subjective, though not much has changed by way of criteria. Except the part about being related. That I let go off soon enough to chase boys with Saint names like Andrew, Thomas and Patrick around the playground.
While those week days linger too, the real intimacy is in Sundays. I have a crush on Sunday. Long, beautiful Sunday, always brushing the line between the birth of a new week and the end of just a little more time on my hands. I used to long for hands; flush at a firm handshake, close my eyes to nails on my back, sigh for fingertips kissing my skin. I'm infatuated with lips, too - smooth contour in the shape of a spoon. I like that too. Metallic to the tongue, static, aligned by shape and form... I'm not necessarily talking about silverware... I have a crush on someone I mixed moments with, and those moments have a crush on me.
Truth is, I'm crushed. Nothing is ever as it seems, and I am buried under the weight of searching. Searching for something right, true. The Beatles say you gotta carry that weight a long time, so for now, I'll take that advice and try not to smother myself. All this infatuation is hard to keep tabs on. Maybe one Sunday I'll have a little space in time, and someone can give me a hand... Just a little squeeze.
I have a crush on someone else, too. He became who he is long before I wrote a single word or heard his heart beat against the weight of my ear. He's as distant as the end of a sentence, and I hold on him to like a comma clinging to an Aside. Others exist out there, though they aren't as well, crushing. Like the skinny tattooed man that casually smokes outside a bar down the street from work. He has a cool lean to him against the bricked building wall that makes my cheeks turn rosy. The Fedora doesn't hurt, and last time I think he had on suspenders... POP.
I have crushes on my memories, on days, on an hour of your time... They are all filled with the same joyful angst as any of their parent-personified. I think my first real crush, we're talking puppy love here, was on my cousin. Sounds shameful, but I merely thought he was beautiful and interesting. I was 7. And Beauty is reckless and subjective, though not much has changed by way of criteria. Except the part about being related. That I let go off soon enough to chase boys with Saint names like Andrew, Thomas and Patrick around the playground.
While those week days linger too, the real intimacy is in Sundays. I have a crush on Sunday. Long, beautiful Sunday, always brushing the line between the birth of a new week and the end of just a little more time on my hands. I used to long for hands; flush at a firm handshake, close my eyes to nails on my back, sigh for fingertips kissing my skin. I'm infatuated with lips, too - smooth contour in the shape of a spoon. I like that too. Metallic to the tongue, static, aligned by shape and form... I'm not necessarily talking about silverware... I have a crush on someone I mixed moments with, and those moments have a crush on me.
Truth is, I'm crushed. Nothing is ever as it seems, and I am buried under the weight of searching. Searching for something right, true. The Beatles say you gotta carry that weight a long time, so for now, I'll take that advice and try not to smother myself. All this infatuation is hard to keep tabs on. Maybe one Sunday I'll have a little space in time, and someone can give me a hand... Just a little squeeze.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Guten Tag!
Well, friends, I have made it back in one piece from Deutschland... though I must admit, my mind can’t seem to leave it. The rest of me feels pretty confused about which way is up, my body is constantly asking itself, what time is it? Should I eat? Sleep? Drink more beer? Work? (Oh, god no, not that!) Hey, a little confusion is well worth the time I had abroad.
First of all, Amanda and Peter are fantastic hosts. They’ve settled into Kassel just like you would expect an Ex-Pat to do. Peter’s half-German, so I suppose that complement goes out to Amanda... already she speaks German really well, and reads it too! It’s amazing how quickly she’s adapted to her new life, learned the do’s and don’ts of living in Europe as an American (of course it doesn’t hurt that everyone thinks she’s German), and just fits right in like she’s lived there for eight years, not just eight months. She and Peter are totally in love and adorable together. He’s a kind and generous person; serious and studious, but also funny and charming. He has a big heart (which fits since he’s like 6’4” or something ridiculous) and loves Amanda very much. I felt welcome in their home every moment I was there, and in fact, when I realized that Sunday morning was already upon us, and that I’d be heading back to the US, I was sorta shocked how quickly the time flew. It snuck up on us as fast as the daily weather change.
Kassel is an easy town to navigate- big, but not overwhelming. The local tram and bus systems are stellar- efficient and clean- but expensive. And like the rest of Europe, the train will take you anywhere you want to go. Even though these resources are readily available (most days), it is also extremely easy to be bipedal. Amanda and I biked and walked EVERYWHERE. Peter even threw me on the back of his bike and we kicked it Double-Dutch style through the park one day (after having many beers in an effort to wait out an afternoon rain storm). I forgot how fun and scary riding tandem can be. But man, riding everywhere made me all-over-mad-again that some dickhead stole my bike back here in DC. This trip reaffirmed my love of the beaten path, and I may have to suck it up and buy a new bike (though I guarantee it will not be as freeing as riding in Germany... people in the District are unfortunately, not very bike friendly... jerks).
Anyway, America is not the topic at hand... it’s just hard to know where to start to even try and sum up the trip and my vagabond-self... So, I guess let’s just start with Day One. I arrived in Frankfurt on Monday morning at 7am, greeted immediately by Amanda and Peter (complete with rental car!). We made our way lazily down the Auto Ban, talking freely and enjoying the German country-side. It is so green and lush, trees and hillsides rolling beyond any line of Horizon you can image, dotted with farms and rows of little cottage houses and little towns. Upon our arrival in Kassel, they took me to what Amanda called, “the ugliest building on the block”, A.K.A their home. A sweet little apartment with the tiniest kitchen you’ve ever seen! You thought ours at The Baird were small, pu-lease! This little guy, separated from the rest of the main room by a very thin bar and cutting board space, can only handle the proclaimed “bathroom sink”, gas stove and a mini-fridge. As well as a couple of properly positioned shelves and carts (procured from various sidewalks and little thrift shops around town, Amanda is the best bargain-hunter after all). The main room (my bedroom!) has hardwood floors, a great old sewing table (also a discarded sidewalk-find) and a cute little four-top wooden table that sits right under the sunroof. It’s cozy and intimate, but by no means cramped, which makes for a nice hang out spot, and ended up being where we spent a great portion of my visit. The bedroom is nice and spacious, and completely full of light. Their apartment on the whole is warm and inviting, and we managed to be very good at meeting every one’s needs without getting in each others way (whether it be as simple as what time someone had to get up (or not!), a shower, a bite to eat, another beer... whatever!, we fit easily into each others lives, which is of course no surprise, this is Amanda we are talking about... and Peter is just as pleasant to be around- again, no surprise that our girl would marry a good man.
We spent the better part of Monday just chillin’. We drank crisp white wine, German pilsner, ate homemade Goulash, played Kniffel and cards, all the while talking about everything and nothing all at once. Perfect first day abroad.
We awoke to a lovely (albeit slightly hung-over) Tuesday and headed to town to have brunch and a much-needed dose of caffeine before Peter had to work. Brunch was delicious- fresh eggs, yogurt and Muesli, crisp bacon, toast and jam. Mmmmmmmm! The food standards are very strict, so anything and everything tastes like it is straight from the farm. After breakfast, Amanda showed me around the city square and we shopped a bit, had a mid-afternoon coffee and people-watched the busy Germans made their way around the city. Later we went back to collect Peter and do something about dinner. It was decided that Stir-fried rice would be a good meal, so Amanda and I biked to the grocery store and bought supplies. We spent a nice quite evening at home, repeating Monday’s debauchery (though on a much lighter scale as Wednesday was going to be a big day for us all).
The next morning we rose to join Amanda’s classmates and colleagues on a trip to a town called Bad Sooden-Allendorf, a place that is still a little divided in terms of East and West Germany despite the fall of the Berlin Wall. It luckily sustained very little damage during World War II, though many of the surrounding towns did not, including Kassel. It makes for a killer history tour as some of the houses are still standing after being built in 1664! AMAZING! They look like picturesque little cottages, and cost next to nothing to own... something that is more tempting than you can imagine when our own economy is so shitty. Amanda and I quickly ditched the group and went on our own tour of the two towns (that are now technically considered one) and managed to get completely wasted by like 5pm.
Ahhh, a little dab’ll do ya! It’s just so easy to say, “Yeah, we’ll have one more round” when the weather is fine, the scenery is beautiful and the company is superb. We toted bottles of beer around with us to have later, but as you can imagine, by the time we made it back to Kassel, we were hungry and starting to get grumpy from the no longer drunken state we had so easily achieved just a few hours prior. We decided to go Greek and try out The Zeus Restaurant in town... In Germany! It was sooooo good, but man, those Germans can EAT! Amanda got a piece of beefsteak that could have easily feed a family... so huge! We came home to Peter full and happy, beers in tow...
Thursday started out as a beautiful day, perfect for biking, so we met Peter for lunch at the Orangerie which is this gigantic Palace positioned on the most stunning park ever! It was like 5 times the size of the Quad at UNCA, and our bike ride across it couldn’t have been any other way to enjoy the weather. Though, just as we completed our delicious lunch; the weather turned grey and then to rain... Yikes! Did that stop us from enjoying the afternoon? NEVER! We hid out at this little bar that used to be a really big well. It overlooks the city and the river, and has a great relaxed feel to it. Needless to say, we may have been dry on the outside, but we were not on the inside. After a drunken bike ride home (that included a tumble into the grass and the aforementioned Double-Dutch ride), we ventured out for dinner and more beer. It was a great day, rain, grass and all.
Friday was equally as relaxed... we had fruit and yogurt, ice cream (twice!) another trip to the grocery store, hit up a thrift store and more hiding out from the rain. That evening we had decided to have Thai food… which sounds funny to even consider whilst in Germany, but it was DELICIOUS! Pad Thai never tasted so good. We tumbled around town, checking out some of Amanda and Peter’s favorite hot spots, then hit the hay to prepare for my last day in Germany! So sad.
Saturday was a straight up tourist day. It was muggy out, and kinda grey, so we weren’t sure what all we could do, but we managed to squeeze in a Bratwurst for lunch, a stroll through the downtown Flea Market, half a Nutella crepe (Peter obligingly ate our leftovers), and a tour of one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen! A CASTLE, a real-life kings and queens and knights and shit CASTLE! From like 1700 something or other. The Lowenberg or “Lion’s Castle” was so fucking cool. We got to go on a walking tour with this extremely knowledgeable and excitable German dude. There were a bunch of kids with us because one of them got the castle tour for his birthday. He was five, and the tour dude knighted him while we were in the armor room, leaving us with “Sir Nicholas” on the tour with us... so cute and really smart for a 5 year old.
The castle was one of the most amazing historical landmarks I’ve ever seen. They had armory dating back to 1552! So cool. After the tour, we decided to relax at the Castle Pub and snag a beer (I mean, really, you have to relax after a castle tour, obviously a beer was needed). We hung out up there for quite a while, got a great view of the cityscape, and then hiked down the mountainside back to town to grab some dinner. I got to enjoy another favorite German dish - Toast Hawaii, which is pretty much what you would imagine it to be: like Hawaiian pizza. Pineapple, ham and melted cheese on top of toast. MMMMM! To top off the night, and truly call it a successful day, we headed to Amanda and Peter’s neighborhood bar and played some cards, listened to live music, ate more Bratwurst and drank really good wine. God I've never eaten so much meat in my life!
Everything about my vacation was EXACTLY what I hoped it would be. I got to relax, talk into the wee hours of the day and night with Amanda, get to know Peter better, eat good German food and see some cool, old shit. I highly, highly recommend a trip to the Castle Schimunek, it will not disappoint.
First of all, Amanda and Peter are fantastic hosts. They’ve settled into Kassel just like you would expect an Ex-Pat to do. Peter’s half-German, so I suppose that complement goes out to Amanda... already she speaks German really well, and reads it too! It’s amazing how quickly she’s adapted to her new life, learned the do’s and don’ts of living in Europe as an American (of course it doesn’t hurt that everyone thinks she’s German), and just fits right in like she’s lived there for eight years, not just eight months. She and Peter are totally in love and adorable together. He’s a kind and generous person; serious and studious, but also funny and charming. He has a big heart (which fits since he’s like 6’4” or something ridiculous) and loves Amanda very much. I felt welcome in their home every moment I was there, and in fact, when I realized that Sunday morning was already upon us, and that I’d be heading back to the US, I was sorta shocked how quickly the time flew. It snuck up on us as fast as the daily weather change.
Kassel is an easy town to navigate- big, but not overwhelming. The local tram and bus systems are stellar- efficient and clean- but expensive. And like the rest of Europe, the train will take you anywhere you want to go. Even though these resources are readily available (most days), it is also extremely easy to be bipedal. Amanda and I biked and walked EVERYWHERE. Peter even threw me on the back of his bike and we kicked it Double-Dutch style through the park one day (after having many beers in an effort to wait out an afternoon rain storm). I forgot how fun and scary riding tandem can be. But man, riding everywhere made me all-over-mad-again that some dickhead stole my bike back here in DC. This trip reaffirmed my love of the beaten path, and I may have to suck it up and buy a new bike (though I guarantee it will not be as freeing as riding in Germany... people in the District are unfortunately, not very bike friendly... jerks).
Anyway, America is not the topic at hand... it’s just hard to know where to start to even try and sum up the trip and my vagabond-self... So, I guess let’s just start with Day One. I arrived in Frankfurt on Monday morning at 7am, greeted immediately by Amanda and Peter (complete with rental car!). We made our way lazily down the Auto Ban, talking freely and enjoying the German country-side. It is so green and lush, trees and hillsides rolling beyond any line of Horizon you can image, dotted with farms and rows of little cottage houses and little towns. Upon our arrival in Kassel, they took me to what Amanda called, “the ugliest building on the block”, A.K.A their home. A sweet little apartment with the tiniest kitchen you’ve ever seen! You thought ours at The Baird were small, pu-lease! This little guy, separated from the rest of the main room by a very thin bar and cutting board space, can only handle the proclaimed “bathroom sink”, gas stove and a mini-fridge. As well as a couple of properly positioned shelves and carts (procured from various sidewalks and little thrift shops around town, Amanda is the best bargain-hunter after all). The main room (my bedroom!) has hardwood floors, a great old sewing table (also a discarded sidewalk-find) and a cute little four-top wooden table that sits right under the sunroof. It’s cozy and intimate, but by no means cramped, which makes for a nice hang out spot, and ended up being where we spent a great portion of my visit. The bedroom is nice and spacious, and completely full of light. Their apartment on the whole is warm and inviting, and we managed to be very good at meeting every one’s needs without getting in each others way (whether it be as simple as what time someone had to get up (or not!), a shower, a bite to eat, another beer... whatever!, we fit easily into each others lives, which is of course no surprise, this is Amanda we are talking about... and Peter is just as pleasant to be around- again, no surprise that our girl would marry a good man.
We spent the better part of Monday just chillin’. We drank crisp white wine, German pilsner, ate homemade Goulash, played Kniffel and cards, all the while talking about everything and nothing all at once. Perfect first day abroad.
We awoke to a lovely (albeit slightly hung-over) Tuesday and headed to town to have brunch and a much-needed dose of caffeine before Peter had to work. Brunch was delicious- fresh eggs, yogurt and Muesli, crisp bacon, toast and jam. Mmmmmmmm! The food standards are very strict, so anything and everything tastes like it is straight from the farm. After breakfast, Amanda showed me around the city square and we shopped a bit, had a mid-afternoon coffee and people-watched the busy Germans made their way around the city. Later we went back to collect Peter and do something about dinner. It was decided that Stir-fried rice would be a good meal, so Amanda and I biked to the grocery store and bought supplies. We spent a nice quite evening at home, repeating Monday’s debauchery (though on a much lighter scale as Wednesday was going to be a big day for us all).
The next morning we rose to join Amanda’s classmates and colleagues on a trip to a town called Bad Sooden-Allendorf, a place that is still a little divided in terms of East and West Germany despite the fall of the Berlin Wall. It luckily sustained very little damage during World War II, though many of the surrounding towns did not, including Kassel. It makes for a killer history tour as some of the houses are still standing after being built in 1664! AMAZING! They look like picturesque little cottages, and cost next to nothing to own... something that is more tempting than you can imagine when our own economy is so shitty. Amanda and I quickly ditched the group and went on our own tour of the two towns (that are now technically considered one) and managed to get completely wasted by like 5pm.
Ahhh, a little dab’ll do ya! It’s just so easy to say, “Yeah, we’ll have one more round” when the weather is fine, the scenery is beautiful and the company is superb. We toted bottles of beer around with us to have later, but as you can imagine, by the time we made it back to Kassel, we were hungry and starting to get grumpy from the no longer drunken state we had so easily achieved just a few hours prior. We decided to go Greek and try out The Zeus Restaurant in town... In Germany! It was sooooo good, but man, those Germans can EAT! Amanda got a piece of beefsteak that could have easily feed a family... so huge! We came home to Peter full and happy, beers in tow...
Thursday started out as a beautiful day, perfect for biking, so we met Peter for lunch at the Orangerie which is this gigantic Palace positioned on the most stunning park ever! It was like 5 times the size of the Quad at UNCA, and our bike ride across it couldn’t have been any other way to enjoy the weather. Though, just as we completed our delicious lunch; the weather turned grey and then to rain... Yikes! Did that stop us from enjoying the afternoon? NEVER! We hid out at this little bar that used to be a really big well. It overlooks the city and the river, and has a great relaxed feel to it. Needless to say, we may have been dry on the outside, but we were not on the inside. After a drunken bike ride home (that included a tumble into the grass and the aforementioned Double-Dutch ride), we ventured out for dinner and more beer. It was a great day, rain, grass and all.
Friday was equally as relaxed... we had fruit and yogurt, ice cream (twice!) another trip to the grocery store, hit up a thrift store and more hiding out from the rain. That evening we had decided to have Thai food… which sounds funny to even consider whilst in Germany, but it was DELICIOUS! Pad Thai never tasted so good. We tumbled around town, checking out some of Amanda and Peter’s favorite hot spots, then hit the hay to prepare for my last day in Germany! So sad.
Saturday was a straight up tourist day. It was muggy out, and kinda grey, so we weren’t sure what all we could do, but we managed to squeeze in a Bratwurst for lunch, a stroll through the downtown Flea Market, half a Nutella crepe (Peter obligingly ate our leftovers), and a tour of one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen! A CASTLE, a real-life kings and queens and knights and shit CASTLE! From like 1700 something or other. The Lowenberg or “Lion’s Castle” was so fucking cool. We got to go on a walking tour with this extremely knowledgeable and excitable German dude. There were a bunch of kids with us because one of them got the castle tour for his birthday. He was five, and the tour dude knighted him while we were in the armor room, leaving us with “Sir Nicholas” on the tour with us... so cute and really smart for a 5 year old.
The castle was one of the most amazing historical landmarks I’ve ever seen. They had armory dating back to 1552! So cool. After the tour, we decided to relax at the Castle Pub and snag a beer (I mean, really, you have to relax after a castle tour, obviously a beer was needed). We hung out up there for quite a while, got a great view of the cityscape, and then hiked down the mountainside back to town to grab some dinner. I got to enjoy another favorite German dish - Toast Hawaii, which is pretty much what you would imagine it to be: like Hawaiian pizza. Pineapple, ham and melted cheese on top of toast. MMMMM! To top off the night, and truly call it a successful day, we headed to Amanda and Peter’s neighborhood bar and played some cards, listened to live music, ate more Bratwurst and drank really good wine. God I've never eaten so much meat in my life!
Everything about my vacation was EXACTLY what I hoped it would be. I got to relax, talk into the wee hours of the day and night with Amanda, get to know Peter better, eat good German food and see some cool, old shit. I highly, highly recommend a trip to the Castle Schimunek, it will not disappoint.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)