Page One Hundred Thirty.
Today I started a new dog-sitting job. It's my first time with this dog, a basset hound, and I'll be here for the next twenty-three days. Archie's parents are hiking around Germany and Italy. Archie seems like a rather spoiled but easy going dog. He has a dog walker come in a few times a week plus he goes to doggie day care twice a week; this in spite of the fact that both parents are retired and home, a lot. In short, this dog's social life is more active than mine. (And people claim I'm busy.)
The fun part of this job will be eating all the vegetables from the garden: yellow grape tomatoes, roma tomatoes, beefsteaks, Swiss chard, and basil. I'm going to eat at a friend's house this weekend and bringing a salad. (She's buying a pizza. But I told her I'll only eat about one centimeter of it as I'm still on my diet.) I think I'll saute some mushrooms, onions and red pepper and mix it with copious amounts of raw tomatoes then add some blue cheese, freshly chopped basil and drizzle on some balsamic vinegar and olive oil. I'll serve that on a bed of greens including the Swiss chard. Yum, yum, yum.
Showing posts with label Germany. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Germany. Show all posts
Friday, August 30, 2013
Friday, August 2, 2013
One Picky Child
Page One Hundred-Sixteen.
Many of my blogs are about my experiences feeding kids. Here's one about feeding me when I was little.
First of all, I was impossible to feed. After all my adult work experience, I would still describe myself as the pickiest kid I've ever encountered. To my advantage though, I was a polite child. If I was a guest in someone's home and they served me something disreputable, I would eat it anyhow and not say a word. My parents, somehow, managed to instill manners in me. (This trait came in handy many decades later while visiting my former roommate in Germany and having his mother serve me tenderloin of bunny; a food which was gourmet to them but that this Jewish, middle-class, urban, Ohioan was not prepared for. It wasn't bad, really. It's not the type of thing I crave today, but if it were served to me again, I'd eat it without any trepidation at all. Then again, I like escargot - separate story.) But anyhow, if it was my mother feeding me, forget it. I didn't like much of what she served.
Now, I'll readily admit that my mother wasn't a good cook... categorically. In fact, she stunk at it. I truly believe that's one reason I began cooking at age four when I would stand on the chair which I'd dragged to the stove, turn on the gas and make my own scrambled eggs, hamburgers, Chef Boyardee, etc. This is the truth. Imagine a four year old cooking like this. That was me. So perhaps my pickiness was a combination of two things: I truly do have weird taste buds and my mom couldn't make a decent meal. (By the way, today, I'm not at all disappointed over my mother's inability to cook when I was little. Nowadays, I know that everybody has strengths and weaknesses. Cooking was simply one of her weaknesses, nothing more, nothing less.) But the point is: both of these things were going on, so I was a child who didn't eat much.
If the butter or jelly wasn't spread all the way to the edges of the toast: problem. If the scrambled eggs were at all wet: problem. If the greens in the salad were anything other than iceberg: problem. If the cheese in the toasted cheese sandwich wasn't melted all the way: problem. If the noodle soup was anything other than Lipton's: problem. If we went out to get Chinese and they didn't also serve hamburgers and fries: problem. If the hot dog was anything other than Hebrew National: problem. If it was seafood, other than tuna or Mrs. Paul's fish sticks: BIG problem. You know what? I was a little asshole with a big obsessive-compulsive disorder. I probably wouldn't have been satisfied even if Martha Stewart were my personal chef.
With me it went way past corn and meatloaf not being allowed to touch on the plate. But I was a child, so there you go. Children eat for taste and texture. They don't eat for nutrition, or experience. An eight year old boy isn't going to say, "golly gosh mater, shan't we hurry with great vigor to experience some vegemite? It might be quite educational to eat the way those exotic citizens from down under do." With me it was fear of the unknown. I was extremely suspect the first time I was ever served pepperoni pizza. I still remember the day (separate story). Also, I ate (or not) to exhibit my control issues. Nothing new or unusual under the sun there either. I still remember the day my mother was determined to get me to try some crab (separate story). My mother couldn't win. But clearly I ate something when I was a kid or I wouldn't be here right now.
Do you remember the fifteen year old kid I cooked for last month? In my initial conversations with his guardian she told me how worried she was that he wasn't eating at all . I responded, "oh, yes he is eating. You just don't know about it. Fifteen year old boys, unless they're Anorexic, don't ever neglect to eat. They DO NOT go on hunger strikes. EVER!!! Trust me on this one." And, in fact, he was eating. As I must've been during my earliest years. I wasn't eating a healthy diet, Lord knows. But I was, in fact, eating. And, I grew into an adult who would gradually become a more adventurous eater. I'm still suspect about new foods, and I still prefer the tried and true. But look, I ate bunny tenderloin and didn't make any type of a scene. And I like escargot. So there!
Many of my blogs are about my experiences feeding kids. Here's one about feeding me when I was little.
First of all, I was impossible to feed. After all my adult work experience, I would still describe myself as the pickiest kid I've ever encountered. To my advantage though, I was a polite child. If I was a guest in someone's home and they served me something disreputable, I would eat it anyhow and not say a word. My parents, somehow, managed to instill manners in me. (This trait came in handy many decades later while visiting my former roommate in Germany and having his mother serve me tenderloin of bunny; a food which was gourmet to them but that this Jewish, middle-class, urban, Ohioan was not prepared for. It wasn't bad, really. It's not the type of thing I crave today, but if it were served to me again, I'd eat it without any trepidation at all. Then again, I like escargot - separate story.) But anyhow, if it was my mother feeding me, forget it. I didn't like much of what she served.
Now, I'll readily admit that my mother wasn't a good cook... categorically. In fact, she stunk at it. I truly believe that's one reason I began cooking at age four when I would stand on the chair which I'd dragged to the stove, turn on the gas and make my own scrambled eggs, hamburgers, Chef Boyardee, etc. This is the truth. Imagine a four year old cooking like this. That was me. So perhaps my pickiness was a combination of two things: I truly do have weird taste buds and my mom couldn't make a decent meal. (By the way, today, I'm not at all disappointed over my mother's inability to cook when I was little. Nowadays, I know that everybody has strengths and weaknesses. Cooking was simply one of her weaknesses, nothing more, nothing less.) But the point is: both of these things were going on, so I was a child who didn't eat much.
If the butter or jelly wasn't spread all the way to the edges of the toast: problem. If the scrambled eggs were at all wet: problem. If the greens in the salad were anything other than iceberg: problem. If the cheese in the toasted cheese sandwich wasn't melted all the way: problem. If the noodle soup was anything other than Lipton's: problem. If we went out to get Chinese and they didn't also serve hamburgers and fries: problem. If the hot dog was anything other than Hebrew National: problem. If it was seafood, other than tuna or Mrs. Paul's fish sticks: BIG problem. You know what? I was a little asshole with a big obsessive-compulsive disorder. I probably wouldn't have been satisfied even if Martha Stewart were my personal chef.
With me it went way past corn and meatloaf not being allowed to touch on the plate. But I was a child, so there you go. Children eat for taste and texture. They don't eat for nutrition, or experience. An eight year old boy isn't going to say, "golly gosh mater, shan't we hurry with great vigor to experience some vegemite? It might be quite educational to eat the way those exotic citizens from down under do." With me it was fear of the unknown. I was extremely suspect the first time I was ever served pepperoni pizza. I still remember the day (separate story). Also, I ate (or not) to exhibit my control issues. Nothing new or unusual under the sun there either. I still remember the day my mother was determined to get me to try some crab (separate story). My mother couldn't win. But clearly I ate something when I was a kid or I wouldn't be here right now.
Do you remember the fifteen year old kid I cooked for last month? In my initial conversations with his guardian she told me how worried she was that he wasn't eating at all . I responded, "oh, yes he is eating. You just don't know about it. Fifteen year old boys, unless they're Anorexic, don't ever neglect to eat. They DO NOT go on hunger strikes. EVER!!! Trust me on this one." And, in fact, he was eating. As I must've been during my earliest years. I wasn't eating a healthy diet, Lord knows. But I was, in fact, eating. And, I grew into an adult who would gradually become a more adventurous eater. I'm still suspect about new foods, and I still prefer the tried and true. But look, I ate bunny tenderloin and didn't make any type of a scene. And I like escargot. So there!
Monday, July 29, 2013
A Terribly Unhealthy Diet
Page One Hundred-Fourteen.
What's the most unhealthy series of things you've ever eaten during a short period? I mean, have you ever had a day or two when, for some reason, you ate only trash? Think Holden Caulfield. In Catcher In The Rye, there's a period of days when Holden basically lives on cigarettes and coffee. That simply isn't as healthy as eating your daily vegetables.
In the autumn of 2007 I went to Europe for a short vacation. One of my former roommates was German and I visited him, plus I stopped in to see Paris and Barcelona. Well, while I was in Paris, the entire country was undergoing a transit strike, so getting around was no small endeavor. (Thankfully, I'm a walker. On my first day I walked from my hostel to the Eiffel Thing and then all over the city: about ten miles.)
I'd arranged to be in Paris for two nights, three days, but the strike started on my second day there. So my plan to take the train to Barcelona on day three ended up being a problem. Being the eternal optimist, I officially postponed my train ride twenty-four hours and extended my hostel one night. Thankfully, they were able to put me up that extra night, but I had to switch rooms. Was I surprised when my new bunk mate was an older American lady? No more surprised than she. But we agreed that Paris loves to inflict it's moral code on others. If adult male and female strangers sharing bunk beds in a small, single hostel room was no big deal to Parisians, then, by golly, it would be no big deal to us. (And, in fact, she gave me some wonderful suggestions concerning my eventual days in Barcelona.)
So on day four, when I went to the train station and they said, "nope!", I promptly got miffed. They explained that those strikes, though usually quite short, can sometimes linger and this one was clearly going to be the latter. So, I was stranded in Paris, literally. Lemme tell ya, it isn't quite as happy as you'd think. I was really beginning to get pissed actually.
There were buses and trains running, barely. A skeleton crew drove when they could and after waiting an hour for a train to Orly airport, it finally showed up. It was packed and people were angry at me for taking up extra space with my backpack. After arriving at Orly, I investigated and discovered that I could get to Barcelona in only one hour if I paid one billion dollars or I could purchase a ticket for the next day at a substantially less fare. So I opted for the next day. Problem was, I was terrified to leave the airport for fear of not being able to get back again the next day. The situation really was that desperate in Paris. So... I spent twenty-four hours in Orly airport, starting at about noon. Incidentally, taxis were so busy, you absolutely couldn't get one, so that wasn't an option.
I had books and puzzles. I had my Walkman. I had no food. They sold food there, of course, but it was those same roast beef, turkey or chicken on baguettes that I'd grown sick of by that point. Really sick of. Those baguettes look so glamorous and romantic in the shop windows when you walk the Parisian streets on your first evening. But four days later,while stranded in the airport, they loose their luster. So for dinner that night I had the French version of a Dove Bar. And for breakfast the next morning: another Dove Bar. That's all I ate for twenty-four hours. And, when I landed in Barcelona and took the bus into the city I promptly walked into a Burger King and got two Whoppers and two orders of fries. (You see, I was hungry.)
So, I didn't really eat healthfully for that couple of days. However, I survived. I certainly wouldn't encourage anybody else to do it. Nor do I condone that type of behavior at all. But, it gave me the energy I needed to survive the next few hours when my hostel told me that they never received my reservations and had no room at the inn. But that's a separate story.
(For more on the German leg of this trip see page Forty-Two of this blog: My Most Memorable Meal.)
What's the most unhealthy series of things you've ever eaten during a short period? I mean, have you ever had a day or two when, for some reason, you ate only trash? Think Holden Caulfield. In Catcher In The Rye, there's a period of days when Holden basically lives on cigarettes and coffee. That simply isn't as healthy as eating your daily vegetables.
In the autumn of 2007 I went to Europe for a short vacation. One of my former roommates was German and I visited him, plus I stopped in to see Paris and Barcelona. Well, while I was in Paris, the entire country was undergoing a transit strike, so getting around was no small endeavor. (Thankfully, I'm a walker. On my first day I walked from my hostel to the Eiffel Thing and then all over the city: about ten miles.)
I'd arranged to be in Paris for two nights, three days, but the strike started on my second day there. So my plan to take the train to Barcelona on day three ended up being a problem. Being the eternal optimist, I officially postponed my train ride twenty-four hours and extended my hostel one night. Thankfully, they were able to put me up that extra night, but I had to switch rooms. Was I surprised when my new bunk mate was an older American lady? No more surprised than she. But we agreed that Paris loves to inflict it's moral code on others. If adult male and female strangers sharing bunk beds in a small, single hostel room was no big deal to Parisians, then, by golly, it would be no big deal to us. (And, in fact, she gave me some wonderful suggestions concerning my eventual days in Barcelona.)
So on day four, when I went to the train station and they said, "nope!", I promptly got miffed. They explained that those strikes, though usually quite short, can sometimes linger and this one was clearly going to be the latter. So, I was stranded in Paris, literally. Lemme tell ya, it isn't quite as happy as you'd think. I was really beginning to get pissed actually.
There were buses and trains running, barely. A skeleton crew drove when they could and after waiting an hour for a train to Orly airport, it finally showed up. It was packed and people were angry at me for taking up extra space with my backpack. After arriving at Orly, I investigated and discovered that I could get to Barcelona in only one hour if I paid one billion dollars or I could purchase a ticket for the next day at a substantially less fare. So I opted for the next day. Problem was, I was terrified to leave the airport for fear of not being able to get back again the next day. The situation really was that desperate in Paris. So... I spent twenty-four hours in Orly airport, starting at about noon. Incidentally, taxis were so busy, you absolutely couldn't get one, so that wasn't an option.
I had books and puzzles. I had my Walkman. I had no food. They sold food there, of course, but it was those same roast beef, turkey or chicken on baguettes that I'd grown sick of by that point. Really sick of. Those baguettes look so glamorous and romantic in the shop windows when you walk the Parisian streets on your first evening. But four days later,while stranded in the airport, they loose their luster. So for dinner that night I had the French version of a Dove Bar. And for breakfast the next morning: another Dove Bar. That's all I ate for twenty-four hours. And, when I landed in Barcelona and took the bus into the city I promptly walked into a Burger King and got two Whoppers and two orders of fries. (You see, I was hungry.)
So, I didn't really eat healthfully for that couple of days. However, I survived. I certainly wouldn't encourage anybody else to do it. Nor do I condone that type of behavior at all. But, it gave me the energy I needed to survive the next few hours when my hostel told me that they never received my reservations and had no room at the inn. But that's a separate story.
(For more on the German leg of this trip see page Forty-Two of this blog: My Most Memorable Meal.)
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
My Most Memorable Meal
Page Forty-Two.
What was the most memorable meal you've ever had in your life? Was it with a favorite relative or friend? Was it extraordinary food? Location? Circumstances?
I live in the Coventry neighborhood of Cleveland Heights. Coventry is very well known, almost famous, in Northeast Ohio as being a destination for young, hip kids. It's also the western edge of Case Western Reserve University's campus. I'm here 'cause I've lived in Cleveland Heights my entire life. So I didn't move here due to it's destination factor. I've also had roommates since about '99 or so. Some of my roommates have been Case students because of it's close proximity.
In May of '06, I received a phone call in response to an add I'd placed at CWRU's off-campus housing bureau. This call was from a fellow named Lutz. He was from Germany and would be in town for 11 months doing chemistry research at Case. Could he come by and see the room? He moved in two weeks later.
Lutz wasn't completely comfortable with English and was a bit introverted. But he was quite pleasant and intelligent. He was also VERY German. Rules and regiment were rather important to him... how quaint.
Within a few weeks of moving in, I realized how atrocious his cooking skills were. Clearly, his mother had taught him how to make five or six things and he made those things over and over again. When he made those things, it wasn't with panache and finesse either. His cooking style could be described as "with enough ketchup, anything is edible". I took great pity and started making him a nice dinner every Sunday. We'd sit, chat and eat together. Occasionally, during the eleven months, I'd inform him that he was taking me out to eat the following Sunday, He always aquiesced.
Over time we developed a nice friendship and enjoyed spending time together. I took him to Cedar Point, Niagara Falls, many parties, museums, the orchestra and so forth. I showed him many of Cleveland's sites. When he moved back home in April of '07, we just KNEW we'd stay in touch.
I quit my job at Fancy-Shmancy Nursing Home in the autumn of '06 and went to work at another nursing home for what I thought was the job opportunity of a lifetime. The new job lasted eight weeks. I would go on to be gainfully unemployed for a while. (Some might argue that I'm STILL gainfully unemployed. But that's another blog.)
In the summer of '07, I was visiting some of my favorite residents at Fancy-Shmancy and began talking with a Jamaican nurse's aid whom I'd been quite friendly with. (I'm notorious for staying in touch with former jobs with NO intention on ever going back. It confuses people to no end but I do it more than just about anybody you've ever met.) Gloria asked me what I was doing with all my time off. I told her that I did a LOT of creative writing and general hanging out. Also, Lorna and Dune hired me to do some part-time nannying to their two teenaged girls (see page three of this blog). "Jeremy, you're the type of person who I could see backpacking around. To have this much free time, you should be off traveling and seeing distant lands. That's who you are." So, I decided to go to Europe and visit Lutz. I made the decision that fast, in spite of the fact that I'm really not a spontaneous person.
Now, I was mostly broke and futureless. But I figured that I'd rather be mostly broke and futureless while standing at the top of the Eiffel Tower than having coffee on Coventry Road in Cleveland Heights. That logic works in my universe.
So I contacted Lutz and made arrangements to meet him in Deutchland in November for a week. (I'd then do Paris and Barcelona by myself for another week.) His responsive e-mails were very welcoming. I landed in Berlin and promptly got lost twice prior to actually seeing his overly-tall, Aryan figure. I won't tell you all my adventures in Europe, of which there were many, but instead, my most memorable meal.
Lutz told me that the German national dish is a type of sausage, cut into pieces, served with fries. That was their hamburger or hot dog. He asked all his friends and associates where in the WHOLE country he could give me the best. One day when we were back in Berlin, after being elsewhere for a few days, we went out for the day. It was cold, gray, rainy, gloomy and gross. We took seventy-five different buses and walked another eighty miles that day, all in the cold rain. We saw tons of sights and thousands of things. (He still hasn't forgiven me for stealing part of a sidewalk. Separate story.)
So we're walking and walking and eventually come to a bridge. Built under this bridge, is a walk up food stand. There was one window, where you placed your order, then next to the window was a ledge with ketchup, mustard and napkins. The ledge was protected by an overhang about one foot deep. So you could also eat off the ledge, but you were truly open to the elements.We ended up at the bridge because, again. one of his co-workers told him this was THE BEST in the country. So we're standing there, outside, in the rain, in the cold, eating sausage and fries. Honestly, I thought the sausage was good. It reminded me of a slightly bland kosher hot dog, without the bun, of course; but the fries, those fries were the best I've ever had in my life. they were extraordianary.
In retrospect, I'll bet you anything that those fries were fried up in lard, but who cares. Sometimes you have to live. And, when you're eating french fries outside in the cold and rain it's perfectly okay if they're the best fries in the world. And, they were.
That was my lifetime's most memorable meal. I hope to get back to Germany to visit again. Perhaps soon. We'll see. But when I go back, I don't want to eat outside in the cold and rain again. But I may steal more of their sidewalks. (Their paving material was sooooo cool.)
What was the most memorable meal you've ever had in your life? Was it with a favorite relative or friend? Was it extraordinary food? Location? Circumstances?
I live in the Coventry neighborhood of Cleveland Heights. Coventry is very well known, almost famous, in Northeast Ohio as being a destination for young, hip kids. It's also the western edge of Case Western Reserve University's campus. I'm here 'cause I've lived in Cleveland Heights my entire life. So I didn't move here due to it's destination factor. I've also had roommates since about '99 or so. Some of my roommates have been Case students because of it's close proximity.
In May of '06, I received a phone call in response to an add I'd placed at CWRU's off-campus housing bureau. This call was from a fellow named Lutz. He was from Germany and would be in town for 11 months doing chemistry research at Case. Could he come by and see the room? He moved in two weeks later.
Lutz wasn't completely comfortable with English and was a bit introverted. But he was quite pleasant and intelligent. He was also VERY German. Rules and regiment were rather important to him... how quaint.
Within a few weeks of moving in, I realized how atrocious his cooking skills were. Clearly, his mother had taught him how to make five or six things and he made those things over and over again. When he made those things, it wasn't with panache and finesse either. His cooking style could be described as "with enough ketchup, anything is edible". I took great pity and started making him a nice dinner every Sunday. We'd sit, chat and eat together. Occasionally, during the eleven months, I'd inform him that he was taking me out to eat the following Sunday, He always aquiesced.
Over time we developed a nice friendship and enjoyed spending time together. I took him to Cedar Point, Niagara Falls, many parties, museums, the orchestra and so forth. I showed him many of Cleveland's sites. When he moved back home in April of '07, we just KNEW we'd stay in touch.
I quit my job at Fancy-Shmancy Nursing Home in the autumn of '06 and went to work at another nursing home for what I thought was the job opportunity of a lifetime. The new job lasted eight weeks. I would go on to be gainfully unemployed for a while. (Some might argue that I'm STILL gainfully unemployed. But that's another blog.)
In the summer of '07, I was visiting some of my favorite residents at Fancy-Shmancy and began talking with a Jamaican nurse's aid whom I'd been quite friendly with. (I'm notorious for staying in touch with former jobs with NO intention on ever going back. It confuses people to no end but I do it more than just about anybody you've ever met.) Gloria asked me what I was doing with all my time off. I told her that I did a LOT of creative writing and general hanging out. Also, Lorna and Dune hired me to do some part-time nannying to their two teenaged girls (see page three of this blog). "Jeremy, you're the type of person who I could see backpacking around. To have this much free time, you should be off traveling and seeing distant lands. That's who you are." So, I decided to go to Europe and visit Lutz. I made the decision that fast, in spite of the fact that I'm really not a spontaneous person.
Now, I was mostly broke and futureless. But I figured that I'd rather be mostly broke and futureless while standing at the top of the Eiffel Tower than having coffee on Coventry Road in Cleveland Heights. That logic works in my universe.
So I contacted Lutz and made arrangements to meet him in Deutchland in November for a week. (I'd then do Paris and Barcelona by myself for another week.) His responsive e-mails were very welcoming. I landed in Berlin and promptly got lost twice prior to actually seeing his overly-tall, Aryan figure. I won't tell you all my adventures in Europe, of which there were many, but instead, my most memorable meal.
Lutz told me that the German national dish is a type of sausage, cut into pieces, served with fries. That was their hamburger or hot dog. He asked all his friends and associates where in the WHOLE country he could give me the best. One day when we were back in Berlin, after being elsewhere for a few days, we went out for the day. It was cold, gray, rainy, gloomy and gross. We took seventy-five different buses and walked another eighty miles that day, all in the cold rain. We saw tons of sights and thousands of things. (He still hasn't forgiven me for stealing part of a sidewalk. Separate story.)
So we're walking and walking and eventually come to a bridge. Built under this bridge, is a walk up food stand. There was one window, where you placed your order, then next to the window was a ledge with ketchup, mustard and napkins. The ledge was protected by an overhang about one foot deep. So you could also eat off the ledge, but you were truly open to the elements.We ended up at the bridge because, again. one of his co-workers told him this was THE BEST in the country. So we're standing there, outside, in the rain, in the cold, eating sausage and fries. Honestly, I thought the sausage was good. It reminded me of a slightly bland kosher hot dog, without the bun, of course; but the fries, those fries were the best I've ever had in my life. they were extraordianary.
In retrospect, I'll bet you anything that those fries were fried up in lard, but who cares. Sometimes you have to live. And, when you're eating french fries outside in the cold and rain it's perfectly okay if they're the best fries in the world. And, they were.
That was my lifetime's most memorable meal. I hope to get back to Germany to visit again. Perhaps soon. We'll see. But when I go back, I don't want to eat outside in the cold and rain again. But I may steal more of their sidewalks. (Their paving material was sooooo cool.)
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