Pandemic Living has caused me to commit more than my usual number of fashion crimes. I apologize in advance….
Exhibit A
Exhibit B
Exhibit C
Exhibit D
As a public service and to cleanse your palate so you can sleep tonight, I present this amazing little creature, found during my dog walk yesterday:
Everybody needs a mom. Image credit here.
Mom greets me at the door with life-changing news: She has ordered green-lipped mussel oil!
“Larry King uses it.”
Mom’s intentions are golden. She is going to cure a family member of a chronic illness. She has found the solution the doctors have missed. I am to learn all about the oil from her and then deliver it to the intended recipient along with the proper instructions.
We sit together, and I listen.
“Here, read the booklet.”
I read the booklet. I open the jar and sniff. I think about popping a capsule into my mouth and biting it when a vision intrudes, and I change my mind. A sea of terrified faces implores me with countless sets of tiny green lips. The word “lips” has personalized the creatures whose juices I am about to suck.
“And it comes with this DVD.”
“Well, that is very thoughtful of you, Mom.”
“All the way from New Zealand!”
“I see.”
“Now make sure Susan takes the oil each day for 30 days so I can call and have the next shipment cancelled if it doesn’t help. Well…they might have already sent the second shipment by then, so I would just have to cancel the third one. I gave them my credit card, you know.”
“Have you mentioned this to Susan? I really think you should discuss this with Susan.”
“They say 4-6 capsules daily for the first 30 days but I think that’s too much. Just tell her to take 2-4.”
(sigh)
The following day, I get up early and make breakfast. After that, I squire my Mom to Sunday school and church. My stepfather Seamus takes us all out for a hearty lunch. Following a gorgeous walk with my husband Henry, the family eats a dinner prepared by my sister, Gwen. We make sure–Gwen, Henry, and I–to be kind, attentive, and helpful throughout. Mom is a big talker, and we listen actively and respectfully. She has stored up many words and opinions, and the pressure has to be released. What is Wrong with the World Today receives special attention. We take care of all of the cooking and washing up.
At long last, it is time for me to curl up and introvert. Luscious!
“Jane, are you ready to watch the DVD about the mussels?”
Uh oh.
“Actually, Mom, I think I’ll pass.”
(exhales loudly) “Well, I’m surprised at you, Jane! Why not? This could be the key to Susan’s recovery.”
“It would feel like work Mom. And I’ll be taking the DVD to Susan anyway. I think I’d rather relax.”
(huffs) “Well, I bet Henry would like to watch it with me.”
He takes one for the team. I owe him big time.
Mom produces a page-and-a-half of yellow legal paper. She has handwritten a recipe she has been wanting to try.
“Here is the tuna casserole recipe. Thank you so much for doing this. I really need to lie down for a bit.”
“Sure, Mom! Happy to!”
Mom is worn out. She wanders over to the sofa for a nap. Mom is thrilled that we have finally come to visit but entertaining is exhausting. Who knows what we might get up to if she isn’t there to assist? Did I mention that Henry is 53, I am 52, and Gwen is 50? Mom is…it would not be polite to tell you, now would it?
Mom starts to drift off to sleep. But for the sounds of cooking and the subdued drone of the news channel, the house falls silent.
Following her directions religiously, I place the flaked tuna in the bottom of the pan and dribble the lemon juice–fresh squeezed!–over it. The shredded cheese, peas, and cooked noodles are mixed together and stand off to the side, waiting. I am halfway through cooking the sauce.
The silence does not last long. I feel a disturbance in the air and–
“Did you sprinkle the lemon juice over the tuna?”
“Yes. I used fresh lemons like you said to.”
“How much did you use?”
“The recipe didn’t give an amount. I just guessed.”
Mom’s gaze releases the Pyrex pan and fixates on the stove top.
“I think you are going to have to double that sauce recipe. It doesn’t look like you have enough to cover everything going into the pan.”
“Ok, Mom. No problem.”
I double the sauce recipe, and Mom disappears around the corner. For a moment.
Gwen enters the kitchen with a basket of dirty laundry. She turns the washer knob, activating a siren call. Mom materializes.
“Be sure not to overfill the washer.”
“Ok, Mom.”
“Here, let me. I want to make sure the load is balanced.”
“Ok, Mom.”
“Now remember. Once the washer fills, you have to use this plunger to push the clothes below the water level.”
(sigh) “I’m not going to do that, Mom.”
Gwen and I engage our psychic connection.
“No, really. You want to be sure the clothes are good and wet so they get clean.”
(silent lip biting)
“Just stand here and wait for it to fill so you can plunge it.”
(silent lip biting + rapid eye blinking + quivering nostrils.)
My mother is providing instructions in the use of her top-quality, high-capacity machine in excellent condition.
My mother is providing instructions in the use of a washing machine to her top-quality, high-capacity daughter in adult condition.
Mom pads out of the kitchen and back to the sofa. Gwen is watching the washer fill. I am crushing potato chips for the top of the casserole. We feel the pressure of each other’s eyeballs, look up, and silently message one another.
The washer has filled and begins to agitate. Gwen is not-plunging, and the sound of not-plunging pierces the air.
The end of the world still has not come. Gwen leaves the laundry room and steps around the corner. I relax and begin to arrange my potato-chip blanket.
The washer lid flies open. Plunging happens.
Mom, risen from the dead, has sneaked behind me to save the load of laundry and the future of the Western world.
Satisfied, she starts for the sofa a third time. But first, she checks my work.
“Are you sure you have crushed enough potato chips? I think you need more.”
Exit Mom. Enter Gwen.
(stage whispers above the kitchen noises) “Mom was plunging.”
“No!”
“She was. She was plunging.”
We are wound too tightly. We have swallowed exasperation, suppressed disrespect, spared feelings, and avoided mutiny. We have painted ourselves into a corner, and there is only one way out.
Gwen and I lock eyes in agreement.
I begin first. I bob my head like a chicken to the rhythm of the washer. Gwen joins in, swaying. We dance tentatively at first. Naughty snickers escape our lips. Shh, Mom is trying to sleep! Shhhhhh!
Soon we are stepping, gyrating, and waving our arms, our tribal dance growing in fervor. Pig snorts and raspberries escape in spite of tightly clenched lips.
We can’t stop, and we don’t want to.
By the time Mom rounds the bend a fourth time, our recovery is nigh.
Mommy! She laughs at us and with us. Mom is as she always was, though we may have to work a bit harder to find her. In the end, it is a small price we pay, a light yoke we bear, to uphold this sacred trust. It is our honor to protect her from inconsequence.
Postscript.: In my last post, I promised I’d publish a shout-out to the first person to guess the rationale behind my naming of a particular silly photo. The winner was Elaine Hill of Burtonsville, MD. She correctly guessed that the woman had not yet been “deflowered.”
Is green-lipped mussel oil is any good? I don’t know. Do Olympic athletes use it? I have no idea! But apparently a good number of Olympians trust Shaklee nutritional products. I know this because I became curious after talking with Elaine, and I did a bit of googling. Elaine is a Shaklee distributor, by the way, and she seems to know her stuff. Feel free to stop by her website and pick her brain.
Just so you know–I am not affiliated with Shaklee, and I have not been compensated for this mention.
I “borrowed” this from this blogger. I hope that is ok. If not, please let me know and I will take it down. You see, I AM really a cheater!
I stole this one from another blog. Sue me.
No, no! Don’t! Just ask me to remove it.
I want to thank my peers for the attention they have given to my blog this week! I both love and hate you.
I am ever so stoked about the kind words and the traffic on my site. At the same time, I think the excitement is making me a bit weird. I’m an introvert who needs a lot of solitude in order to be worth knowing. All those pings and dings rocked my world until I started to become overstimulated.
I realized I was in trouble when I woke up last night to use the bathroom and interrupted myself in the middle of a dream about a conspiracy by Canadian pennies to ruin the U.S. economy.
They were sneaking over the border unnoticed the way ants reconnoiter a kitchen. The idea was for the scouts to infiltrate and for all the other pennies to follow in a steady trail until Canadian pennies spilled out of every unsuspecting purse and gummed up every vending machine, thereby causing the U.S. financial system to collapse.
What might be even more concerning is the fact that I was so worried I would forget this dream that I grabbed the only writing implement handy (my kohl pencil) and jotted a short note on the only available surface (my dental floss container). To tell the whole truth, I wanted to write on the mirror, but my husband Henry would have noticed for sure and questioned my sanity.
I had to write it twice. I was so tired that my first attempt came out looking like “Prunies,” and I was afraid I would wake up the next morning with no idea what that meant.
Because of my limited bandwidth, I have decided 1. to respond to both of these nominations in one post, 2. take a break from accepting awards and nominations, and 3. save time by making up my own rules so that I don’t have to quit my day job to work on my blog. (I am grossly exaggerating for effect. Did you like it? I really have only 85 followers.)
Without further delay….
Many thanks to Mogromo for nominating me for the Creative Blogger Award. If you are reading this, I hope you will visit her blog! She’s not just another pretty face. Mogromo will take you on a tour of Frankfurt, complete with quality photos and personal observations. It’s the next best thing to being there. You will be in good hands as she enjoys researching her subjects and sharing her learning. Mogromo’s blog also assuages some of my homesickness for a city I love but have not been able to visit since 2004. I am pretty sure she will be taking us to Amsterdam at some point (Mogromo, is this so?), so don’t miss the adventure!
The award calls for 5 random facts about me. Here they are–except they are actually three truths and two lies. Can you spot the lies? Make your guess and I will answer in a couple of days. (as of 8/11/15, answers are at the bottom)
Here are the original rules:
* Display the Creative Blogger Award logo on your blog.
* Nominate 15-20 blogs and notify all nominees via their social media/blogs.
* Thank and post the link of the blog that nominated you.
* Share 5 random facts about yourself to your readers.
* Pass these rules on to them.
I nominate the following blogs/bloggers for this award. They may choose to follow the rules. Or not!
I would also like to thank Bumbi’s Mom for nominating me for the Ten Things You Didn’t Know About Me Challenge. I’m just getting to know her blog, in which she shares amusing parenting stories and some helpful tips. I hope you will pop over and have a look. Ahhh, I remember those sweet and sticky days of young children….I suspect the next time I have those experiences will be with grandchildren. (Note to my daughters: No rush, ok?)
Here are the rules she provided:
Again, I’m going to cheat and just answer her even numbered questions. You’ll be annoyed in short order because a one-word answer feels too limiting.
2. Favorite genre of music? My tastes are eclectic. For example, I like baroque music, some classical, The B52s, The Pretenders, bhangra, some Christian worship songs. I try different things just because I’m curious. Even if I’m not a total fan, I like to know what’s out there. I have told you that I am easily overstimulated. Since I work full time and live in a lively household, I often prefer silence when it is an option.
4. First concert you ever went to? I went to many classical music concerts as a child, but I don’t think that is what Bumbi’s Mom meant. I think my first concert as a teen was Amy Grant.
6. If you could have any job in the world, what would you want to do? I’m doing it: Wife, Mother, Therapist. I hope one day to have an essay or a short something published–at least once–so I can add Writer 🙂
8. Mountains or beach? If I can’t be back on the shores of Madeline Island prior to the 1990’s, then it would have to be the mountains.
10. Train, plane, or automobile? First choice: my own two feet. Second would be train. Third would be plane. Fourth would be automobile. I life in an area of the country vying for the title of Worst Traffic Nightmare, so I’d love to spend fewer hours behind the wheel of my car.
I hereby nominate the following bloggers to answer 10 questions (or however many they would like) if they choose to participate.
Here are the questions:
Thanks for reading! I’ll talk to you soon!
Answers to Three Truths and Two Lies:
1. True: I do wear glasses.
2. True: I wear green paisley Birkenstocks.
3. False: I do not wear nail decals. I rarely even file or paint my nails. Clipper are fine with me. I am clearly missing some sort of womanly gene in the area of grooming.
4. True: I break can openers by squeezing them too hard.
5. False: NO. I do not wear a bikini. Do you know how much therapy people would need if I did that??!!
We do math, together. It is a fun family pastime. In fact, it is a Family Rule*.
Geometry is our favorite. Because WE. LOVE. TRIANGLES.
Geometry can be a great family activity. You might want to try it yourself! I’ll type out some of our math problems for you so you can get the hang of it.
I.
The phone rings. It’s my mother.
Mom: Have you heard from your sister lately?
Me: Not since last week. Why?
Mom: Oh. It’s just that she seemed so angry. I was hoping you had resolved things.
Me: Gwen’s angry at me?
II.
The phone rings. Gwen picks up.
Me: Gwen! What’s going on? Mom said you were mad at me.
Gwen: She wasn’t supposed to tell you.
Me: Why are you mad at me?
Gwen: I can’t talk now. I have to call Mom.
III.
The phone rings. My mother picks up.
Gwen: Mom, what did you tell Jane?
Mom: I did not tell her about the restaurant thing.
Gwen: Mom! That was a private conversation!
Mom: You know she didn’t mean to. She can be insensitive but it’s not her fault. She inherited it from your father. You should just forgive her.
Gwen: Mom!
IV.
The phone rings. It’s my mother.
Mom: Your sister is mad at me. What did you tell her?
Me: Well, you told me she was mad at me. I just called her to find out what was going on.
Mom: I know she can be a bit dramatic but she can’t help it. It’s her artistic temperament. Just let it go.
Me: Mom!
(Translation is included, gratis, for the uninitiated. Take it with a grain of salt—Seamus is actually a really good person.)
The phone rings. It’s my stepfather, Seamus.
Seamus: Hi, Jane. It’s Seamus. Your Mom’s fine. How are you?
This is not an emergency. This is a friendly chat.
Me: Hi Seamus. I’m fine. How about you?
A friendly chat is good.
Seamus: Fine, thanks.
Chatting.
Me: Great!
Chatting.
Seamus: I mowed the lawn today.
Watch how I subtly steer this conversation.
Me: Uh.
And I scratched my bum.
Seamus: And I weeded the garden.
I’ve got this.
Me: That’s nice.
Scratching.
Seamus: I picked up the mail too. And bought milk.
Because I am a good person.
Me:
You may have one gold star.
Seamus: Don’t worry about your mom. I’m taking good care of her.
Because I am a really good person.
Me: That’s great. I appreciate it.
I smell a rat.
Seamus: We haven’t heard from you in a while.
Your mother feels neglected.
Me: I called Mom last week. And you know, I told her to call me on my cell any time but she—
That’s not fair!
Seamus: You need to call your mother.
So she will stop sighing loudly.
Me: Uh, ok. I’ll do that.
Grrr.
Seamus: Actually, she’s just right outside feeding the birds. I’ll get her.
I am a hero.
Me:
Punked!
Seamus: Carol! Carol! Jane called for you!
I’ll even let Jane take the credit!
Mom: Jane! How wonderful to hear from you!
Jane! How wonderful to hear from you!
Me: Sure, Mom. How are you?
Sigh.
Gwen and I have had a lot of therapy over the years, and we are graduating from triangles to lines and rays. Conversation is a lot more efficient these days but nowhere near as fun.
I.
The phone rings. It’s my mother.
Mom: Hi Jane! Have you heard anything from your sister lately?
Me: Nope. Bye.
II.
The phone rings. It’s Gwen.
Gwen: I’m mad at you, and I don’t want to talk to you.
Me: Ok. Bye.
III.
The phone rings. My mother picks up.
Gwen: Hi Mom! Jane and I had a fight but we worked it out.
Mom: Then why are you calling me? Bye.
IV.
The phone rings. It’s my mother.
Mom: I miss you.
Me: Well, then! I’m so glad you called!
This post is part of Family Rules. For the prior post in the series, click here.
Aunt MiMi was a party in a pale blue pantsuit.
Aunt MiMi had been quite the social butterfly in her younger years, and age hadn’t made much of a dent in her sparkle. Oh, how she loved entertaining! I remember many a holiday dinner around her dining room table. In warm weather, she and Uncle Stanly strung lanterns above their flagstone patio. While the adults drank martinis under the shade of giant oaks and poplars, we children explored the tiny paths among her shrubs and ferns, looking for pixies and blue jay feathers. A large mirrored ball peeked mysteriously from a dense clump of azaleas in the middle of her back yard—a sure sign that magic was at hand.
Aunt MiMi, who lived happily to the age of 100, is remembered for many things. Here are just a few of them chosen random:
-her love of every type of shiny bling and bauble
-her “Kiss My Grits!” apron
-the way she did handstands and leg-wrestled nieces and nephews until she was in her 70’s
-her refusal to get rid of her original black bakelite rotary phone with the fabric cord up until she was forced to move into a nursing home in the late 90’s
-her habit of feeding peanuts (Planters or bust!) to the squirrels from her back steps
-the fact that she was able to convince my father to let me and Gwen pierce our ears after he had proclaimed it “bodily mutilation”
But today I’d like to draw your attention to an Aunt MiMi achievement and Family Rule she modestly referred to as “My Famous Dip.” She served it at every one of her gatherings.
When Aunt MiMi got to the point that hosting became too arduous, she upped her game. She came to every gather bearing—in her own words—“a tractor-trailer load” of this manna. At some point, my mother had developed a love-hate relationship with this dip. For us kids, the dip was the meal. The relationship was all love. Ruffles made great shovels, and shovel we did. By the time dinner was ready, we burped our way to the table in a queasy daze and declined all offerings until dessert.
I’m pretty sure the dip originated as someone else’s proprietary recipe but the trail has long since grown cold. I’m passing the recipe along to you, so please forgive me if the culinary equivalent of the mattress tag police come knocking at your door.
Aunt MiMi’s Famous Dip
(Best when made the day ahead. Can be frozen.)
One 8 oz. pkg. Philadelphia cream cheese
1/2 cup Hellmann’s mayonnaise
1 hard boiled egg, finely chopped
2 TB onion, finely minced
1 clove garlic, minced
1/4 cup minced parsley
dash of pepper
Mix well. Refrigerate.
Enjoy!
This post is part of Family Rules. For the prior post in the series, click here. For the next post, click here.
As previously mentioned, this Family Rule is called Everything German is Better. German, I say.
When my mother remarried after my father’s death, she mutinied abruptly and shamelessly. And she has never looked back.
Mom married a third-generation Irish-American and became an overnight evangelist for all things Irish. She eats soda bread. She reads Maeve Binchy and Frank McCourt. Mom reads up on Irish folklore and history. She named her puppy Finn McCool, for the love of God. My Mom started buying shamrocks and Beleek china and became more Irish than my stepfather’s entire family combined. Before the marriage, while drunk on romance, she visited Ireland and kissed the Blarney Stone. She came home bearing gifts to soften us up: wool sweaters for us and kilts for the children. Mom tried hard to convert us but we weren’t buying. Nope.
There are many fine things about Ireland but that is not the point! The family rule is GERMAN is better, Mom, GERMAN. Get with the program. Ach du liebes Bißchen! So eine Scheiße! I don’t really need to translate that, do I?
So on that happy note, I offer you the last in a series of four pieces on what exactly IS better. Or at least what we enjoyed when we lived in 1970s Germany. We hated to return home to such a young and uncouth country, and we lamented it in a stage whisper every chance we got. This way we got a lot of attention, which was, of course, the point. Right? Yes–we were just that cool. By the way, don’t trip over my Dachshund and my authentic German Birkenstocks in your rush to escape….
Image courtesy of Hebi65
36. Scrubbing your front steps: pastime of German grannies everywhere. If I can stereotype for a moment: Germans can be super clean and orderly. It was common in my childhood to see old women scrubbing down the front steps of their houses as part of their morning chores.
Imago courtesy of JaBB
37. Spätzele. Small, lumpy egg noodles. You can buy them ready to cook but my friend Margarete makes them by dropping a blob of the thick batter on a small board and using a knife or wooden blade to scrape it off into boiling water one tiny bit at a time. She is a real pro and moves like lightning!
Image courtesy of Gerbil
38. Lighted candles on the Christmas tree. Yes, I suspect some are still doing it. Beautiful. Magical. And probably the stuff of VFD nightmares.
Image courtesy of traude
39. Logic. As a whole, the Volk is not warm and fuzzy. But it works for them.
Image courtesy of OpenClips
40. Punctuality. No ifs, no ands–or you got your butt handed to you.
Image courtesy of geralt
41. Order (Ordnung!) This, logic, and punctuality fit in well with my Dad’s worldview. The word trinity comes to mind. But this emphasis didn’t always sit so well with the rest of us. See a pattern here? If not, please see this Family Rule and then treat yourself to a good stiff drink on me. I don’t think I have ever known my father so happy or our family life so calm and orderly as when we lived in Deutschland!
Image courtesy of Eva K.
42. Apple wine. Pucker up! You might have to be a Frankfurter to appreciate it fully. Drink it ice cold or your brain will implode. Great with Schnitzel. Shown above in the mandatory Bembel (pitcher).
Image courtesy of GS1Brasil
43. Shower gel. We were using it in Germany waaaay before the U.S. even thought of it.
Image courtesy of Kuchen
44. Clogs. So what if they were not strictly German? We adored them and how we click-clacked around town. I proudly wore my white Swedish clogs my entire 9th grade year after returning to the US. People gave up heckling me because I wore them with such confidence (read: oblivion to fashion). Ha, ha! Clogs became popular in the U.S. when I was in about 11th grade but mine were better. Nanny, nanny, boo boo.
Image courtesy of sechtem
45. Daily shopping. No need to clutter up the kitchen with a month’s worth of hermetically sealed foods. If you shop each day for fresh food, you only need a dorm-sized box. Also cool–many small, family-run stores. This is changing but back then there were many, many of these shops, each of which handled only a small niche: baker, butcher, coffee shop, etc.
Image courtesy of lheofacker
46. Mittagspause (afternoon rest). This is probably changing too but most people, including those working in little family-run shops, dropped everything each afternoon from 1-3 for a hot meal and a break. Makes sense since the midday meal is the big meal of the day. Dinner is the time for light fare.
Image courtesy of Jonathan Billinger
47. Plums. Italian plums were the only plums I knew there. So mouth-wateringly scrumptious.
Image courtesy of Томасина
48. Dogs. Germans love their dogs, and the stereotype of the Dachshund is accurate. You can probably still see the little hounds sitting under restaurant tables where they wait obediently for their masters to finish a leisurely meal. Restaurant meals could last a long time. Once you sat down at table, it was yours until you choose to leave–even if you closed the place out. Restaurants weren’t just a place to fill your belly. They became your living room. I don’t know if it is still the same way now. Anybody?
I think that is more than enough data from my informal study of German, well, supercalifragilisticexpialadocious…ness? Thanks for hanging in there with me. I may devote a future post to the stuff which was not so savory.
This post is part of Family Rules. For the prior post in the series, click here. For the next post, click here.
Image courtesy of Shane Adams
My family loved dogs. We even involved them in our pranks.
One year while my family was having dinner at my mother’s house, the conversation drifted to the topic of her Chihuahua. Bella made it her habit to camp out under the table so as not to miss any falling goodies.
Bella was a licker. She was the smartest and most affectionate little dog, and this was how she showed love. Given the chance, Bella would more or less bathe you. Having grown up around dogs, this had never bothered me. In fact, it was kind of comforting.
Come to think of it, I could feel her starting on my right foot. How sweet! It was as if she had known I was talking about her.
I bent down to peek under the tablecloth only to see one daughter’s tiny face grinning back. I screamed without thinking and nearly fell backwards out of my chair. Victory!
Another time at that same table, I switched a different daughter’s eggroll for a rolled up piece of basted rawhide. It took her a few minutes of perplexity before she gave up with a scowl. Meanwhile, the rest of us were fighting back snorts. She was about as outraged as a four year old could be.
And so it goes. Some of the most embarrassing moments provide some of the best laughs later.
In keeping with the canine theme, I want to admit to you that not all of my tricks were so nice. Of course I chased my tail, begged, and rolled over. Those performances were expected and rewarded. But when the leash was off, I growled, menaced, and bit. I fed Kendra Patrick cubes of Camay soap dipped in dark chocolate. I dumped a spade full of gravel into the mouth of my trusting sister after an inviting sing-song intro: “Close your eyes and open your mouth…” There were so many nasties over the years. So many.
Who was the fool here?
This dog.
Are you laughing?
I’m not.
After many years of returning to my own vomit, I made a decision. If I’m going to be a fool, I’m going to go for broke. I’d rather be a Fool than a Bitch.
I have given my life to Christ, and He is slowly reforming my shit-eating ways. I will be a fool for Him.
For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. (I Corinthians 1:18, NIV)
This is how I want to live—unashamed of the Gospel.
For I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God that brings salvation to everyone who believes: first to the Jew, then to the Gentile. (Romans 1:18, NIV )
If I am honest, I must say: This is how I want to want to live. Sometimes I want it actively. Sometimes I work to want to want it. But in my heart, I know what Christ has done—and is doing—for me, and I can’t unknow it.
This is no joke.
This Family Rule must be understand in a very flexible way. In my family, “German” meant everything related to our years in 1970s Germany. If you lived in my house, you absorbed the fact that living like a German was the best way a person could live. If you were a visitor in our home, you knew you were in the presence of some pretty darn special people!
Here are some things–or ways of doing things–whose Germanness clearly kicked the butt of Americanness. Boy, there were so many things which were better. Germany would have beaten the U.S. in Rock, Paper, Scissors each and every time. And since we understood these things, maybe we were superior beings?
In no particular order, I present the first twelve testaments to German awesomeness. Drumroll, please…
Photo courtesy of A. Kniesel
1. Nutella. O.M.G. We were eating it by the pound before you American dumb-dumbs even knew it existed.
Photo courtesy of MPD01605 on Flickr
2. Drinks in bags. Ditto, American slackers. I was drinking bagged Capri Suns before you were even born.
Photo courtesy of Thomas Rosenau
3. Haribo Gummi Bears. Same story, third verse. Also, gummi colas, gummi worms…you name it!
Photo courtesy of Maddox74
4. Playmobil.
Photo courtesy of Hans
5. Steiff stuffed animals. Yup.
Photo courtesy of EME
6. German bread. From fluffy to crispy to scour-your-anus-good. Just add BUTTER.
Blutwurst photo courtesy of Roberto Verzo
7. Sausage. So. Many. Kinds. Of. Heaven. (I swore never to try Blutwurst but I ate it once by accident. Part of me wanted to stick my finger down my throat. Part of me wanted more.)
Photo courtesy of capl@washjeff.edu
8. Cheese. We only had, what…American, Swiss, and Cheddar back in those dark ages?
Image courtesy of Wikimedia
9. Ikea. Who cares if it isn’t actually German? We used to go to shop at Ikea in Germany, before it came to the US. I would live in Ikea if I could.
Photo courtesy of capl@washjeff.edu
10. Wooden toys. No plastic crap for us. No siree!
Photo courtesy of High Contrast
11. Coffee. My parents were partial to Tchibo, which they drank with a drop of Bärenmarke evaporated milk.
Photo courtesy of Mysid
12. Chocolate. No surprises there, especially in the 70’s. I think Ritter Sport with rum, raisins and hazelnuts was my childhood fave. Also epic: Kinderschokolade eggs with build-it-yourself toys inside. Some of the toys were quite involved. The surprise and the engineering behind them was magic.
Stay tuned for more worship–uh, I mean, sharing. In the meantime, you might want to check out fellow blogger Aaron Schilling, who is writing fun and very authentic bits about the unfolding of his intensive German experience.
This post is part of Family Rules. For the prior post, click here. For the next post, click here.
I think you would have enjoyed being a visitor to my childhood home. As a guest, you would have been constitutionally incapable of doing wrong. It wouldn’t have been much of a stretch to proclaim, as in the old days of customer service, “The customer is always right!” Unlike the rest of us, you would not have been expected to be on-call
and maintenance-free.
When Dad was “on,” he was charming, thoughtful, and generous. In his gaiety, he would have spared no effort to make you comfortable in his court. I like that wording. Dad would have spared no effort of ours to make you comfortable.
While he piddled and we played, Mom shopped, cleaned and cooked in preparation. It must have been like shoveling against the tide. Our role in this performance came later when we were expected to portray Three Well-Bred Offspring and entertain you on demand by speaking German phrases, playing the piano, and sometimes–literally–performing a song and dance.
When I was small, I pretty much went with the program. What choice did I have? I delivered as well as I could, given my introverted temperament.
I may have been as old as 14 or 15 the last time my father instructed me to go downstairs and play the piano for our guests. I was to leave the door open so that everyone could enjoy my offerings as they wafted up into the living room.
My mind and body refused to comply. I am not even sure it was a matter of conscious choice. I felt sick. Piano lessons had been his idea. I wasn’t invested, and I hadn’t practiced in ages.
I smiled wanly, opened the door, walked calmly down the stairs, escaped out the back door, and took off running. I spent hours wandering the neighborhood, contemplating the punishment that awaited me once I returned. By some unprecedented stroke of luck, the guests had left, and my father had entirely forgotten my defiance by the time I dared to slink back home.
In another episode, my father became infuriated with me because of a septic backup. This was the summer my friend Hanna first came from Germany to visit.
Famously, our incompetent septic contractor had installed a small, tight bend in an inauspicious location, and this meant a fickle system prone to backups. We all knew about this delicate situation as we had been instructed by Dad ad nauseam on the maximum number of toilet paper squares permissible per job. The flushing of tampons was, of course, strictly verboten. I can’t speak for the rest of us but I wasn’t about to count squares. Still, I did realize that the bend was a formidable foe; and a stoppage meant snaking at best, digging and pipe cutting at worst.
This particular summer, the culprit was found to be a minuscule o.b. tampon lodged in said bend.
My Dad was fussing and fuming, and I was attempting to proclaim my innocence when I noticed Hanna growing more and more agitated. Finally, she burst: “I FLUSHED THE TAMPON!”
Silence. I loved her for saving me.
My Dad turned, gave her a beatific smile, and told her in a reassuring voice not to worry, it wasn’t her fault. He then turned back to me and continued to berate me in front of her for allowing my house guest to flush a tampon.
Ah, yes.
This post if part of Family Rules. For the prior post, click here. For the next post, click here.
If the shoes fits, smell it
You know you will
Do it
Grated Parmesan
Black truffle?
Inhale it
Dismiss the watchmen
Close your eyes
Embrace it
Children, take out your pencils
Draw lines to match
sweaty shoes gin
stinkbugs culantro
loaded diapers oxtail soup
bananas fish sauce
Scotch tape sex (says Barbara)
kids’ dirty undies Parmesan
armpits kimchi
Stop playing dumb
You get it
Admit it
Family Rules 
