With a little help from my crêpes.

When you’re somewhat blue, for any reason at all, or when the world seems to fall apart, or when there’s nothing really new on Netflix and you’re still angry with the producers of The Crown because that thing that happened in season 2, you know, in that episode where they had Jackie Kennedy comment disparagingly on the royal household in general and Her Majesty in particular, and then they had poor Elizabeth, as some sort of after-effect, take off all vexed to Ghana to dance away not only her marital problems but also her government’s post-colonial misconduct just to prove Jackie wrong, you do remember that, don’t you? Anyway, that thing was all made up! God bless The Guardian for their investigative journalism, it’s been a real life-saver as I had almost told anybody I know I had always known what a bitch Jackie was, and then it turned out she wasn’t a bitch at all, just the perfectly dressed, stunning little trooper she always was. In such moments of humiliation nothing presents a better cure than homemade crêpes, just spread some English orange marmalade (in honour of the Queen) and some Cointreau (in honour of Jackie’s French extraction) on it, no need to flambé the stuff, and there you go again. God save us all!

Spaghetti all’eternità.

Many, many years ago, I was still at university, my parents spent some time in Rome, they visited churches, had gelati and Campari, once settled in, they still had gelati and Campari, but visited fewer churches – dolce far niente, what can I say – and wanted to move as soon as possible, which is quite understandable, in my opinion, people who don’t want to move to Rome when in Rome are not to be trusted, or are they? Anyway, at that time, a former colleague of theirs was living in Rome as a correspondent for a German newspaper, the Süddeutsche Zeitung, and invited them over to his place where he changed my mother’s life forever: he made the first spaghetti my mother would not only tolerate, but would prepare in the exact same way as soon as she was back home. You have to know that my mother’s spaghetti bolognese were actually quite good, as a child I even loved them, but she would never have some herself, too boring, she’d say, Klaus’ spaghetti all’amatriciana, however, were different, they were sensational, all that bacon, the fresh sage, the chillies, the grated pecorino, all that was much more to my mother’s liking, she brought home vast amounts of DeCecco pasta, the brand Klaus used, in these days totally unknown in Germany, totally, I very much blame Klaus for that brand’s international success, and the design and colour combo of their packaging at that time, yellow and turquoise, which I loved, but that’s another story, anyway, for these last 25 years, we’ve had this dish over and over again, it’s still called The Roman Recipe, and I have absorbed it so well, one might say, it’s part of my DNA. What can I say, everything Roman seems to be eternal.

Fruit sala-la-la-la-la-la-lad.

Fruit salad for dessert is a really joyous occasion. It’s so healthy! Full of all sorts of fruits from all over the world: pears, bananas, kiwis, apples, oranges, and, well, take whatever fruit you like. And then there are some very energetic rum raisins in it… They, along with the fresh-pressed-orange-and-lemon-juice-and-williams-pear-schnapps-dressing, take away the fear you might lead the miserable life of a health-absorbed puritan. Bon appétit and cheers!

Thoughts on fish and fate.

Today, with all that sunshine in November, while working on my novel, I felt like a fish in the sea. Happy and content. Ironically, for dinner, I had fish who must have felt literally like out of water. And some mussels, prawns, and scallops to join them in that hapless situation also known as bouillabaisse. The world is an unfair place, I guess. If you ever have to face the truth about life like me, I recommend a great wine to smooth the edges, my 2017 Kerner from Saale-Unstrut, the former GDR’s highly esteemed winegrowing region, is the best to reconcile you with anything, and if there’s nothing to reconcile you with in the first place, all the better. Prost!

TV dinner, 4.0

I admit it. I love to eat while watching TV. The thing is, it’s completely unhandy to use a knife while half-lying in your chair, it’s almost as unpractical as serving steaks when there’s no place to sit (Mr. Geller is my authority on this, you know, Ross and Monica’s father from Long Island, the one who bought a Porsche to help him cope with his midlife-crisis and walked in on Rachel when she was changing in Monica’s room). Anyway, my point is, you just have to prepare stuff you can eat with either a spoon or a fork. Greek salad, for instance. It’s really healthy, too, so you can even tell tour mum or your nutritionist about it, the most demanding group of people ever. Make a lot of everything, too. In this binge-watching age, one never knows for how long a series really ties one down, and one wouldn’t want to pause in the middle of everything just to prevent oneself from starving, would one?

Italian Crime Story

On September 6th, 2018, at 10:17 p.m., I ordered pizza. Autumn was somewhat near, and something called “Early Leaves” seemed appropriate. The leaves were made of bresaola, something I have always loved, and so I ate the three leaves, accompanied by some roasted pine nuts, first, after taking a picture of course, and then something quite peculiar happened. For some inexplicable reason, I didn’t finish the rest and left over most of it; I got distracted, I suppose, but by whom? By what? The next morning, I forgot to put it in the fridge and so the maid disposed of it. Why I am telling you this? Because this is an untold crime story, a most foul one, as there’s no crime more sinful, more inexcusable, more unforgivable than Italian food waste. A crime of which I’m guilty of in the first degree. Please save a prayer for me…

The deer diet.

“My dear Bambi, I am utterly sorry my uncle shot your mother, but to hell with sympathy, it was totally worth it. I’ll help you find you a good therapist to cope with your situation.”, thus I could start a letter to this deer’s kid. I’m aware of the fact that I blame my dear Uncle Karl for killing it rather than myself for eating it, but have you ever had game from your family’s forests? It’s the best! It’s so yummy! I am also aware that I won’t ever come into these woods, my dear uncle has sons of his own to bequest his property to, so I have to enjoy the place in a different way, by having “Deer Bourguignon” for example, and even if you and Bambi might judge me, call me a cartoon’s murderer’s accomplice or worse, Julia Child would have been most delighted and proud.