Yoghurt is said to be responsible for the long lives of the Greek, and it’s recommended after taking antibiotics, so obviously it has a lot of healthy qualities, but eaten pure it lacks a bit of, well, a lot. It’s a bit dreary. Yoghurt needs something special to bring out its flavour, some contrast, some refinement, just like Cinderella needed all that glitter to make that prince fall in love with her. I like yoghurt best with raspberries, lots of raspberries, the frozen ones are suited best, because they develop a beautiful red juice when defrosting that compliments the whiteness of the yoghurt—by the way, the richer, thicker and creamier a yoghurt, the better. Sugar, some minced apples and a generous serving of calvados, all mixed together are great, too. I invented that dessert when I was eleven but wasn’t allowed to eat it until I turned eighteen. And then, there is yoghurt with walnuts and honey, which brings us back to the Greek and their long lives filled with great desserts. Having said that, I’m really glad about the grexit no longer being an issue.
An apple a day is supposed to keep the doctor away, but with the current cases of influenza the news keep talking about, I felt two apples were more reliable to do the trick than just one, or yet even more, trust is good, overdosing is better, and so I pelt, cored and sliced lots of apples, lots, an awful lot, actually, laid them out on some yeast dough, quite fatless a dough, I once read when you feel like having some cake, if you really, really need to have some, you are to have yeast cake as it is much less sinful a cake, much less calories, but we’re talking influenza prevention, not dieting, anyway, with some calvados sprinkled on it and dusted in vast amounts of cinnamon – cinnamon, by the way, is quite healthy, too, I forgot what good it actually does, but you can’t have enough of it, believe you me – it looked and smelled very yummy before I put it in the oven, and even yummier when it came out. As I’ve had several pieces, I think I had enough apples today to declaim in full health (and with kind of a Shakespearian accent): Influenza, where is thy sting?
To me, rucola is a very touchy pizza topping, in fact, rucola is the touchiest food I know. Why? It all started with its name. To English people, rucola is known as rocket or arugula, in German, it’s called Rauke. But in Germany, Rauke was never really popular a lettuce plant, it only came into fashion in the 1990s, at a time when German cuisine was regarded as dull, out of date and simply pathetic, no stylish restaurant would dare to have anything remotely traditionally German on their menus, and so every single leaf of Rauke, whether sprinkled on pasta or part of a salad, was henceforth called rucola, or as nouns are capitalised in German, Rucola. Now, some people are stupid enough to not have realised this, even though Rucola was being put mostly on everything Italian, no pizza or pasta without some Rucola on it, as we Germans love to demonstrate how very worldly we are, but still, some people don’t get anything, some people being my ex-boyfriend’s best friend—let’s call him Justin. Justin, I hated. He’s the stupidest person on this planet. And when he was the third wheel on a trip to Italy, his stupidity would drive me crazy from dusk till dawn, from Milan to Rome and back, and to me, it all culminated in one singularly stupid question, asked in a restaurant in Florence: “What is rucola called in Italian?”—Aaaaaaarrrgh!—Since this day, I can’t look at rucola without thinking of him, and since I ordered pizza with extra rucola today, I think I have developed some masochistic tendencies…
All of a sudden, I felt like having a snack; my fridge, however, was empty, and so I took a bus to my nearest grocery store (it was way too windy and rainy to walk) where I got myself some gravad lax, you know, the kind of salmon that Scandinavians put six feet under with some salt and spices for three days or more to make it 1) last longer and 2) taste better, the indispensable matching hovmästassås aka dill-mustard sauce, and some gluten-free wholemeal bread—and so my afternoon snack turned out to be a very fine one, so fine, actually, that I’d like to propose a toast to all Vikings and to all the fish they’ve put into an early grave: Skål!
Breakfast, at least that’s what I’ve been told over and over again by newspapers and magazines, always quoting some doctors from lesser known universities, is the most important meal of the day, if you skip it you’ll die an agonizing death or you find yourself out of the job for performing badly any time soon, and although I can’t prove it with any medicinal facts, neither has my hair’s shine improved nor did I have fewer problems with learning Chinese, I do subscribe to that point of view as it is the only meal that includes a boiled egg. I love boiled eggs. My grandmother had them with French mustard, moutarde à l’ancienne, or im Glas, which is actually two boiled eggs with some spices served stirred in a glass, no stem, a tumbler, I’d say, and to anybody who like literary connections, like those who can’t eat a madeleine without quoting Proust, rambling on about their transporting smell and one’s childhood and all of that, I recommend Klaus Mann’s brilliant novel “Mephisto”, Eier im Glas for breakfast play a small but dramatic part in it, but I seem to digress, my eggs are mostly eaten pure and simple, some salt, some crushed white pepper, that’s it, as long as the spoon is made from mother-of-pearl and the egg cup is to my liking.
If you want to gain weight, for whatever reasons, do the following: buy three packages of assorted chocolates, pick your favourites from each package, arrange them casually in a bowl and serve them with at least four episodes of any show interesting enough to make you stay put in front of the TV no matter what happens or who’s at the door. Wash each chocolate down with a generous helping of non-skimmed milk, Baileys or, why not, some banana milkshake. Repeat. Bon appétit and bonne chance!
When God came up with cocoa beans, he must have been in a very good mood. Cocoa beans are the best beans there are—sorry, Heinz, no offence, but your bean cans were portrayed by Andy Warhol, this is as far as your fifteen minutes of fame go. Anyway, cocoa beans are so very rich in healthy flavonoids, but more importantly, without cocoa beans there was no chocolate, and without chocolate there were no chocolate glazed marzipan cakes, especially the one in my fridge (keeping it in the fridge is important to make the thick chocolate glaze as crunchy as possible), the one I just devoured out of sheer lust. And now I am in such a good mood, the best of moods, actually, just like God himself the day he came up with cocoa beans.