bottom's up! for health, of course...

Achtung! looonnnggg post ahead!
Am disappointed to be missing a party I really wanted to be at, due to some weird flu-like things that render me useless in public, like fever and incredibly itchy and dry, bloodshot eyes. However, I AM celebrating the season by reading "apartment therapy" online and drinking beer grog.

One Saturday ritual I love is waking up to the sounds of CK making coffee, after which I hear the door squeaking and him returning with the paper, from which he tosses the Saturday magazine insert on the bed beside me. I get up to snag a big gorgeous mug made by Natalie, fill it with life-giving joe, and crawl back into bed with the Freizeit magazine. The photography is stunning, week by week I understand a bit more of the German too. I love the cooking section. Really. It is the part of magazines I HATE normally. But this one is SO GOOD. a) they have a half-page about what is in season right this second and what to do with it, its different names and types, and big pictures b) they have a "cooking for one" recipe that is fresh, using the produce they mentioned, and super simple, c) they have across the top of the page, cartoon-style, a children's item with clear pictures and simple directions--today it was making popcorn, which was weak, but normally it is something like baking an apple, or whisking up pudding from scratch, or making a simple salad. Then there is an article from a famous German chef whose equally famous restaurant got shut down cuz he was a cokehead, and, since Austria is very loosey-goosey about morality (just not the appearance of morality) and eminently practical, they immediately scooped him up to write a weekly column on food. So he will pick something apparently random, like horseradish, or celery root, or, again, whatever is in season, and write well, humourously, and knowledgeably about this thing. Then, there is the top 5 list. It is different weekly: where is the best Tafelspitz (boiled beef, served with Rösti and horseradish applesauce), Biergarten (summer, obviously) to where is the best Martini Gans'l (today's). November 11 is St. Martin's day (every day of the year has a saint assigned to it, and if you have a saint's name, you celebrate a mini-birthday on that day. It is your "saint's-day." On most calendars here the daily saint is mentioned. At several uBahn stations there are large-screen tvs where you watch the news clips while waiting for trains and they scroll through headlines, weather, and today's saint and the saint's basic info.

Naturally, some Saints are more famous than others. St. Martin, for some reason, requires a goose to be eaten on his name day, which is Nov. 11th. http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A17953608 So for the days around that day, Gans (diminunitive form in Austria: Gans'l is goose) is offered on all menus from every low-brow beer pub to high-end restaurants. And it is served with Blaukraut (red cabbage) and roasted chestnuts and dumplings and a lot of beer, or, wine if served in a wine tavern. It is delicious. We have reservations at a Buschenschank on the 14th, about 10 in the party. (Buschenschank is a Heuriger--wine tavern at a vineyard--where the bush is hung outside above the door to indicate open for business) We are going to Klüger's in Stammersdorf again this year, fabulous meal, fabulous wine, fabulous schnapps to ensure fabulous digestion of all that fabulousness.

The next big saint is St. Barbara.
We buy a Barbarabund at the market for her on Dec 4th or the Saturday before. This is a bunch of twigs for about 4 Euro. Bund is something that is bound, hence, bundle of sticks, bundle of flowers etc. You stick the twigs in a vase of water, and the twigs flower by Christmas Eve. St. B was being taken in a carriage by her father to meet her executioner when a twig from a tree got caught in her cloak and flowered before she reached the beheader. Her crime (about 306 a.d.) was converting to Christianity. St. B's life sucked, really, as she had already been locked in the tower by her merchant father who took off on a sales trip and kept her there for safekeeping for months while he was away. She had the servants cut 3 windows in her bathhouse to indicate the Trinity. Bad move for ensuring a long life, Babs. http://www.saintbarbara.org/about/frp_stbarb.cfm

all of which to say I am drinking Biergrog. Now I have had grog, and I have had beer, but this brings both out of the nosebleeds into the boxes. So this is what the Freizeit had on offer today in a sidebox:
125 g sugar ('bout 1/3 cup, can substitue stevia or whatever), 1 litre light beer (e.g.Pilsner or Budweiser) I used one non-alc and one regular, 1/2 cinnamon stick. Then heat the beer and sugar and cinnamon stick just to a boil and stir the whole time. When the sugar is dissolved turn off the heat and let it sit while you beat 4 eggs and add 1 cup (250 mL) rum to them. Then whisk the eggs/rum with the beer/sugar/cinnamon and pour into glasses et voila! Biergrog! fun to say, fun to drink.

CK says that it is very good for colds and flu, and it is true, I am sweating profusely when moments ago I was shivering. Let the healing begin.

just watch out that you don't return it to heat, the eggs will get custardy in there. Not bad, just marginally chunky. Best to avoid. Serves 4 people who like grog, 6 who are being polite. Two of us.

When things drive me nutso about life here (difficulty galore with this impenetrable language, pushy, shovy, whiny, complaining people, obsession with what the neighbour is doing, courtesy-is-a-shameful-weakness and waiting for one's turn is for wimps) I then have moments where the richness of the traditions, the history, the fact that at our lokal the Napolese chef brought out his Russian coin from the 1700s to show us, then his Roman ones, (imagine! the hands that have touched these coins! the pockets they have jingled in!), and I go to the market-behind-the-market and pick up gorgeous firm pale green heads of cabbage, and tight heads of cauliflower, and the last of the season's farm tomatoes and red peppers. And I look for the first bunches of Barbarabund, and love life here again.

Biergrog, not just for flu anymore! bring your maudlin here!

Nirvana

I'm starting to rely overly on my gps to get around this curly-
streeted city. Nonetheless, I may have overstepped the possibility of even google maps with my request to find an Indian restaurant.

directions to Nirvana, starting at Current Location, struck me as somehow odd.
would that it were so easy

There's no accounting for taste

Periodically I look through holiday photos and am astounded at what other people find attractive. I love these stairs, and according to Picasa, this photo of mine received a few visits, whereas a picture of my flipflops received 227 hits, a bee buzzing around Provence this summer got 483 hits, and what I consider a ho-hum, yes another photo of the Eiffel tower which I didn't bother straightening got a whopping 922 hits from strangers who happened on my Picasa page.

Balance

I adore the idea of grand old halls with their stillrooms, for distilling herbs and spices for the health and welfare of the house's masters, servants, and villagers alike. I lived at Capernwray Hall in the north of England (Carnforth)for a year and a half, many years ago now, and caught some of the feeling of what it must have been like when modern medicine was in its infancy and the ages-old ideas of plants' healing properties was the science of the day. I loved to go to the beautiful kitchen garden--a walled garden which brought to mind Frances Hodgson Burnett's Secret Garden. There was history made tangible--in the orderly rows of vegetables, and the walled edges of herbs and climbing vines which both flavoured the cook's creations and provided healing remedies to the house's residents.

The nostalgia of "pure and natural" appeals to me tremendously.

But what does that mean? Ársenic, hemlock, willow bark, digitalis, the more "pure", the faster they will affect us adversely. And when is "artificial" good? When is "natural" bad?

I wear gel nails--as fake as one can get. Yet I clean my home with distilled vinegar, and baking soda. I make my own soap--but don't read the ingredients list on the toothpaste I put in my mouth a minimum of twice a day.

So where, in our rich western world, do we find balance within our necessary hypocrisies?

I believe in being conscious of our idiosyncrasies, of minimizing our chemical footprint where we can, if only to indulge our whims with less of a guilty conscience elsewhere. I decide to recycle, to separate waste, to buy locally, to reduce consumption in general, to not own a car in a city with above-par public transportation, to read labels (usually!), to use eco-friendly products when it is effective to do so, to turn off lights. And then I refuse to feel guilty about taking a flight to go on holidays yearly. Perhaps then this is the balance--to be aware, to make deliberate choices, to be conscious of my choices.

Now I'm going to make an appointment to get my nails done and book that flight! After taking out the recycling. Naturally.

just cuz I'm bitter

so once in a while a girl's gotta vent. So, I live in Europe, in a gorgeous city, work with Good Folk, have a particularly Good Folk as a husband, like my cat a lot, verging on crazy cat lady (can happen, yes, even with only one feline, and not actually living alone on tins of tuna)since ccl is a state of mind. And everything's hunky dory. But I'm bitter. Why?

because tonight I'm reading some blogs on organizing, which is so much more fun than actually organizing, as that resembles work.

I drool, I stare at photos of perfectly appointed storage areas, I go to my mental happy place, then...I read the forums. Ah. The forums. Great stuff. Creative ideas for living more harmoniously with fewer things, living more deliberately, and with more purpose. I'm at peace.

Ahhhnnnddd then, it invariably happens: someone suggests that (Extra! Extra! Read all About It) you could maybe clear out some boxes of, I dunno, mildewing books/clothes from 1981/rotting garbage/whatever, from the double garage/1200 sq. ft. basement/4th bedroom/guest room ensuite/linen closet, whaddeva. It worked for her, after all, and now she has all her extra stuff neatly organised in plastic bins and one of the cars can now park in the garage! Hurrah!
Are you people on drugs????? This is helpful in real life in a small space with no cellar no storage no nuthin'---how?

I shake my head. Who are these people who are so chaotic that they fill enormous spaces with junk and then sanctimoniously write useful tips to small-space inhabitants such as "use the space under your bed to store blah blah blah" Telling someone who lives in a tiny place with spouse and cat to think outside the box by using under-bed storage is nonsense. That's a given, people. Grrrrrr....

Now just because I live in a tiny crack shack flat(nice ring to it, no?) doesn't mean that others' experience may not be useful to some, but you get my point. I'm jealous.
I want to live in such space that I get to ponder which of the storage areas I should purge first.
And until then, I want information to be truly useful, not facile crap from some la-la-land-get-thee-to-a-talk-show hoarder who thinks that using vertical space is nouveau.

EOM, EOR
(end of message, end of rant)

Vancouver 2010

As I watch bodies fly into the air and crash on the icy slopes in Whistler during the men's Super G, I contemplate the sheer bravery, discipline and athleticism of these athletes. Of course I get extra excited when I see Canada or Austria do well, but I applaud all of these amazing people who throw themselves into years of bloody hard work to even get to the point of being eligible for the Olympics. As sentimental as it may sound to those of us who are usually a bit cynical, every single athlete who makes the rigorous Olympic qualifications is a champion, and as a member of the same human race I'm proud of them, regardless of country. To be declared a "winner" or "loser" based not on seconds but 1/100 of a second is purely arbitrary. Even the slowest on an Olympic course moves faster down the slopes than I could fall down them. So while I want Canada to be successful--and rightfully proud--of our Games, I am
cheering for every amazing athlete giving his/her all.

Testing, testing, 1,2,3

Isn't technology amazing? During the day I have so many ideas about
blog posts, but then I'm so tired by the time I get home, and all
those impressions and thoughts have disappeared. Now I can email from
my phone, et voilà! A blog post appears.

lesson learned, or, if you keep this up you'll get your eye washed out with soap

well last night I splashed raw soap into my right eye, necessitating a trip to emergency last night and a follow-up appointment this morning. To my relief, there doesn't appear to be permanent damage and it is healing.

For those unfamiliar with soapmaking, it is a simple but artistic process of adding NaOH (lye, or, caustic soda, aka sodium hydroxide) to water (or whatever liquid one chooses), then adding that to oil, stirring like a madwoman, then pouring the liquid into moulds of some type. The countless variations vary from peculiar (breast milk soap can be made, for example, although I can't begin to imagine the market for that. Or the marketing) to the most complicated and gorgeous concoctions marrying delicious scents with rainbow colours.

For me, though, soapmaking is primarily to keep unnecessary ingredients/potions off my skin--which has proven to be my best skin-care tip ever--and when I control every aspect of my soap's production I avoid a lot of troubled skin. Bonus! So if I pass on soap to you--don't expect bright colours (those are dyes, and can be a lot of fun for creative purposes but my skin doesn't like them). And when you lift a block, bar, or cake to your nose (very first reaction of EVERYBODY when looking at soap) it will be unusual if you smell strong, flowery or perfumey scents, because I use essential oils and not artificial fragrances. And for essential oils to survive the reaction that creates mild, pure soap, you'd have to use an enormous quantity, with a few exceptions (peppermint, patchouli, lemongrass etc.) And essential oils are very expensive to use, for very faint final results. Nonetheless, I like them.

I also love the nostalgia factor of soapmaking. That's probably why I prefer big rustic blocks in the style of Savon de Marseille, with its "72% Olive" stamp on it. I also love how they warp as they cure.