The only reason I consider myself a bit of an expert in living overseas is because I've made every blunder one could possibly think of. In retrospect, I laugh at them. Whilst in the moment, I have never been so uncomfortable wanting to slink away in pure horror. But, I learned.
About four years ago I stopped in our favorite bakery in Garmisch, Germany, feeding my bread addiction. The local bakery made these sweet pretzels with pastry dough and vanilla flavored quark (quark is cheese here, think of cream cheese mixed with pudding). I decided to surprise the staff with a loaf of zucchini bread, my recipe boasts a cup (yes, you read that right) of sugar and half a cup of oil. I've won contests for baking with this recipe, so I thought it was a good idea to share a little bit of Americana with our uber bavarian bakery. I waltzed in with my loaf, carefully wrapped and recipe attached (I'd even translated it into German and metrics), as a sign of appreciation and wanting to share our mutual love of carbs. The woman working at the counter half-smiled at me, then proceeded to the back with the loaf. I thought, "it's going to the owner! He's going to love it. Maybe it'll give him an idea...".
Suddenly, out stomped the baker, who's english was impeccable, at the time my german was minimal. Much to my surprise the baker was angry. He said "what, you don't think our products are good enough for your taste buds? You now have to share your sugary junk with us?". Oh crap, I've just angered the one person who kept me fed on cold alpine mornings. I responded with, "oh dear, no! I wanted to share something my family loves, as we have discussed differences between American baked goods and German many times. I thought you might enjoy some zucchini bread! I didn't mean to offend you." The baker gave me a quizzical look, "so you think your zucchini bread is better than my banana bread?". This back-and-forth went on for 10 minutes, as I explained it was American-style to want to share. Finally, he said "well, we're German and I'm the expert--so I guess I should then educate you". For the next 2 weeks, I went into the bakery in the morning at 9am, sharp, to learn to bake German bread. To this day, I still don't quite understand how I went from offending this very talented man into being his student. The techniques I learned there, and no I never was able to get the recipe for the sweet pretzels he made, were over 100 years old and not taught in any cooking school. He'd learned from his grandfather, who'd learned from his father. I spent 2 weeks learning how to make a loaf of German bread. Perhaps offending the man was a win for me? In the end, he loved the zucchini bread and tweaked it, reducing the sugar by half, for his own family.
Fast forward to today. Some of you know about "Greta", my older neighbor here in Wiesbaden who is older, a former NICU nurse and has a love-hate relationship with my dog, Max. Greta is who I want to be at 80 years old: feather boa wearing, drink toting, home brewing, and saying whatever comes to mind. Max, my french bulldog, gets into their garden almost daily. They have this lovely vegetable garden that would make any gardener swoon. Max often runs over to "water the flowers" or be social. Initially, Greta thought Max was a pig. I overheard her discussing my dog with her husband one day "dass ein schwein", or that's a pig. Her husband was firm that Max was a dog, just an ugly one.
One day, Greta was fed up with Max. He'd snuck over again, and was eating her flowers. I had tethered him in the backyard, but he managed to get that loose and go over to visit Greta. Greta shows up at my door, rings my door bell at least four times. I open it to see Greta clad in a smoking jacket and what appeared to be a fascinator fit for Kentucky Derby. She said, in english, "your pig eats my flowers. Please take pig to house" and then hands me a jar of home-brew that smells a bit like sweaty socks. I apologize, run over to her house to find Max eating a bowl of left-over cake. "Greta, you can't feed him. He comes because you give him food" I said. Greta's response, which still has be giggling to this day, "your pig is hungry. He eats then he will be happy. He eat beer too, he had thirst. But he sleep now." The home-brew she handed me was the same she'd given Max. She explained in the days following that the home-brew was beer, with a kick, designed for digestion and longevity. Essentially, she was trying to prolong the life of my pig/dog who she both loves and hates. Max slept soundly for nearly 24 hours that day/night. And we've secured his tether since.
This is going to be a running theme with my blog. I've got plenty of fails to share. This is just the tip of the iceberg.
By Shelby Van Voris
