der Silvester

Prosit! Einen guten Rutsch ins neue Jahr!

Sauerkraut season is now officially open!

EST +13 Perth
EST +12 Dazaifu, Fukuoka, Kobe, Tokio
EST + 7 Helsinki
EST + 6 Frankfurt a.M., Brittany, Budapest
EST + 5 London, Aberdeen
EST - 3 Vancouver, Santa Cruz
EST - 5 Honolulu

Work those noisemakers and tip the crazy hats! Let me hear the clinking glasses and heartfelt toasts to health in 2010!

The pocket watch above belonged to my Great-Grandpapa Heinrich.

Soba そば

Snippets.

Like soba ground on an old stone wheel. The resulting noodles float broken in the broth. Shards of scallion add colour.

Pieces of a poem ... floating. The aroma entices. How will the words taste when I have plucked them from the bowl with my chopsticks?

der Gürtel

Orion's Belt hangs vertically in the eastern sky. I stand, mail in hand, gazing at those three distant stars.

When a person who has had hip replacement surgery begins walking again, a canvas belt is tied around their chest to enable the attendant to hold them upright should they begin to stumble.

My eyes hold Orion's Belt in view for some moments, seeking steadiness in this strange, new world.

der Schneemann

Fröhliche Weihnachten! Happy Christmas! メリー・クリスマス! Hyvää Joulua! Gleðileg Jól! Boldog karácsonyt! Wesołych Świąt! Nollaig chridheil!

Socken und Schneeflocken

Santa came early this year ...
with non-slip socks ...
plastic toys ...
and lights.
Look out the window! The hovering flakes of snow gently ride the cold. A swoop. A sway. Move. Move.

wie es war ~ wie es ist

Five times I wriggled through Weihnachten (still can't think of it as Christmas) alone in a Japanese city, where the Merii Kurismasu greeting was exchanged with a formal bow only.

December 24th in that city was a schizoid event; musical schlock blared from public speaker systems ~ in train stations, department stores, restaurants, WC's. Hawkers added to the din, peddling christmas cakes that were modelled after la bûche de Noël. Every KFC branch in the city was swarming with greasy-lipped youths. Couples and lovers, dressed to the gills, dined more elegantly in posh hotels. The evening was most definitely not family time, strangely soothing to this outsider. The homeless had to wait longer than usual to hunker down in the warm spots of the stations that night. The following day was a regular workday.

Dickens' novella isn't popular in Japan. On the 24th though, the merriment part was in strong evidence, carried over from the mid-December Bo-nen-kai (forget-the-year parties), which are similar in tone to Sâturnâlia, from how I have read it described in history books. The post-Christmas Scrooge would have had a field day spreading goodwill and demonstrating affection.

But then, Ebenezer would have had to keep in mind what Magda Szabó wrote:

I know now, what I didn't then, that affection can't always be expressed in calm, orderly, articulate ways; and that one cannot prescribe the form it should take for anyone else.

schneebedeckte Erde

A violetly-tinged greyish skyscape. More snow is on the way. No snowmen will spring from the stuff lying on the ground now. The trees, undusted, are stark. Black branches creak in the chill wind.

Birds are careful not to fly alone. They keep together in the air. I haven't seen one land yet.

ungeschickt

This year seems to be particularly awkward for folks around here. Why? I don't know. A co-worker stopped me in the hall after lunch:

"You have a happy!"
[My response ~ because I can be ornery.] "A happy what?"
"(!) holiday."
"Which one?"
"Oh for Pete's sake!"
[grinning]

Overheard at the post office:
Clerk: "Your package should be there by Christmas. Any stamps today?"
Customer: "A sheet of the Hanukkah stamps, please."
Clerk: "(!) That'll be $8.80. You have a ... nice ... day then. A Merry Han~ ... A Merry Hanukkah Christmas!"

der erste Schultag

This is a picture of my Schultüte (my First-Day-of-School-Cone, also known as a Zuckertüte, a Candy-Cone). I crawled through my mother's house last weekend looking for it at the behest of my blog buddy, Einbildungskraft, aka Beth.

It is in surprisingly good condition. Only the top rim has been nibbled by attic creatures.

It seems that in 1810, on the first day of primary school in Saxony and Thuringia, godparents presented their godchildren with large handmade cardboard and cloth cones filled with chocolate, small toys, and school supplies. At the time, youths were given cookies baked in alphabet shapes upon beginning study of the Torah, and it is conceivable that the idea of the School-Cone stems from this Jewish tradition, which was to remind children of the lines in Psalm 119: How sweet are your words to my taste, sweeter than honey to my mouth!

My memories of the first day of school are a wee bit fuzzy. Morning photos, a brand-new abacus, the tall wire fence around the military base school, and the festive dinner after school with a slew of relatives there to congratulate me ~ uncles, aunts, Opa Willi, Oma Gretel, my Great-Grandmama Anna and her youngest sister Paulinchen, Bácsi and Néni, good friends of my parents, and Christine. Christine, Paulinchen's granddaughter, was 11 years old at the time and I thought she was the coolest girl in the world (still do!). The only disappointment was not being able to attend the school she was in.



A 1912 photo of Anna and Paulinchen with their mother is in an April post.

Erwachsen

In our relations with other people we want to be cultivated, superior, mature, so we use the language of maturity and we talk about, for instance, Beauty, Goodness, Truth .... But, within our own confidential, intimate reality, we feel nothing but inadequacy, immaturity ...

Ferdydurke
by Witold Gombrowicz
1937

Gelt

Her smile was as delightful as the flame that danced on the candletop beside her.

That little girl stood there with her two hands cupped together, looking at me with a glint in her eye.

"Here is something for you to share." I dropped the silky bag filled with chocolate Gelt into her open hands. She gave me a hug and hopped over to the table. Undoing the string, she upended the bag's contents and spread out the little pile of foil-wrapped coins with her happy fingers. Some she flipped over, crinkled her forehead and stared at for a bit. Others she nudged to the side. After some deep decision making activity, my godchild chose one large gold coin and gave me the look, you know the one. The look that a child gives an adult at a moment such as this.

She handed the coin to me and said, "this one's for you!"

"Sit here next to me. Let's eat it together."

Happy Festival of Lights!

Budapest

For conversation around these parts, you have to be able to talk about the football team. And their season. Needless to say, there's really not much I can add to that conversation. Just once, I'd like someone to sit down next to me at the bar and ask, "what lines penned by poets have moved you?"

I'd answer with lines by Mary Oliver, Else Lasker-Schüler, Rilke, Mascha Kaléko, Sappho, and these 14 -year old lines by Billy Collins:

My pen moves along the page
like the snout of a strange animal
...
while I gaze out the window and imagine Budapest

die Süßholzwurzel

Katzen Pfötchen ~ little cat paws. Also the name of a plant with medicinal qualities that reminds one of a pussy willow disguised in dandelion leaves.

A sense of healing can be given by the most unlikely of things and can come from the most unexpected of quarters. Take Glycyrrhiza glabra, agar-agar, sage, chamomile, and gentian. Add a bit of brown sugar and beeswax white, and you have a confection that is also a tonic.

Almost 100 years ago, the recipe travelled to Germany from Sicily in the pocket of Xaver Fassin. In 1950, his son Klaus began the Katjes company in Emmerich on the Rhein. The hearty confection travelled in my Grandpapa Willi's pockets throughout my childhood. It worked wonders then and works wonders still.

But back to the ingredients. During the Middle Ages, gentian was used as an antidote to poison. The name gentian is a tribute to the Illyrian King Gent (180-168 BCE), who used the flower to heal his wounded soldiers. I cannot help but think of Tolkien's fictional plant, athelas, also known as kingsfoil. Aragorn, with knowledge of its healing properties, employs the plant to treat first Frodo's wound, and later to heal the brave Eowyn, Faramir, and Merry. And of course, field gentian, known in Old England as bitterwort, was sometimes used in lieu of hops in brewing beer.

das Fraktal

"... whenever it is necessary to maximize a surface area while minimizing mass, the evolutionary process selects fractal structure, as in the branching forms of nerves, lungs, and trees."

William J. Jackson wrote this in 2004, shortly after his book was published. Fractals are most intriguing. They express not only the order of things, but also allow us to imagine our interdependence. Google the word in the 'Images' box ... you won't believe your eyes!

der Schirm

Iced raindrops shiver down
from frosty laden clouds.
Pelted, numbed, I stand alone,
coatless 'mongst the crowd,
till suddenly ~ your sueded approach
ardently clad in boots,
sure-footed, emphatic ~
fiercely, fiercely yourself.

Here I stand unflinching,
no matter the weather
or the why of exhaustion in my voice,
for your umbrella, now unfurling
like the turquoise of your eyes,
cozies us close into conversation,
envelops and defends
fiercely 'gainst the cold.

der Vollmond

ein Tropfen

The cascade nearly drowned me,
these questions plain delight,
your flair was unexpected,
as standing side by side,
we poured into the squalid
nature of the beast,
a sound of silence seated
in hearts with mutual fears.

die Stille 2

Here is the context for Evelyn Glennie's comment about silence, which she tells us is probably one of the loudest sounds and the heaviest sounds that you are ever likely to experience. She is sitting at Ryōan-ji, the Temple of the Peaceful Dragon, in Kyoto, Japan. Gazing at the temple's famous rock garden while a young monk placidly rakes the stones.

"At the end of the day, we still know that within everything that we see, there's sound! I mean, we know that! We just don't have that sensitivity to hear what is going on around us."

Glennie then goes on to ask what sort of sound definitely is not silence. Her answer is in yesterday's post.

Silence. Stillness. Quiet. Peace. A hush in the air. Can you feel it? Be still. And know.

die Stille

[transcribed from an interview]

What sort of sound definitely isn't silence? uhm ... in my mind anyway ... uhm ... I think the ... I don't even know if there is such a thing! Well there must be an opposite actually, but ... uhm ... no ~ (sigh) I wonder whether it's something that's more static ... something that you can take away with you. It's the closest thing I can imagine to, to death.

~ Evelyn Glennie
2006 Touch the Sound

[transcribed from a film dialogue]

Am Anfang hatte ich gar keine Angst.
Kein Gefühl. Aber dann, dann kam die Stille. Eigentlich fand ich Stille immer schön. Aber die hier nicht. Da fehlte was. Mein Atem.

[translated]
At first, I wasn't scared. Felt nothing. But then, then came the silence. Actually, I have always found silence beautiful. But not this one. Something was missing ~ my breath.

~ the character of Sissi in the 2001 film The Princess and the Warrior.

der Truthahn und das Taschentuch

No turkey.

I'd walked the Shintencho from one end to the other on both the subterranean and street levels. The Japanese shopkeepers no doubt thought I looked a sorry specimen, shambling along asking, "Ta-kee ga arimasu ka?"

It was no use. There would be no turkey for me this Thanksgiving. Life in southern Japan those past three months had been comfortable and exciting and filled with little adventures. Now I stood there wallowing in sadness for the first time. Realizing it wasn't about the turkey at all.

Damn it. A tear. I fished around in my pockets ~ no hankie! But suddenly, a handkerchief appeared at the edge of my blurry vision and I heard, "どうぞ . Please."

A little old lady was standing there peering up at me. Kind eyes. "すみません," I managed and dabbed my eyes. She used gestures to get me to follow her and led me to a shop selling traditional sweets. Before I could even protest, she plopped a bag of potato sticks coated with a shiny glaze into my hand. A smile, a bow, and some words I wish very much I would have been able to understand. Another bow. When I looked up, she had already disappeared into the crowd. I bowed to the shopkeeper and walked home with a warmed heart. Made a cup of tea. And celebrated Thanksgiving with the most delicious sweet potatoes I have ever tasted. Although I will never taste their like again, I did taste them once. And for that, I am thankful.

die Zunft

Ten forms from the hands of Greg Ellis. In 2001, this percussionist conducted explorations in rhythm, and he produced a memorable CD, one I reach for during those moments I feel that my luck has been located so that I can tickle it fully awake. "Rhythm is just another form of time," Ellis says.

Time interwoven with touch. This then, this is the music that was playing as, for the first time, I was welcomed by a guild formed to explore the rhythms of baking bread and brewing liquid bread. I seem to have fallen in with some excellent, hobbit-like Gesellen. Fortunate I was tonight to have been invited after a crafter sampled my home-brewed Porter some weeks ago and happened to like it. How unexpected to find others whose roots are in places and times so similar to the ones that provided me with nourishment. Rhythms of the Old World thrumm in my heart.

I am not a joiner. Never have been. Yet, I will ally myself with these eaters-of-bread, for it is a rarity in this life to sense, at that first moment of entanglement, that another is not an other. Even rarer to then find that, without missing a beat, our hands can together concoct savoury delights. That our hearts feel the same rhythms. How can one but be drawn into the dance.

No conventional titles on this CD. The ten forms spin on. Each form a neutral space. A starting point. Listen to the rhythm and work the melody in together. Thrumm. Bom. Bomm bebomm.

Bomm

Bomm bombebomm

Piwo

Ai, sweet soul of mine, find some shelter, a delirious deluge is coming.

Na zdrowie!

Spinnstube

Start the wheel spinning and then tap on the footboard to keep it whirling ~ like Rod Taylor's time machine. But when the blurring settles back into clarity, I am not in the past. It is still 2009. All I will ever know is that Heinrich carried Anna's spinning wheel home that night, walking with her from the Spinnstube, and that they got sidetracked in her friend Lina's haybarn. My Grandmama Gretel was born 9 months later in November of 1911.



So this spinning wheel has a special place in my heart. My mother gave Anna's brother Otto a bottle of booze in trade for it as he was carrying it out to the bonfire they had built to burn the junk being cleared out of the old house. My Mama saved what she could. I suppose that I have my love of old things from her. It's a good thing for daughters to have something from their mothers. Even if, in the present, this sometimes causes pain.

Briefmarken von 1945

Two stamps from the American sector in 1945.

The first postage stamps issued in Germany after the second World War ended were designed with the Tiemann (also known as Kleist) script 'M'. This was the latest incarnation of the script, used in the 1930's. "Gothic" typeface, as can be seen above, went through a progression over the centuries.

Fraktur

"Schätzje'! What are you doing?"

That little girl, normally sharp as a tack, is on the top of a stack of Encyclopedias on one of the kitchen chairs, which she has dragged in front of the large bookshelf. My old, green, felt Tiroler hat is lying on the floor behind her and she is standing on tippy toes reaching for a volume on the very top shelf.

I rush over and she turns to give me the look, the one that children give adults at a time like this.

"Schätzje'! You know you can ask me for help anytime. Which book do you want?"

She points up to a dark blue book. On the spine in gold is Horns Spinnstube 9. I help her down from the precarious perch and then reach up to ease out the book. She is standing with both hands held out, and when I give her the book, she runs her fingers over the embossed cover. "Wow! It's really old, isn't it?"

"Sure is. From 1864."

She very carefully opens it and as soon as she sees the old Fraktur, her forehead crinkles. "Can you read this?"

"Come on, let's go sit on the sofa and we'll read it together."

The ancient-looking script excites her and I'm happy to see how quickly she is picking it up. In a few hours, she's reading to me the word puzzles written so long ago by Wilhelm Horn. Then, the inevitable question: "Why don't they use this kind of writing any more?"

So I tell her about 1940's Germany, about the NSDAP, and about horrible men who described (incorrectly) this "gothic" typescript as "Jew-letters from Schwabach" and so ordered that only Latin Antiqua be utilized from 1941 on. When they became masters of the world, they thought, this would enable everyone to read their writings. "Do you remember that stamp I showed you, the red one with the M on it?" I ask her.

She nods her head. "That M is like the M in this book!"

I smile. "Yep. The Allies used Fraktur on the first postage stamp they printed after the War ended."

That little girl is now happily able to read books set in Fraktur.

das Pferd im ersten Weltkrieg

This was my Great-Grandpapa, Heinrich, an officer in the 56th Regiment of the Prussian cavalry sent to fight on the Russian Front on the 2nd of August, 1914. The first thing one notices in the photograph is the appalling state of the horse. It was in 1915, before he rode into the battle in which he was wounded. The wound was severe enough for passage back home, where his beloved Anna, his daughter and his son were waiting for his return. And where they would face the next several grim winters together. Food and fuel shortages must have made life quite uncomfortable, and I can't help but think how lucky I have been in my life thus far.

Heinrich died in 1935, shortly before his daughter's wedding. I should have liked to have known him as I knew my Great-Grandmama Anna. Thirty-five years later, my little girl's ears would hear people in the village speak of him still; they told of his kindness and of his thoughtfulness. A bear of a man with a gentle heart.

Night of the Demon

This 1957 UK gem, based on a story by Montague R. James, is on the docket for the next cold, dark, and windy night. The kind of night you want your friends in the house with you.

• Popcorn (check)
• Candles (check)
  
• Ale (check)
• Ginger Ice Cream (check)
• Pillows (check)
• Hefty Feline Guard (check)
• Organic Fair Trade Cocoa (check)
• Blankets (check)
  
• Apollinaris Mineral Water (check)
• Other: tbd
  

in der Tinte

Writer and critic Isabel Paterson once penned the phrase (I have forgotten the exact context): "cross-grained as a hickory knot."

Stroppy means the same thing, for those who want to spit out just one word.

Me? I had a string of words this afternoon. Grumpy old git antagonistic to compromise.

I have been painted into a corner. Or as the Germans say, ich sitze in der Tinte (I am sitting in the ink). This time I shall bare my teeth ~ having recently been to the dentist, they are at their shiny best. Glint! Grrrr ...

ich braue, du braust, wir brauen

Brew day turns into brew night.

Sold-out malts necessitate last-minute substitutions, a hops scare, a burned-out light bulb, and a discussion over the composition of the water to be used for cold-steeping the crushed grains all conspire to keep us from lighting the flame under the brew cauldron until almost 7 o'clock.

My fellow brewer has a cellar. But the boiling of the wort takes place outside because of the propane fumes. Oh, gentle readers, it was cold last night.



Six gallons of malted water huff and puff as the temperature rises to 212°F. Thirty degrees or so before the boiling point, a cup of molasses (to add a rich, buttery flavour and a tantalizing aroma) is lovingly added.



Then ... the Hot Break!

Brown feisty froth muscles up the lid. We work quickly to manage it, after which the rolling boil welcomes the Fuggles hops from my hand. A vigorous boil ensues. 55 minutes later, I add an ounce of "noble" Tettnanger hops from Swabia. 5 minutes later, we begin to cool the aromatic liquid from 212° to 74° before pouring it into the primary fermenter, which my fellow brewer carries down into the cellar.

Now alchemy takes place. He rocks the fermenter back and forth to aerate these five precious gallons while I shake the vial of Irish Ale Yeast. Eye contact. A nod reciprocated. The lid is opened ~ the yeast slowly poured in whilst stirring ~ a whiff ~ another ~ seal the lid ~ and ...

smiles! From ear to ear.

In 7 days, we will discover what we have wrought this night.

Schwarz und Weiss

Something sweet from the Big Apple. A cookie like no other. It is a cookie with ambition. It knows that it is more than a mere cookie. This one hails from the bakery on Madison Ave. Over 6 decades of history can be tasted in the Black and White (you see, it is not a Black and White Cookie ~ rather, one refers to it as a Black and White).

One fell into my hands this afternoon quite unexpectedly, yet quite fittingly to celebrate the NY Yankees and the Globe. White and Black. Black and White. Complemental. One without the other is unimaginable.

Life is sweet today.

And tomorrow is brewday.

Schatten und Licht

das Spukschloss

Found it! After it had been lost in the attic for over two decades. It had cost $1.80 (the price tag still clung to the top corner). Each year on Halloween, we'd carefully take the stiff, shiny pre-cut paper pieces out of the large "Hallmark Happy Hauntings" envelope, spread them on the kitchen table, and with steaming cups of cocoa close at hand, assemble the Spukschloss.

This year, it was possible with the tiny Olympus to angle in over the drawbridge and through the main gate to illuminate the inner courtyard. The spectres and monsters didn't even flinch!

Happy All Hallow Even, dear one and all!

Hannya 般若

This is a type of Onryo mask used in Noh performances. The expression fuses anger, jealousy, sorrow, and grief in the demonic visage of a female ghost. The name of this particular mask is Hannya, which is also a Buddhist term meaning the kind of wisdom that opens a person's eyes to the reality of things. Great Noh mask cutters must have this kind of wisdom.

The oldest Hannya mask dates from the mid-1500's. To this day in Japan, a guy at the local Saké bar will let his buddies know that he is in the doghouse with "the wife" by sticking both of his index fingers from his forehead like horns.

John W. Nunley (1999) tells us:

One way to negotiate with the spirit realm is through the agency of the mask and masquerade. A masquerade turns the world upside down: the invisible spirit becomes visible in the masquerade; the visible person of daily life becomes invisible.

This particular mask is unpainted, showing the beautiful grain of the Japanese wood. Painted versions of a Hannya mask are horrifying ~ black strands of snaky hair, metallic eyes and glinting teeth add a feeling of full wrath to the expression, especially if the skin is reddish. A resentful ghost back in the land of the living for vengeance. And Japanese ghosts don't have feet, so be warned, it's awfully difficult to trip them up.

Thank goodness the Pacific ocean lies between this Halloween!

der Brutkasten 3

Not out of the woods yet. The wee one struggles still.

Do they read her poems? Sing her songs and tell her about birds and their language? I hope she's been told how beautiful the moon is on an autumn night. How it inspires and sustains. Courage, little one ... there is much to fight for in this wonder-filled world of ours. And we want you to take part in it.

der Zahnarzt

A passageway pristine in its ugliness.

And at the end ~ the dentist's chair.

[Scraggy soundtrack with throbbing drums begins to play here.]

Walking. Humming. An exchange of nervous smiles with the people in the waiting room. Checking in at the desk. "I'm here for my appointment with Dr. Pain." Sitting against the wall, I notice the flaking paint, and wait until I hear my name.

der Obsidian Porter ist köstlich

Well, tickle me with lightning!

Thunderstruck I am that the first attempt at brewing a Porter succeeded. Could it be that a wee bit of Londinium soul is in my brewspoon? Did the notes of the brewsong skitter around the walls of the brewkettle and settle some musical magic into the wort?

Gladdened is the spirit! O Du schwarzer Schoppen! O Du schöne Bierschaumkrone! zerfalle an meine Lippen ~

Pânem et circênsês

This afternoon, an invitation from unexpected quarters ~ I accepted.

Conjecture ventured. Verified. A tug of familiarity. The breadbox filled. A smidge of staple happiness on a very busy day.

das Abendrot

Sousing, swooping down and around the freeway exit, rolling through a stop sign, then skidding into the almost empty parking lot. In the nick of time.

The Olympus is in my hand. I'm out of the car in a wink and a blink to stand and gaze at the clouds holding on to the sun.

Wow.

The colours. The swirls and wisps there off to the left ... the ripples of colour. Wow. Unearthly beauty there before my eyes.

Movement to the left. Still in a haze, it takes moments for me to realize that there is a man standing some distance away gesturing ... his lips are moving, but I can't hear what he is saying. He brings the shadow of the motel building with him as he approaches ... slowly ... with care ... so as not to startle me ... so as not to cause any alarm. Yet I am not alarmed. Rather saddened that in Obama's America, a black man still feels the need to approach a white woman at dusk with such hesitancy.

He must have seen my car screech into the parking place and me fling open the door of the car in an attempt to capture the sunset on film. Now, he simply wants to share the moment. That makes my heart glad. He is close enough for me to hear him now. He looks up and with a soft, southern accent says, "That's rare here. You see a sky like that in Alabama. I'm here looking for a job."

I smile. Tell him I lived in Biloxi some time ago, but that I remember those southern skies. Those sunsets off the Gulf.

"Yes, ma'am," he smiles back. "Each one different. Each one beautiful in its own way."

We stand together, hands in our coat pockets, gazing up at the sunset.

A whisper. He says again, "I'm here from Alabama looking to find a job." His eyes reflect the incredible scene in front of us.

"So this sky is a good omen then," I say. "You'll find work."

He turns his face towards me. A look as difficult to describe as the colours in this sky. But we speak the same language, he and I. We understand one another perfectly.

der Brutkasten 2

The history of human incubators is fascinating. The early machines looked quite inhuman, and I really can't imagine that the survival rate was very high. But by 1889, the son of the Frenchman who had invented the human incubator patented his apparatus. These were used in maternity wards in Parisian hospitals.

At the 1933 Chicago World's Fair, incubators with live babies were displayed in one of the exhibit halls. The entrance fee was 10 cents. On June 3, 1939, The New Yorker printed an article about Dr. Martin A. Couney, the "Incubator Doctor" on the Coney Island boardwalk. He began showing babies in incubators to the public in Berlin in 1896. Although he was criticized by some as a "showman," the fact is that his care was responsible for saving thousands of lives in the early 1900's. The New Yorker article, A Patron of the Preemies, was written by A.J. Liebling.

Stevie Wonder was born prematurely in 1950. His blindness was caused by too much oxygen in the incubator. I can only hope that great strides have been made since then.

heruntergefallen

Walking in the woods, I came across a fallen tree.

Sunlight found it, too, as the clouds parted for a mere moment. And then the sun was gone. I stood alone. Thinking. How long had the great tree lain thus? Approaching, I noticed a woodpecker's hole. So the tree had been generous in providing shelter. Placing my hand on the cold wood, I felt no heartbeat. All around me, the other trees were breathing. Or were those the leaves I was hearing ...

der Brutkasten

How many were born today? How many died? Were happiness and sadness in balance? Or did the scales tip one way or the other? What sort of day was it, in the end. All I know is that it's dark here tonight. Thick clouds prevent all starlight from reaching the cold earth. Outside the garden is quiet. I have just brought in the last of the Cosmos to stop the predicted frost from wilting them in the morning. It helps to move among petals touched by the white-hot sun following this cold, exasperating day at work.

My head hits the pillow. My thoughts back there in the city, with the little one who lies inside an apparatus in which the humidity and oxygen levels are controlled, kept at summer-like temperatures. The hole in her heart has closed. The hole in her lung has closed. Our arms are open and waiting.

Entspannung der Lage

We start on the first floor.

As soon as my feet begin pushing the pedals, the motor in my mouth engages and I am in overdrive chattering about the events of the day while, from the corner of my eye, I watch the blinking lights on the control panel of the funky-looking exercise machine and wonder out loud what the abbreviations stand for and then ask my friend pedalling next to me if she knows what METS means. "Mine says 8.5 ... yours?"

"You've had a lot of coffee today, haven't you?"

"Why yes! How did you guess?"

My friend raises an eyebrow.

"The lady at the coffee shop asked me if I wanted an extra shot in my Mokka. I usually don't say yes since I have been trying to cut down on the caffeine, but today I said yes."

A wry grin from my fellow pedaller. "A shot of what?"

Pushing the resistance level up to 37 does not slow my motor down. Although I talk my friend's ears off, the 20 minutes do fly by, and before we know it, our muscles are warm. Purring, we walk up a level to work on those abductors and adductors, lift some free weights, and pump shots of sanitizer into our palms.

Then up to the top level to stretch. A felid stretch. Don't round your back. Gear down the motor. Extend your arms in front of you ... hands like paws. Be the leopard. Streeeetch. Rosettes atingle. Heartbeat steady. Happy.

der Göttertrank

Days and days of drizzle and outright rain. Cold. Damp. Disagreeable.

So the ruffian sun is most welcome. In the little garden, the warmed brick wall is a panoply of chirring crickets, phat flies and speedy spiders. Watching over it all from the edge of the porch roof, an esurient mantid, her powerful forelimbs lazily waving.

Below, a nectar nibbler makes the rounds of a handful of remaining Cosmos flowers. The drink of the gods won't help him either. His young queen, for whom he has toiled these many months, will be the only one to see another spring.

Kürbisschnitzer

Three pumpkins perch on a porch railing.

The pumpkin with the cute curlicue stem turns to the other two and says, "I can hardly wait. My carver is quite talented, you know."

"Me either! Mine has magic hands, so I'm expecting a face to rival the best of them."

The third pumpkin sits quietly, a bead of perspiration visible.

"What's your carver like?"

A worried-sounding voice answers, "she doesn't have the sharpest knife in the drawer."

"Ouh..."

"Ouh...," the other two say in tandem. "Well, three carven beauties would be overkill. And what would All Hallow Even be without a wee bit of grotesquerie?"

"You may dub me gothic gourd. Wa ha ha ha!"

"We've created a monster."

"Wa ha ha ha ..."

ein Jahr

Empty mailbox.
No missed calls.

Any messages?

Nope.

The battery? Still fully charged. I couldn't help but grin at the irony. Friends and family had been haranguing me for some time to "get a mobile already!" Now I had one in my pocket ... but nothing. Nobody. There would be no celebratory ale in my immediate future. Not one of my colleagues had remembered.

I found myself floundering in unfamiliar waters.

I'll leave the office early! Go to my favorite Chinese restaurant for supper. Yes! Decisiveness was the way to shake this muddly feeling. Walking to the car, my heart was still floundering. A pause. For a moment I stood on the street corner in an utter state of puddingheadedness. Then, my feet took a sudden U-turn, taking me north. I kept on until I found myself standing before a certain door, uncharacteristically closed that day. I knocked. The hinges creaked as the door opened. Bemusement. A no-questions-asked hug and there was no more floundering. As I happily sauntered to the car, I decided to drive to the library to begin reading up on what needed to be done to create a blog (another object of friendly haranguing). Two days after that birthday, I clicked on the last required link to 'publish' the Fünffingerplätze' and my first post appeared in bloggery land.

So here we are, almost one year later. Oh, were it only possible to invite each one of you to raise a pint or two with me. Alas, we are scattered far and wide. But I would like to thank you for an exhilarating year of reading and sharing and commenting! Here's to another! Cheers!

Otsukimizake

This Saké cup was found many years ago at the Hakata Hōjō-ya festival. It feels good in the hand. The clear rice wine flavoured by memories of other bright moons.

Together last night, we toasted the Hunter's Moon reeling through the clouds. Kanpai!

This morning, the Moon was high and alone in the sky. The clouds, elsewhere, must have still been slumbering.

月見 der Jägermond

Tonight, the Hunter's Moon is honoured in Japan. It is time for Otsukimi, literally moon-viewing, parties to be held.

Sweet potatoes are offered to the beautiful moon. Pampas grass is arranged in stunning pottery vases and displayed so that even city-dwellers are able to sit with cups of Saké in hand and view the most brilliant moon of the year through tall stalks of autumn grasses. Tsukimi dango (white rice dumplings) are eaten. Tanka poetry is written. More Saké is shared.

It is a time for friends to gather and reflect on beauty.

Kahlil Gibran's words come into my heart:

When you part from your friend, you grieve not;
For that which you love most in her may be clearer in her absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.

mit Musik

"A what?"

"Pleeeeease!"

That little girl, the one who's as sharp as a tack, pleaded with both eyes owl-wide. I had to admit, it was a novel idea. But how on earth would we be able to make the costume.

"Didn't you want to be Batgirl this year?"

"I was Batgirl last year."

"Oh, right. Well, how can you carry the candy sack with no arms?"

I got the look, the one that a child gives an adult at moments like this. "It's just make-believe," she said, stretching the last syllable.

"Right."

"Pleeeeeease!"

"Ai yai yai. I suppose we can give it a try. But you have to help!"

"Thankyouthankyouthankyou." She skipped over to the table and bounced back with a piece of paper on which she had sketched her vision for the costume. "Here's what it's gonna look like. We need lots of black construction paper and 'luminum foil for the metal parts. Oh, and we can cut up a brown paper lunch sack for the reed. I can wear my black knit hat."

"You've thought this through already!" I couldn't help but smile thinking of her shuffling from door to door trumpeting Trick or Treat in a clarinet costume. The high note of the evening!

vulkanisches Glas

Worn around the edges. Black. Complex composition, though lacking in crystal structure. Obsidian. This glob fits my hand perfectly. It feels rough, yet upon fingertip exploration, smooth bits of the surface are revealed. Youthful, when compared to Granite and Rhyolite. This special shard of what has been described as "congealed liquid" has me thinking ~ as recently as 20 million years ago, it was silica-rich magma. Now here it is, igneous rock. Well, technically more like natural glass. But it will turn into rock someday far, far in the future.

Long, long before we settled down and could begin to learn how to form and bake clay (one of the oldest human endeavors made necessary by beer brewers, who required vessels to keep their liquid gold in), we had to learn how to manipulate fire and shape stone. Statues stand on Easter Island with obsidian eye pupils. The Olmec fashioned smooth dark masks of the stuff. Volcanic glass, like flint, was made into tools and weapons. Now we have the ability to sharpen it to almost molecular thinness. The Western Journal of Medicine has reported on modern heart surgeons who utilize obsidian scalpels.

John Muir's question, asked when he travelled West in the late 1800's, comes to mind: "I asked the boulders I met whence they came and whither they were going." They are worthy of engaging in conversation. The resulting communication may be Ent-like in nature, but John knew it to be both desirable and possible.

der Wind

The Cosmos are heaving on the ground.

All is movement.

A speck of black approaches. A crow having trouble swooping in for a landing. Puddles are rippling. The porch chair has flown into the neighbor's hedge. The few windchimes still hanging on porches are being played by the Wind with gusto. Purposeful it seems. Hauling to the east. Pushing out the last dregs of summer and ushering in the Leaf Turner.

From his perch, the hardy crow faces the Wind and caws with vigor ~ my heart and two wings are more than a match for you!

das Wildwasser-Kajakfahren

Stressful September is winding down. Next week, there should be a calming of the waters. Should be ... to be able to extract myself from this whitewater kayak would be most welcome.

Walking into October holding a pint of harvest ale or some such dark brew, I intend to lift my head ever so slightly to breath in the scents served up by the autumn wind, which will no doubt pick up within the next several weeks. My favorite leather jacket will be pleased to be out and about again after a long summer hanging around in the dark little closet.

Sturdy suede walking shoes, a threadbare scarf, and the hat procured just last year ... these too will soon make their appearance. The gloves will have to wait a bit longer yet.

Today, however, there is one more day of intense whitewater rafting looming. The strap on the paddle broke several days ago. Somehow, I'll have to keep hold of it to avoid being up a Flüßchen without a Ruder.

der Grashüpfer ist wieder da!

He's back! After a week of unwelcome silence from the Cosmos bush, an evening serenade as autumn continues to fall ...

Tropfen

Spatters of daily indifference
twist and bend the ribs
of my existential umbrella,
force me to tighten my grip,
open close open it ~
rapidly ~ shake off the drops
before they can chafe my skin
and render it less elephantine.

Saibling und Lachs

The Salmon is from Scotland and yes, that is indeed Arctic Char. Last weekend, I stood at that case, gazing through the glass like a wide-eyed child standing in front of a toy store window. Heavy sigh. I was too hesitant to ask the fishmonger the price.

Now here it is 7 days later ~ dreaming still of these magnificent fishes, especially the Salvelinus alpinus. Salivating at the idea of preparing one on a stick over a sandy fire pit on a riverbank on a perfect early autumn day. By the time my friends and I return from our hike, the fish is perfectly and delectably done. We pour some flavourful ales [clink, clink], eat, talk, relax. Listen to the sighing wind, still slightly warm. Then build the fire back up and tell stories as darkness falls.

Sigh.

Hōjō-ya 放生会大祭

Five square miles of pine forest teeming with wildlife are on a portion of the shrine grounds. A peaceful, beautiful grove within the largest city on the great isle of Kyûshû.

This is a festive week ~ the earth is tilting into another season and freshly pickled ginger is on sale at some of the hundreds of stalls lining the 1 km approach to the Hakozaki Hachiman Shrine gates. This Shintō shrine has existed since the early 10th century. Now, on the cusp of autumn, the Hōjō-ya festival draws tens of thousands of city dwellers.

Ohajiki are earthenware disks handmade by the city's Hakata Doll masters. On the first morning of the festival, folks stand on line from the wee hours of the dawn for a chance to purchase the limited number of Ohajiki, which usually sell out in a few hours. The ones above were a farewell gift in 1995. My sweet students stood on line and then arranged the Ohajiki onto this black lacquered wood so that my wall is now adorned with happy memories of my time in Hakata.

Tomorrow, the last day of the festival, Shintō priests will release carp into ponds and pigeons into the blue sky. During the Hōjō-ya festival, the life of an animal may not be taken. They are to be set free from captivity.

nach oben, nach unten, und dort

A petite spider (look closely) is clinging to the leaf as the leaf clings to the tree.


Some leaves have unclung, and the squirrels are going nuts!


And evening comes earlier ...

... by the spigot, the brick wall feels warm as I lean against it to fill the watering can. I cling to its warmth as the spider clings to the leaf ~ as the leaf clings to the tree.

der Grashüpfer

My evening serenader ...

ordentlich ausschlafen

Beauty and rest. These two are connected. Sophia Loren knows it. Consider Sleeping Beauty, who remained beautiful all those years whilst lying in bed ... until the prince woke her up. The uglies began nipping at her almost immediately.

Some weeks ago, I was watching a Hong Kong action flick. The heroine came to a nasty end because, in her own words as she lay in her lover's arms breathing her last, "I should not have doubted you." I waited in vain for the hero to say to his love, "I should not have given you reason to doubt me."

Ah, sweet Fidelio, who had a heavy heart and yet was able to sing so beautifully:

Komm, Hoffnung, laß den letzten Stern
Der Müden nicht erbleichen!
O komm, erhell mein Ziel,
sei's noch so fern,
Die Liebe, sie wird's erreichen.

eine mißliche Lage

Science is fascinating.

Fiction is enjoyable.

But Science Fiction? Don't like it as a rule. Dislike Star Trek immensely. Battleship or Battlestar Galactica and Star Wars. Nope. Not for me.

Then in 1999, the Aussies, Kiwis, and 'mericans collaborated on a television series called Farscape. Never rule out a genre till you have seen the best it can offer.

Work has of late been like horrible science fiction. Feels like I have been cooped up in Starship Office with aliens and a vicious villain who hovers in the shadows and pops out like a trapdoor spider to feed when you least expect it. Hence, upon reaching home base last night, I lurched straight to the bed. Yet with mind ablaze, I tossed the pillows and turned like a roasting chicken rotating on the spit. How can one be so tired and yet not be able to sleep through the night?

1:37 am

2:09 am

2:33 Enough!

An episode of Farscape ... let's give it a go, shall we. A bedtime story to lullaby the mind into a darkly dreamy future ... snappy dialogue and leather and technology and living ships and a scientist who unpredictably thinks his way out of predicaments. Might give me some ideas.

schuften

Labor Day originated in Canada and was first celebrated in the United States (New York City) in 1882.

Nowadays, the three-day weekend marks the end of summer here. Public swimming pools close. Corn festivals are held, and Octoberfest beers hit the shelves. The first day of school looms large in the minds of the little ones.

Cosmos, still in full bloom, have thick stalks upon which crickets can be found in an amorous disposition. Flocks of birds use the cover of darkness to journey to their wintering spots. Their shadows can be seen flitting across the face of the harvest moon.

Change is in the air. Chlorophyll seeps from the leaves to allow subtle yellows the stage. In charge the burly reds as orange takes the middle ground. Only the evergreens refuse to play the game, but who knows if they have their noses in the air or simply feel left out.

Ebbes

Ebbes. Stress on the first syllable. EB-bes. Hard s. No schwa sound on the second e!

Ebbes ~ a colloquial word heard in the Rhein-Main region of central Germany (and I believe perhaps in parts of Swabia, too). In dictionaries of spoken German, ebbes is translated as etwas. In English ~ something, anything, a little.

Los, erzähl' mir Ebbes!
[ Go on then, tell me Ebbes! ]

Uff so 'nerr Reis', da sieht mir Ebbes. Man erlebt Ebbes un' kann Ebbes fotographiere'.
[ On such a trip, one sees Ebbes. One experiences Ebbes, and one can photograph Ebbes. ]

I love this handy-dandy word. It's useful and feels cozy in the ear. Soul-stirring Ebbes sings to me of Frankfurt am Main and of my childhood days.

presenting the micron brewery

Küche.

Kitchen.

The German and the English words aren't that different. Yet as similar as those words look, culture comes alive in the kitchen to alter the meanings. A Küche in Frankfurt differs greatly from one in Vienna, and these are unlike kitchens in New York and in London.

Modern kitchens in cities have evolved as we have learned to control fire and fashion pipework to ferry water. In this one room can be seen both culinary marvels of technology and traditional implements. A sort of time machine under our city-dwelling noses.

As much as I would like to show off my minuscule kitchen, which is a blend of three cultural traditions, my camera hasn't a fish-eye lens. I am able to illuminate the ceiling, where my storied tree branch has been hung to appease the hearth spirits when the electricity goes out:

A blend of dried herbs from places I have called home over the years, my magical dough-gnome and hearts presented by family and friends (to aid in making hearty meals and brews). To cover all the bases, these two robots offer counsel and oversee more technologically advanced cooking and brewing activities.

And bottles ... a multitude of bottles ... brown and eagerly waiting to be filled on bottling day, which is fast approaching.

Gänsehaut

The Canada Geese are on the move.

They startle the cool morning air ~ their stout bodies still and steady. Their wings languorously flapping. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up.

I crane my neck and watch as the letter V vanishes into the blue of the late summer sky. Suddenly, a huge noisy net of Stumus vulgaris muddle over the road, garbling the alphabet in their pell-mell haste.

Mens agitat molem

"Are we almost there?"

That little girl, the one who is as sharp as a tack, still looked peaked even though she was now sitting in front. At breakfast, she had put up a fight about taking the Dramamine pill. "No. I don't want one. I'm a tough cookie!" (Her latest oft-repeated expression.) After the third roadside halt-event though, I gave her a new one: That's how the cookie crumbles.

"Are you doing okay?"

"Yes." Then in a weak voice, "how much longer is it?"

"About 30 kilometers."

She turned her head towards me. The fire was back in her eyes. "No! I mean, how much more time!"

"Well, we're driving along at about 80 kph."

She furrowed her brow and thought out loud: "So we can drive 40 miles in half an hour then ..."

"... if we don't have to stop again." I couldn't help myself and promptly got the look ~ the one that children give adults at a moment like this. I grinned.

"So ... that's 20 kilometers in 15 minutes ... and between 20 and 40 is 30 and between 15 and 30 is ... um ... 22 and a half minutes."

She grinned back at me. "22 and a half minutes, right?!"

"Even less now," I said, glad to see she had some color back in her cheeks and thinking that there just might be something to this mind over matter thing.

das Frankfurter Quetschemännche'

There are words in German that whisk me into a swirly slipstream back into my childhood. BB of Works Well recently wrote a phrase in German which did just that. The word Quetsche then came to heart.

Pronounce it /kvet-shuh/ with the stress on the first syllable.

Quetsche. The noun rather than the verb "to squeeze." Prunus domestica. You make cakes with them. Marvellous cakes. Nothing tastes quite like a piece of Quetschekuchen served with fresh whipped cream on a balmy summer afternoon. But they are not merely a summer item. No, in the winter when the snows come and thoughts turn to ways of keeping warm, Quetsche are fashioned into something more romantic in nature.

The little guy to the left is a Frankfurter Quetschemännche'. He happens to be a traditional one, dressed as a chimney sweep. He is made almost entirely of Quetschen. Only his hands are peanuts and his face is painted on a walnut. When I was very little, my belief that it was good luck to have a kiss blown to me by a chimney sweep meant that I often blew kisses to any and all men dressed in black. (I used to refer to Johnny Cash as the chimney sweep with the guitar.) Don't know how much luck I managed to garner, but I certainly did receive many, many smiles.

The romance comes into play beginning in 19th-century Frankurt a/M, when a certain young man seeking the favour of a certain young lady would purchase a Quetschemännche' at the Weihnachtsmarkt and have it delivered to the house of his heart's desire. She would either have it sent back to him to communicate her lack of interest, or she would keep it in order to entice him to approach nearer. A date was now assured. Perhaps another would follow. Then a kiss as sweet as a bite of Quetschekuchen until, well, shall we simply say, until the entire cake was wholly eaten up.

Well where do you think all of those little Frankfurters come from?

Löwenmähne

What's that over there in the corner?

Could it be? Why yes ... it is! A little paper sack. Oh, how delightful! She hasn't left one of those on the floor for some time now ... lately it's bottles ~ glass bottles everywhere smelling of hops, which I can't stand.

Sniff, sniff. Oh, this is nice though. Purr. Heady, scenty, savory. [crinkle, crinkle] Sniff. Aah, the aroma in here is simply incredible ... purrrr.

Uh-oh.

Unable to pull out of the sack. It's my mane. You would think I'd learn. Perhaps if I back up ever so slowly, no one will look down. Uff ... tushie on fridge ... dang, that's cold. Now what? Forward then ... no need to panic. [crinkle]

"Look! That's so funny!"

Rats! They've seen me. Remain calm. Never let them see you sweat. Why I'll just sit down and hold my head up high.

"That is sooo funny!"

Humpf.

der Braulöffel und der Braukessel

Meet the brewspoon. Weighty. Enamelled in blue with white speckles. Feels goood in the hand. Enjoys the brewkettle's company. These two work together well in concocting magical elixirs. This time around, they both insisted on bottled artesian water from Norway in which to steep the specialty grains (they are known to be a tad demanding at times).

In the kitchen, these two engage in rhythmic alchemy. They strongly recommend playing music in the background whilst brewing to help harmonize the various ingredients. This time, Richard Tauber was the voice of choice. With luck, the resulting brew will now develop into a lyrical Porter with notes of dark roasted chocolate and woody vanilla.

Patience. The primary fermentation is taking a bit longer than expected. CO2 still gurgles through the airlock at a rate of about a double-bubble a minute.

Perhaps more Tauber. Yes! More Tauber to soothe.

Kosmee

The first Cosmos awoke and opened several days ago.

Agog with anticipation I was upon noticing the tightly closed, tiny golden pincushions waving in the breeze back in mid-August.

Now all is jazzy and festive in the garden ... as it should be! For the tail end of August is for revelry. Flamboyancy. A little romp and frolic decorate the evening and urge the candle flames to join the harmonious dance.

Then stand here. Here in the cool twinkling, tasty dark of late summer. Breathe. Listen. Watch for openings in the skyscape. Touch the cosmos awake.

Tokio

Doubtful that this is a red-letter day on any official calendar. Though it is an unusually comforting day, the only one on which astrologers are fuzzy on whether those who celebrate their birthday today are born under the sign of Leo or Virgo. A day of potential.

Since 1987, it has been a special day for me. August 23rd ~ the day I landed in Tokio. A day of adventure. One of my first thoughts was, "I am a sponge ~ here to soak up fresh water."

The grand metropolis revealed itself to me just as evening was falling, from slightly above street level, as I was whisked to my hotel over highways (literally high-ways in that when I turned my head to the left or right, I could see straight into third-floor office windows). By the time we drove down an exit ramp, black night had reached all the way down to the bottom ground of the city. I was in an urban jungle and understood that term for the first time. The hotel was old. Very old. The people there had old-fashioned manners to match, and I felt that I had stepped into a familiar world that was tinged with adventurous difference all about the edges. My young whiskers tingled and I have never been the same.

So now I mark August 23rd each year by doing something different, new and exciting. Today, I shall brew my first Porter! The recipe calls for chocolate and black patent malts ... and (are you sitting down?) molasses. I'm already looking forward to Halloween, when this "Black Cat Porter" will be ready to drink.

Oh ja! It is going to be an aromatic day filled with adventure. Miau!