Since I have put my pescatarianism on hiatus while I'm abroad - don't ask why, I just did - I thought it would be a fantastic idea to cook some type of bird in honor of Thanksgiving at home. Our oven, however, isn't much more than a shoe box, and a proper turkey wasn't going to work. I settled on duck. Duck is a meat I used to salivate for back in the days when I just didn't eat beef.
The only thing is... I have never cooked an entire flying animal in my life. All I know is that a turkey goes in the oven and people have to get up at ungodly hours to do it. My aunt and cousin can cook a turkey in their sleep. I have neglected this rite of passage; and I still sit at the kid's table on Thanksgiving.
The duck was going to be my initiation. I found an organic butcher and he assured me the duck I was buying was a mighty fine specimen.
I got home, excited and nervous, and unwrapped my new duck. As soon as the neck fell out of its body cavity, I questioned if learning how to cook this was really necessary.
Yet I forged ahead. I salted it and peppered it. I turned the oven on to something Celsius that seemed hot and I clumsily stuck the duck on the oven rack. Little did I know that duck spews hot fat everywhere. The oven now screamed indignantly for a cleaning.
Somewhere along the way the duck started to smoke more than I felt a duck should smoke while it's cooking. Hmm. Maybe this means it's done. Indeed, the duck came out of the oven and was set gently on my blue, plastic cutting board. Nothing but the best for my duck. No really, I don't own a lot here, so that actually is the best I have.
Now for gravy. I called my mom to double check how to make the yummy gravy she always had on the table for pot roast and the like. She told me the steps and I was off to mix my duck fat with flour and water!
Hmm. My gravy still tastes like duck fat. With flour and water in it. Maybe some salt. And more flour and water.
Crap. Now it's salty duck fat pudding.
Gravy aside, the duck was delicious. I showed my respect by picking the bones clean.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
House Shoes Rules
My roommates think I was raised in the jungle.
It was actually just the outskirts of Detroit. Not jungle-like at all. Yet, they are pretty sure there must have been jungle nearby. This is mainly because I don't wear house shoes. House shoes are shoes you put on after you take your shoes off. This makes sense, yes? They are quite like slippers, plastic sandals, anything that prevents your feet from touching the floor.
Socks do not count, I have discovered.
But I don't wear them, these house shoes. Well, I didn't. Until I was asked enough times why I wasn't wearing any and if my feet were cold and maybe I would get sick and weren't my socks getting dirty and really, Americans don't wear house shoes?
Alas, we are barbarians. I gave in to the cultural pressure and bought house shoes.
They cost me €4.95, approximately $7.00. They are fuzzy and warm. They have a light leopard print. And I forget them in my room. In the kitchen. The bathroom. Everywhere.
But, the point is, I have them. I am culturally aware.
It was actually just the outskirts of Detroit. Not jungle-like at all. Yet, they are pretty sure there must have been jungle nearby. This is mainly because I don't wear house shoes. House shoes are shoes you put on after you take your shoes off. This makes sense, yes? They are quite like slippers, plastic sandals, anything that prevents your feet from touching the floor.
Socks do not count, I have discovered.
But I don't wear them, these house shoes. Well, I didn't. Until I was asked enough times why I wasn't wearing any and if my feet were cold and maybe I would get sick and weren't my socks getting dirty and really, Americans don't wear house shoes?
Alas, we are barbarians. I gave in to the cultural pressure and bought house shoes.
They cost me €4.95, approximately $7.00. They are fuzzy and warm. They have a light leopard print. And I forget them in my room. In the kitchen. The bathroom. Everywhere.
But, the point is, I have them. I am culturally aware.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Down and Up
There are days when living abroad feels like a dream. Charming and romantic, happy. Like I am where I'm supposed to be. And there are days, of course, where I slide down faster than I climb up. When my Mut, my courage, dips a little, or my self-confidence doesn't keep pace with my day.
Sometimes I don't know why. Sometimes I do. Maybe it's because I didn't have a proper breakfast. Or because I'm pretty sure I'm wearing a shirt my cat peed on weeks ago and I didn't notice. Until I got to work. Maybe it's my lack of language grace. Or Germans telling me they don't actually like the Christmas markets. Maybe it's none of those things. Aside from the cat pee one.
What I know now, though, that maybe didn't occur to me on other stays abroad, is that a day can go down or it can go up. No matter where I am in the world.
Sometimes I don't know why. Sometimes I do. Maybe it's because I didn't have a proper breakfast. Or because I'm pretty sure I'm wearing a shirt my cat peed on weeks ago and I didn't notice. Until I got to work. Maybe it's my lack of language grace. Or Germans telling me they don't actually like the Christmas markets. Maybe it's none of those things. Aside from the cat pee one.
What I know now, though, that maybe didn't occur to me on other stays abroad, is that a day can go down or it can go up. No matter where I am in the world.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
IKEA Adventures
I don't speak Dutch. Even though it sounds quite like a mixture of English and German. You would think that by those characteristics, I do speak Dutch. But, the thing is, I still don't. It doesn't quite add up.
This shortfall in my language abilities became apparent when my roommate and I searched for my bed frame and bedside table at the Netherlands IKEA in Herrlen. Walking around through the chaotic maze, I could clearly see what the objects were that I was looking at. Yet, because the description tag read Hemnes Nachttafeltje or Belangrijkste voordelen or Fauteuil, I felt I could not properly assess the objects. It was as if I needed to understand the name in order to really know what it was. How could I be sure it was a bed frame? Was it really a night table? Maybe it was a special night table and its name held the secret to its specialty. Oh you Nachtafeltje. Maybe you are intended for a completely different usage than I think and I would be using you improperly. I felt out of sorts and unsettled by this.
In the end, though, they were the right price. I was forced to shrug off the nagging feeling that I could be misrepresenting IKEA furniture by disrespecting its intended usage.
The remaining problem was, we were just two people, with three large and heavy boxes, in the Netherlands, and needing to get back to Aachen. Taxis refused as I swayed under the weight of my 6 foot long bed frame box. The buses and trains were our only option. Yet, there were no proper-sized buses passing by Dutch IKEA. Eight passengers only on these buses. Eight passengers. How can they even call it a bus?
The bus driver arrived, surveyed the growing number of people wanting on her bus and then made us choose who got on and who was to be left behind. What a cruel, last-to-be-picked-for-kickball method of transportation. Luckily, a very kind Dutch-Middle Eastern family felt sympathy for our strange foreignness and large packages. They made sure we were let on the bus.
The only thing was, nine people got on the eight passenger bus. Our boxes were already stowed between seats when the bus driver looked at her passengers with bitter annoyance and ordered someone to get off. In Dutch, of course. But unlike with the names of my new furniture, sometimes, you just don't need to understand the words to know the meaning. Fortunately, a suitable solution was drawn. Someone else was kicked off the bus. We remained with our packages and drove off to maneuver the train station.
This shortfall in my language abilities became apparent when my roommate and I searched for my bed frame and bedside table at the Netherlands IKEA in Herrlen. Walking around through the chaotic maze, I could clearly see what the objects were that I was looking at. Yet, because the description tag read Hemnes Nachttafeltje or Belangrijkste voordelen or Fauteuil, I felt I could not properly assess the objects. It was as if I needed to understand the name in order to really know what it was. How could I be sure it was a bed frame? Was it really a night table? Maybe it was a special night table and its name held the secret to its specialty. Oh you Nachtafeltje. Maybe you are intended for a completely different usage than I think and I would be using you improperly. I felt out of sorts and unsettled by this.
In the end, though, they were the right price. I was forced to shrug off the nagging feeling that I could be misrepresenting IKEA furniture by disrespecting its intended usage.
The remaining problem was, we were just two people, with three large and heavy boxes, in the Netherlands, and needing to get back to Aachen. Taxis refused as I swayed under the weight of my 6 foot long bed frame box. The buses and trains were our only option. Yet, there were no proper-sized buses passing by Dutch IKEA. Eight passengers only on these buses. Eight passengers. How can they even call it a bus?
The bus driver arrived, surveyed the growing number of people wanting on her bus and then made us choose who got on and who was to be left behind. What a cruel, last-to-be-picked-for-kickball method of transportation. Luckily, a very kind Dutch-Middle Eastern family felt sympathy for our strange foreignness and large packages. They made sure we were let on the bus.
The only thing was, nine people got on the eight passenger bus. Our boxes were already stowed between seats when the bus driver looked at her passengers with bitter annoyance and ordered someone to get off. In Dutch, of course. But unlike with the names of my new furniture, sometimes, you just don't need to understand the words to know the meaning. Fortunately, a suitable solution was drawn. Someone else was kicked off the bus. We remained with our packages and drove off to maneuver the train station.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Coffee Shop
I was offered pot yesterday. Truthfully, I can't be positive that's what he was selling. But, really, why else was I approached in a train station by a very random 20-something guy who asked if I was in the Netherlands for "coffee shop". There's no other reason, we all know it.
And the same, random, 20-something guy actually approached me twice.
The first time I was dragging my bike up a flight of stairs when he yelled to me, while he was on his cell phone, "WHERE ARE YOU FROM?" I ignored him that time.
The second time, Random Guy approached and asked me all sorts of questions like he was taking a train station survey. How are you? Where are you from? Deutschland? States? What are you doing here? Coffee shop? When I said "Working." he waved his cigarette at me - "Oh." - and went to find someone else who had the right answers.
The thing is, my roommate was standing next to me on both occasions, but only I was solicited. So my question is, do I look like I go to the Netherlands for coffee shop?
And the same, random, 20-something guy actually approached me twice.
The first time I was dragging my bike up a flight of stairs when he yelled to me, while he was on his cell phone, "WHERE ARE YOU FROM?" I ignored him that time.
The second time, Random Guy approached and asked me all sorts of questions like he was taking a train station survey. How are you? Where are you from? Deutschland? States? What are you doing here? Coffee shop? When I said "Working." he waved his cigarette at me - "Oh." - and went to find someone else who had the right answers.
The thing is, my roommate was standing next to me on both occasions, but only I was solicited. So my question is, do I look like I go to the Netherlands for coffee shop?
Thursday, November 5, 2009
My Brain is Sleeping on the Job
Has anyone started a new job recently? Do you remember that feeling when you come home and it just feels so good to let your brain free-fall. I'm not talking about drugs, that's another kind of free-fall I'm not in to. Just that feeling that you finally get to rest your brain from taking in so much new information.
And for you foreign language speakers, you know that feeling of speaking all in another language that doesn't just fall out of your mouth naturally? Some mornings I think it takes more time to rev up my brain. I'm not even certain it's always hooked up to my tongue. There is definitely a lack of a symbiotic relationship going on at times. Usually when I want to say something clever or intelligent.
And for you foreign language speakers, you know that feeling of speaking all in another language that doesn't just fall out of your mouth naturally? Some mornings I think it takes more time to rev up my brain. I'm not even certain it's always hooked up to my tongue. There is definitely a lack of a symbiotic relationship going on at times. Usually when I want to say something clever or intelligent.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Not Prostitutes. Not Pigs. Better. Way Better.
The third time really is the charm, people, when it comes to neighborhoods. And I hit the jackpot on this one.
The first time I spun the apartment wheel, I got prostitutes on my street. They were Vienna prostitutes, of course, so it's not as bad as it sounds. They aren't our typical Michigan Avenue street walker. I never felt in danger, and in fact, I quite enjoyed seeing how high their boots could get to their hip bones. They even had sassy umbrellas for the Vienna rainy season. More prepared than boy scouts, it seems. But still, not necessarily something you request to live near.
The second time I spun the apartment wheel I got pigs going to slaughter. I'll be honest, I preferred the prostitutes. Pigs screeching before they are about to die is rather haunting. Take my advice and ask if there are slaughter houses next door before you sign. But it was certainly an interesting experience.
So this time, I spun again. Complete luck of the draw. And I got chocolate. I now live next door to Lindt. And not just a shop. The Lindt factory. Where they make the chocolate. Mornings are filled with chilly air and the wonderful smell of melted chocolate. My ride home is just as cozy. How very nice, my neighbor is Charlie and his Chocolate Factory.
The first time I spun the apartment wheel, I got prostitutes on my street. They were Vienna prostitutes, of course, so it's not as bad as it sounds. They aren't our typical Michigan Avenue street walker. I never felt in danger, and in fact, I quite enjoyed seeing how high their boots could get to their hip bones. They even had sassy umbrellas for the Vienna rainy season. More prepared than boy scouts, it seems. But still, not necessarily something you request to live near.
The second time I spun the apartment wheel I got pigs going to slaughter. I'll be honest, I preferred the prostitutes. Pigs screeching before they are about to die is rather haunting. Take my advice and ask if there are slaughter houses next door before you sign. But it was certainly an interesting experience.
So this time, I spun again. Complete luck of the draw. And I got chocolate. I now live next door to Lindt. And not just a shop. The Lindt factory. Where they make the chocolate. Mornings are filled with chilly air and the wonderful smell of melted chocolate. My ride home is just as cozy. How very nice, my neighbor is Charlie and his Chocolate Factory.
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