It was bound to happen at some point and of course it was most likely to happen during a spike in coronavirus cases.
<spoiler alert> We aren’t sick (yet?) and, in fact, we don’t even know that we’ve been exposed to people who were infected, much less were infectious, but there’s enough of a possibility that Spouse was and, if so, that he has already passed it along to me, that we’re stuck here at home for a little while so as not to share the wealth with anyone else.
Of course, we/he might already have, since yesterday, before he got the phone call, Spouse spent several hours upstairs with the two fellows he hired to set up his company’s social media presence. They filmed an interview that involved Spouse chatting away with no mask on for 40 minutes. I hope they kept their masks on at least (they were wearing them when the came in, but I don’t know if they were still wearing them when they left). At any rate, that was an awkward phone call Spouse had to make a few hours after they’d left…
Because Spouse got the awkward call that he’d been exposed to someone who might have been exposed to someone who had the virus shortly before we were headed out the door to do the weekly grocery shop, seeing as we’d exhausted our stocks of fresh food. Long story short, one of Spouse’s current solar energy/heat pump/e-auto charging stations projects is at the house of a man and a wife slightly older than we are. He was there on Thursday of last week, working down in their basement for a few hours, and both the man and his wife were down there, too, and nobody was wearing masks (to say that I am livid about this is putting it lightly, for, because of the current local spike in cases, I’d asked Spouse to be extra cautious). Spouse was also there yesterday, after the social media people left, but the man and wife weren’t there this time, because they were busy driving the wife’s 85 year old mother to the hospital.
The elderly woman had already been feeling generally awful (but without a cough or fever) on Monday and the wife had gone over there and spent time with her (meaning that the wife was potentially infectious on Thursday, when Spouse was over there working and nobody was wearing masks). But nobody had thought much of it because the old woman often doesn’t feel well (she’s 85, which, apparently, is enough of an excuse). By yesterday, though (i.e. a week after last week Monday), the old woman was feeling awful enough that Spouse’s customers drove her to the hospital. Even though her only complaint was of severe general malaise, before they admitted the elderly woman, the hospital did a rapid covid test… and got a positive result. Which freaked everybody out, because nobody had seen that one coming.
So now we’re in the strange position of knowing that Spouse was exposed to someone who might have been exposed to someone who tested positive but has no symptoms other than the somewhat worse than normal malaise of a generally unwell old lady.
So, erm, what do you do? Neither the husband nor the wife has any symptoms (not even malaise) and, now more than 24 hours after she was admitted to the hospital, the old woman also has developed no symptoms beyond malaise (raising the possibility of a false positive? Or not?) And because testing is stretched to capacity at the moment because of the ongoing surge in infections, neither the husband nor the wife can get tested unless they start to show symptoms. (The husband’s plan is to claim symptoms later on in the week (unless he actually develops symptoms first), when the virus might have incubated for long enough to be detectable.)
Given the fuzziness of the situation, and that technically Spouse has not been in close contact to someone who has been shown to have the virus, neither Spouse nor I is under any legal obligation to isolate ourselves from the rest of humanity. But, you know, we’re not evil. We don’t want to make anyone sick, send anyone into intensive care, or cause anyone to suffer a life-changing (or life-ending) illness. So, while I won’t say we’re strictly quarantining ourselves (Spouse is still insisting on taking the dog for a walk out here in the countryside where it is possible to walk for an hour without crossing paths with anyone else), grocery shopping is off the table for at least 10 days from last Thursday for Spouse and maybe a couple of days after that for myself. So is taking the packages of Christmas presents for Spouse’s family to the post office. And so is mailing the sweater me and my tennis elbow killed themselves trying to finish knitting in time to mail today (which I obviously did not do) so it would arrive before the 1st birthday of Christian’s young cousin’s first child. All that will have to wait until at least next week sometime.
Although because we spent all of Sunday evening sitting in the same small room watching tv, if Spouse has been infected, he has probably also infected me already, but we are now acting like he’s still possibly a danger to me. I spend today working in my office, cooking, or doing laundry downstairs and he spent the day upstairs in his office doing what work he could on the computer and on the telephone. And we’re wearing masks when not isolated in our respective offices with the doors closed.
Sadly, my taking the precaution of removing my toothbrush from the bathroom only resulted in the dog licking it most enthusiastically (and, urgh, I haven’t got a spare). On the plus side, I have discovered that the guest bedroom doesn’t offer up all the house noises (the neighbor’s heating system is what I think I’m hearing) that keep me up half the night in the master bedroom. On the downside, I also didn’t hear the owls last night, but the upside to that downside is that their sudden screeching in the middle of the night usually rips me from sleep and nearly into cardiac arrest.
Here’s my current thinking about the situation: if the wife was infected by her mother last week Monday and was contagious last Thursday, when Spouse was over there working, and if 95% of the infected people who are going to show symptoms do so by day 6, then if Spouse isn’t sick by the end of tomorrow (which is Wednesday), then it’s unlike he will get sick. Given the potential to remain asymptomatic, though, whether or not he has been infected and, if so, whether he has infected me, though, will still be open questions.
As for me, I’m going to assume that if I was infected by Spouse, that would have happened on Sunday evening when we were sitting in the little tv room (if I die because I stayed an extra two hours to watch The Equalizer 2, I am going to be pissed off) or sometime on Monday (yesterday), because Spouse worked at home for most of that day. That means if I manage to get to Sunday without developing symptoms, I can assume at that point that I am not going to get sick.
In the meantime, we will wait to see how things develop for Spouse’s customers, who are now in quarantine for two weeks because of driving the mother/MIL to the hospital yesterday afternoon.
So, anyway, of course this hit literally moments before we wanted to go grocery shopping. So although we’ve got more than 2 weeks of food here (it’s probably more like a month’s worth), we’re out of the stuff we eat through each week (stuff like milk, fruit, cheese, bread, and fresh fruits and veggies). But out neighbor Monika came to our rescue, dashing out to the grocery store this afternoon to bring us bananas, tomatoes, carrots, apples, bread, cheese, milk, salami, two cucumbers, and one head of broccoli.
And three cheers for Monika. She didn’t just go to the grocery store, she went to the store she knows we normally shop at (which is not her normal haunt). And she bought the exact special local organic rye-spelt bread that I have no idea how she knew was what Spouse eats (I certainly didn’t specify to anywhere near that level of detail). I feel really humbled that someone could care enough to pay that close attention to what we might like on top of their doing us a huge favor! Those supplies, along with several kilos of frozen beef, a couple of bags of frozen veggies, our bagged and frozen kale harvest, the remnants of our potato harvest, a kilo of basmati rice, 500 g of flour, half a bag of dried masa, and more dried beans and lentils than my intestines would care to face over the course of a couple of years, much less one week, should more than get us through to next week Monday, when I think I can send Spouse out to do a round of grocery shopping. Provided neither of us (nor those two particular customers) becomes ill before then (or tests positive for the virus).
Also, after their yearly pause, two of our five hens are getting back to laying eggs, to the tune of about one egg every two days each (they’re 3 1/2 years old now, which is past their prime, and they really have only just finished molting). (The other three hens are in the midst of their molts now.) It’s nice that they’re pitching in like that to provide us with food in our week of need even when they should be on strike because they’re still all cooped up to protect them from the bird flu that is still flying through towards points south.
I may be the last one to arrive at the party, but I must shout from the rooftops that 2020 has been saved… by Chefclub!
The sweet potato turkey alone made my year.
But their take on stereotypical German (well, Bavarian) cuisine also just killed me.
Today’s NYTimes article that introduced me to this gem is also one of the finest-written pieces of journalism ever.
The scary thing is… I am actually tempted to try to make some of this stuff.
Although I must have watched every episode when I was a kid, I don’t remember much about the Little House on the Prairie tv series. Except that I think I remember one time Pa warning Ma that pride cometh before a fall. Which is to say, I used to feel so (smugly) sorry for people who had allergies, and for their itchy, swollen, teary eyes and squeaky achoo after achoo after achoo but for the last six years or so, my life has been one discovery after another of all the things in the universe it is possible to become allergic too.
(Before you condemn me as a completely inhumane monster, this was back in the days where hardly anyone had deadly allergies. The closest I can think of was my mom’s best friend’s youngest daughter was allergic to milk for the first few months of her life and had to be bottle fed a soy formula, which is kind of hilarious because nowadays, given her political inclinations, it’s pretty easy to imagine her ranting on about the sorts of people who drink vegetable milks, and my mom was always telling me that you couldn’t bring chocolate treats to school on your birthday because there were children out there unfortunate enough to be allergic to chocolate, and although this was back in the days when carob was sort of hip, I now don’t believe for a second that anyone was ever allergic to chocolate. Although the way my life has been going….)
It all began for me with mold and mildew. Suddenly, one day, they made me wheeze. Next, I collected a very bang on trend allergy to wheat and rye (although not a deadly allergy, just one that makes me wheeze and snore and gives me dandruff, gastritis, and unbearably itchy eyeballs). Then birch pollen, hazel pollen, and possibly also alder pollen joined the team, followed by cross reactions to peaches, pears, nectarines, Cape gooseberries, kiwi fruit, hazelnuts, and………… uncooked carrots! (That last one I really found out the my whole face blew up like a balloon kind of hard way, with my having to beg and plead for anti-histamines through the tiny window at the after-hours emergency pharmacy while the pharmacist stood there trying to decide if she should refuse and send me to the emergency room and then when she asked what I’d eaten that I’d reacted so badly to, I’d had to say… Um, carrots?)
Oh and in between I had an allergic reaction to… sunlight. It hit me on the first day of a backpacking trip along the former West German-East German border on a super sunny week in August and was that ever painful the whole time, all over my calves, like my skin was on fire the whole time, even through long pants. The weird thing was, it wasn’t enough sun to cause a sunburn. But everyone I knew, including my mother and my mother-in-law, was like oh, that’s just a sun allergy! Happens to me, too!! Like, super cheerfully, as if this sort of thing was also supposed to happen to me.
Then day before yesterday I discovered yet another one of those unusual things that it is possible to be allergic to.
I took the dog out for a walk. The day was cold, but not super cold (upper 30’s on the Fahrenheit scale, or about 3 degrees C), but there was no sun and an icy wind. But I couldn’t feel the wind until we’d gotten down to the end of the street and turned the corner, so I’d left the house with an adequate jacket, scarf, hat, mittens, and warm, furry boots but with only thin lycra leggings on my legs. When we were on the return leg of our 2.2 miles, I was like, okay, this is a bit chilly on my legs. But look at me! Not a problem!!! I bet I could train myself to run around in shorts!
Take that, cold weather!
Then, about ten minutes after I got home, I was like, hmm, why is the skin on the right side of my right thigh BURNING. Really, seriously, BURNING, like I’d opened up a battery and smeared the “acid” inside all over my flesh.
I ducked into the bathroom to check it out and discovered I was covered in a prickly rash. And what Dr. Internet said was that this was… an allergic reaction to severe cold.
I mean, honestly, what next? Water?
Then I remembered that I’d had this twice before, once all over my fingertips for months during my first miserably cold winter ever, which was in Boston, and then again the next year during a much less cold winter in England that was still, at that time, the second coldest winter I’d ever had to endure. I’d just assumed I had broken out with a herd of the world’s tiniest warts both times, each one of the dozens the size of a pin prick, and ran around with bandages covering the tips of all ten of my fingers.
But then I flew to Hawaii in February for a work conference and they were gone by the time I reached my hotel room. At which point, I’d decided that, whatever they were, I never needed to have them ever again, since it had to be, on some level, in my head…?
Until now, that strategy had worked perfectly.
But now I know that they could disappear so quickly because they can disappear so quickly. That’s just how it works. Go be warm and toasty and it should go away. So that’s my new strategy… stay cozy!… and I shall pursue it through the entire winter. Although I’m not sure that the dog, who loves nothing – not even dried pig ears nor our neighbor Monika – more than his walks, will be pleased.
This just popped up on the evening news (I kid you not): people in Germany are upset because at a time when, in most places, at most 5 people from at maximum 2 different households are allowed to get together because of the surging pandemic, the Nazis-in-everything-but-name political party is holding a 600 person party conference in an amusement park situated on the grounds of a decommissioned nuclear power plant, with the previous administrative facilities turned into a hotel and meeting rooms and rollercoasters and merry-go-rounds set up outside around the cooling tower now painted with idyllic forest scenes.
Starting at the age of about fourteen, I stopped being a tv watcher. Not that I’ve never watched it since then, but I literally could go years in between viewings. Spouse, on the other hand, in the handful of years that we’ve lived, not just in the same country, for a change, but actually at the same address, has already worn out an armchair, so great is his need to vegetate every evening from at least 8pm onward. And, since the outbreak of this pandemic, I have picked up the habit of heading down to the mancave promptly at 7:59 pm for the 15 minutes of national news and then sticking around for anywhere from 5 minutes to several hours afterwards, depending on what’s on.
Usually crap, of course, which I generally don’t stick around for. But there was an interesting little show about Planten un Bloemen, the city park/botanic garden in Hamburg that is a real jewel of a place (definitely stroll through for an hour or two (or more) (it’s free! even the tropical greenhouse) if you’re ever bumming around Hamburg. I was there once myself, while I was killing an hour before a scientific conference that was being held nearby, and I was sad I only had that one hour. (I should go back! Hamburg is not soooo far away from here.)
And there was an interesting documentary a couple of nights ago about Jane Birkin, whom Spouse had never, ever heard of.
But last night was Saturday night and that is always a crap television night. But, alas, I was not fit for anything other than vegetation, so I stuck around after the news and we ended up watching a show called (in German, of course) Big vs Little (or maybe it was Little vs Big) (whatever). Basically, people wrote in to say my kid can beat (insert name of notable German person here) at (insert some totally super random odd task here) and then that’s what this show was about. The first kid, for instance, hung from the top of an aerial hoop by her hands and pulled her legs up and through 28 times in one minute and the very pretty young former circus star celebrity only managed 14 times (so, yeah, the kids generally won). Then there was the 6 year old girl who could identify the fairy tale before the end of the opening line (although her opponent, an actor who had played one of the seven dwarfs in some German tv show or movie, only lost on the tie-breaker by a fraction of a second). And there were, yeah, I wouldn’t say obscure fairy tales in there, but several a step beyond the popular standards (such as The Goose Girl, Thumbelina, King Thrushbeard, and Longnose the Dwarf, that most of us would be hard pressed to identify within the first paragraph). (Actually, I did okay (I even got Longnose the Dwarf), even though the text was in German, although Thumbelina threw me.)
But the most jaw-dropping of all was the little boy who claimed he could recognize more LPs from their grooves than the famous north German singer lady/tv show moderator. Basically, it goes like this… you see how many songs are on side A and how many songs are on side B and this narrows down the list of possible albums it could be. Then you feel how heavy the LP is or wiggle it to see how flexible it is and this tells you how thick the disc is and apparently this narrows down the possibilities a bit more.
So the boy managed to identify the LP correctly two out of four times, with his correct guesses being Supertramp’s Breakfast in America and one of Herbert Groenemeyer’s albums (I don’t remember the name of that one either). The ones he misidentified were Adele’s 21 and one of Sade’s albums (Diamond Life, maybe). That’s a span of nearly forty years, in terms of musical releases!
So here’s the thing: this must be a thing, this knowing an LP from its grooves, because his opponent BEAT HIM. She aced her four albums, recognizing Depeche Mode’s Violator, Michael Jackson’s Thriller, Udo Juergen’s Udo, and one other album that I cannot remember at all. The poor little boy was totally crushed (although they gave him his prize anyway of the backyard trampoline that he’d been dreaming of).
Or else they narrowed the possibilities down to the 50 LPs they had to randomly choose from and let both the little boy and the singer/tv moderator go away for a few weeks to study them.
Oh, but THE BEST ONE OF ALL was the little girl who, from the slightest glimpse of the slightest bit of the face of a world leader could name them and the country they were in charge of. Like she even nailed Nana Addo Dankwa Akufo-Addo of Ghana from the bottom half of his nose within less than a second (and had no trouble at all rolling out his name). Meanwhile the TEAM OF THREE national news presenters collectively scored 2 points to her 12 and encouraged her to pursue a career in international newscasting. (The head guy was impressed, saying that they rely on a computer facial recognition to feed the information into their earphones when they have to identify someone on the spot… and the computers need the whole face.)
So… it’s news time again in 7 minutes. But it’s Sunday now, and Sunday is Tatort night. Which is a semi-crappy crime drama set in one of about half a dozen different German cities (or Vienna). So I’ll probably stay for that and, if it isn’t too awful, actually make it all the way through to the end.
Every time I have taken the tenacious little terrier out for a walk since last week Saturday, every German that I know who has seen me has stopped me and asked me if I voted. Then they have expressed their effusive relief that “democracy prevailed” (although, I have to admit, I don’t quite share their optimism that the saga is yet over).
This morning, the car that stopped so that its driver could chat with me turned out to contain the woman from the next settlement over that I met once while walking the dog during the social restrictions of spring that had so many people stuck at home instead of going in to work at their job. She was surprised that she hadn’t run into me again since then and was happy to see I was still around. And then, yes, she asked if I had voted and then expressed very emotionally what a relief it was and then wanted to know just what was wrong with the orange guy, behaving like such a little kid. At his age!
The only other people I encountered on this morning’s walk were two German soldiers, in neatly pressed camouflage uniforms and face masks as they drove down the farm road (the one that goes from nowhere (our settlement) to nowhere (a settlement of just a couple of houses), so that was odd) in their official Germany army jeep. It was so unusual and out of place, ones thoughts immediately wander to the zombie apocalypse. Then there was a crow hopping from the crown of one tree to another along the farm road, cawing, and the dog does not like that sound (he also hates the honking of geese and the blooblebleble that turkeys make). It makes him incredibly nervous. So he stopped immediately, turned around, and started making tracks for home, trying to drag me along after him like I was on rollerskates and he was a sled dog. It was just the crow, right? That was making him nervous??
Anyway, I turned him back forwards again and carried on and didn’t run into any zombies, so I seem to have made the right call.
Maybe the soldiers were here because of the bird flu? Because 2020 hasn’t been fun enough already, as with 2014 and 2015 (I think it was; I’m not sure because it was before we had chickens), birds migrating from points northeast of here (like Siberia) are bringing a bird flu with them. Starting about a week ago, dead birds stared washing up on the North Sea beaches of Schleswig-Holstein. That’s only about 60 miles from here and the numbers of dead birds is already reaching into the tens of thousands, so it was only a matter of time before they called for a bird lockdown here, to avoid the economic catastrophe of it making its way into the commercial poultry flocks.
And, sure enough, day before yesterday Spouse came home saying he’d heard on the radio that no one is allowed to keep their poultry outside anymore, or at least under open air. But at least we have a patio that he built for them after seeing the misery of his parents’ chickens who had to spend four or five months of winter locked inside a cramped and horrid coop and so put off his mother, that she gave up keeping chickens (something they’d been doing there at that house (which was the house she was born in, possibly literally) since way before she was born (I think it was her grandfather, maybe, who had the house built).
Anyway, after lunch today, I fed the hens their second daily meal, the one that I mix all their minerals up into, because for some reason our chickens have to be tricked into eating their grit, and then, since it wasn’t raining yet, decided a few more cubic meters of leaves needed to be raked out of the garden (the major downside to having something like 100 trees). I had only just started out front when I noticed that a little baby sparrow had wobbled its way over to the wheel of the wheelbarrow, as if it was trying to shelter against it. Between that, and its lack of concern for me, I realized that this was not a healthy little sparrow.
In fact, when I bent over to have a closer look (from a safe distance), I could see that one eye was swollen shut and the poor little bird had major balance issues. Not knowing what else to do, I kept an eye on it while I raked and within 15 minutes, its condition had deteriorated to the point where it was fluttering in pathetic little circles and shaking. I put the closest cage like thing over it I had at hand (an iron basket to have a fire in to sit around on chilly summer evenings) and phoned Spouse, who had gone to the home improvement supply store, to tell him to buy chicken wire because the sparrows are small enough to squeeze through the wires of the fencing he used on the chicken patio and, clearly, there was at least one sick sparrow on our property. Who knew if it was the bird flu, but better safe than sorry.
By the time I came out, the little sparrow was dead. I picked it up with a hand broom and dust pan and dumped it into the organic waste trash can (it won’t be picked up for two more weeks, which should give any viruses time to die before the truck comes to collect it). Then I washed the hell out of my hands with soap and super hot water because, although they say this strain of bird flu, in the unlikely event that it jumps to humans, is unlikely to be severe, who wants to be patient zero?
But, yeah, there are a lot of unhappy poultry out there right now. Or not out there. On our walk this morning, the dog and I went past the house that normally has a flock of angry geese, a bunch of chickens, several humongous turkeys, and a number of quail and ducks wandering around on their lawn, but aside from the sound of angry honking coming from one of the barn buildings, there were no birds in evidence at all. And our next door neighbors are having to build a little aviary for Gaston and Florence (the replacement duck for Rose), who are currently unhappily sequestered in a doghouse. And, flu season being what it is, the poultry lockdown is unlikely to be lifted before March, April, or May.
It’s 10pm Central European Time on the first Tuesday of November, 2020, and I’m too terrified to go to bed. When I did that at roughly this time four years ago, Hillary Clinton appeared to have the election in the bag, but the radio alarm clock woke me up at 6:30 am with some certainly most unfabulous other news. I’ve warned Spouse that use of the radio alarm is verboten tomorrow morning, but, still, if I go to sleep, some sort of result will be waiting for me in the morning one way or another. So I’m going to sit here for a while longer and tell you all about what we ate on Saturday evening, when Spouse’s business partner and his wife came over for dinner. Aren’t you thrilled?
Anyway, we had guests coming over (representing only two households and totaling only four of us plus the dog, so well within the current legal limits of get togethers) and it was Halloween, so it seemed like the right time to finally get around the offing the biggest of the four broiler chickens we’ve been growing up. They were hatched at the beginning of May (we picked them up on the 21st, when they were three weeks old), which makes them now sixth months old, which is way more shot at life than these guys normally get (industrially, they tend to get six weeks, unless they’re organic, in which case they have to be allowed to reach at least something like 14 weeks, which is just over three months).
They were (well, three of them still are) sweet, stupid chickens with an insatiable appetite and so much meat on them they all went through a phase of being unable to stand up (in fact, the smallest one still struggles). Watching them sit there stretching their necks forward to feed themselves without standing up was awful and just wrong and we have sworn never to raise broilers again. Anyway, the biggest one managed to hit something like 4 kilos (we never weighed him, but, damn, he was definitely at least twice as heavy as the now no longer last cat standing, and she weighed two kilos there toward the end) and, starting to reach roosterhood, was just starting to become aggressive, working his way up to attacking me if I didn’t give him the food he was entitled to fast enough just like the jerk Bertie Rooster used to do (which is why Bertie Rooster parted ways with his head about a year or so back and, recently defrosted, got turned into Coq au Vin which, honestly, was not great enough to justify all the work that went into it. Thus the young broiler got slow roasted instead.
Although it is embarrassing for someone who has been a vegetarian since the Reagan Administration to have a favorite recipe for roasting chicken, I’ve got one. I found it (Roast Sticky Chicken) in a Sunset Magazine almost ten years back, back when they arrived periodically at my mother’s house, even though she herself had never subscribed to them. It must be a popular one, because here it is exactly: https://www.allrecipes.com/recipe/45954/roast-sticky-chicken-rotisserie-style/ although they fail to give credit where credit is due and I always don’t put onion in the cavity because I think it gives the cooked chicken an unappetizing smell. Anyway, it turned out fantastic, at least from the steaming, juicy looks of it and the fact that not only did no one complain, the guests happily asked for one of the big drumsticks and a hefty serving of breast meat to take home with them for their lunch the next day.
The only time this recipe failed me is when I tried it on one of our egg-laying hens (breaking out of the chicken run one too many times to tear up the garden is a capital offense around here) and ended up with gristle. Now I know that these egg-laying breeds are only edible after numerous hours of stewing, and they’re so scrawny (but fatty), that even that is almost not worth the trouble.
Then, for dessert, I had made a quince pie with five of the six quinces the tree we planted our first year here finally produced. I was dubious… so much sugar!!! But, in the end, it was still quite tart and I will definitely make a quince pie the same way next year, if we are lucky enough to get more quinces. That recipe was here: https://www.allrecipes.com/recipe/211296/honey-poached-quince-pie/ although I have to say I didn’t bother with all that changing of the oven temperature or placing the pie pan on a hot baking sheet (especially as my pie pan is made of glass and I didn’t think it would be up to that sort of challenge without shattering). I just cover the edges with foil for all but the last 15 minutes and baked it at a normal apple pie baking temperature until the sauce started bubbling out the vents (which took the normal 45-50 minutes).
So, yeah, that was almost all Saturday wasted in the kitchen for a meal that took 15 minutes to eat plus the three minutes it took to eat dessert. In between there was a lot of boring conversation that I tried to alleviate by suggesting we play a game and we tried Tri-Ominos, which is sort of like dominoes but with triangles with numbers on the corners, only to discover the the wife of the business partner must have some sort of severe number dyslexia. She simply could not see where she could put her tiles down. So the game was fun for exactly no one.
Conversation is never terribly successful either. I don’t know what they do with their spare time, but it isn’t any of the things we do (listen to music, watch movies, watch tv, read books and magazines, etc), so it’s hard to find a topic with enough common ground for back and forth rather than one person just holding forth.
But these are trivial worries, compared to wondering if huge riots are about to break out and the country doomed to split into two or three or maybe into four different countries.
After flipping through the third music magazine that our neighbor brought us from the publishing company he works for, I discovered a third sampler CD of new music. At first I was suspicious–the first track was by the Eels and they’ve been around for at least 30 years, the last fifteen of which have not been worth mentioning–but I gave it a spin and now I have a new musical addiction: Ela Minus. I don’t know anything about her except that, judging from her voice, she is depressingly young. I don’t normally go for electronica, or whatever the currently hip term for it is, but I think she’s great and I love that she has a sort of bonkers way of saying things and an accent I can’t put my finger on (although she seems to come from Brooklyn).
Just fyi, her album came about about a week ago (it’s available on Bandcamp) and the videos are up on YouTube. Here is my favorite of her songs:
This weekend, I forget if it was Saturday or Sunday, Spouse came in from walking the dog and took off his handyman’s pants (that’s trousers to those of you living in those parts of the English-speaking world where pants are underwear). In true East German clothing is optional style, it took him a few minutes too long to get around to pulling on the loose black fleece bottoms of the elasticated waist, a prime example of the sort of athleisurewear his people wear around the house and he likes to refer to as his sexy pants (because they are anything but). I say a few minutes too long because I was working on my laptop in my office and I heard him squeak in alarm, just as the dog started barking because the neighbor came to the door (which, being more glass panes than wood framing, you can look straight through), catching Spouse in a pair of fire engine red underwear.
In yet another case of a good deed never going unpunished, it turns out the neighbor had come over to deliver some magazines put out by the publishing company he works for in Berlin– the most recent copies of the German version of Rolling Stone, a magazine devoted exclusively to heavy metal, and some other music magazine. I think this is a kindness done in return for the help I provided when his wife was injured and couldn’t look after the alpacas.
Anyway, oooh! I never buy magazines, but they are full of shiny pictures and I suppose I could be a good girl and buckle down and read the articles in German. The magazines also came with CDs and a tiny actual record. The record has something to do with the artist who, if I understand correctly, was once again the artist no longer merely formerly known as Prince by the time he died in 2016 (four years ago already!). But that will have to wait, since we have a refurbished record player and speakers but remain lacking the necessary amplifier to place between them to make the music sound like more than tin. So, on to the CDs.
The first one came with the Rolling Stone and is called something like their 154th edition of New Voices. Only the voices aren’t terribly new, seeing as how the CD starts with a song by Travis, a band that I first heard in the 1990s, a decade where I was already pretty far from hip to the current musical happenings.
So I turned to the CD attached to the metalhead magazine… a promotional CD from one of those dime a dozen and you’d still be rich because there are so many in Germany medieval metal bands that consists of nine or ten scruffy, leather kilt-wearing, Nordic-looking men. The titles alone are fabulous. Stuff like the German equivalent of “Middle Finger to the Future” and “Economic Growth Über Alles” plus a cover of a song lovingly entitled “We Drink Your Blood”.
The highlight of the CD, aside from the live track proving that they at least once placed Wacken, is the medley of We Will Rock You and Lady in Black played slightly off key with bagpipes and electric guitars and sung in harmony as if by pirates attacking a sea shanty. It ought to be fabulous, but…
Oh, wow, now I’m listening to the live track that proves they at least once played Wacken. It’s from the point of Prometheus, you know, they guy who brought fire to humankind, and it is all so very earnest.
Anyway, I guess this is one of their new songs that the promotional CD was meant to promote. I suspect I would like it a lot better (which it to say, at least a little bit) if, instead of a grumpy old woman, I was a 13-year old boy.