Thousands of items fit between her toes:
the stem of a marigold (she ignored it),
small chunks of pastrami (didn't stay long),
tufts from a frayed cotton swab (a "What now?" look).
When the other half of the bed came free every morning,
she filled it within seconds, her back against my chest.
I took her paw, wedged my little finger
into the tiny canyon between her toenails.
She soon rewarded me with a full-lung sigh
that gave way to a rough carol of snores to smiles.
Her name had been a truce between "Sugar" and "Scoundrel" –
month of birth the quickest way out of another boxing match.
But the decision now smarts once a year:
months never fall off their carousel –
the terrier with toe space for my heart
only got fourteen rides.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Legume in C#
"What's that smell!?"
Yep. Those were the first words out of my building supe's mouth when I opened the door (he was there to fix my cable TV connection).
"Red cow beans," I told him.
He wrinkled his nose, ignored me and went about his business, which he wrapped up quite hurriedly, probably wanting to escape my apartment and the strong odor emanating from the pot on my stove as quickly as he could.
I'm a big admirer of beans, beans of all varieties, including those that are technically not really beans. Kidney beans. Pinto beans. Black beans. Butterbeans. Navy beans. Lentils. Crowder peas. Ford Hooks. Black Eyed Peas. Field peas. Limas. And whatever else there is.
Seldom do I actually get around to cooking up a pot of beans all the way from dried to table-ready. I normally just buy a can which I open, heat, and eat in five minutes. But there does come the rare moment when I decide to cook a bag of dried beans from start to finish.
I usually put in some onion, garlic, dried chili (the HOT kind), soy sauce, sesame oil, oregano, salt and pepper. It all gets quite involved and takes at least half a day. So you see why I don't do it too often.
Now, unlike my supe, I relish the smell of cooking beans. But I understand where he's coming from. They do fill the air with a slightly heavy, harsh, bitter odor. If you don't know how to disentangle the delicate, rich odors concealed therein, and to focus on each of them like the various notes in a musical chord, you are likely to respond the way my supe did.
My favorite note from the bean chord is the full, woody, oaken-like riff that comes flowing out after the beans have been cooking for at least an hour. There's something incredible rudimentary and solid about it, like thick, rough-hewn, dark-varnished hardwood beams in a hunting lodge. It's sturdy and comforting, beyond any doubt of cracking or breaking.
The absence of sweetness is a blessing. Were any there, it would give the broad richness a cloying, nauseating scent. Fortunately, beans spare me that. They stick to their proven formula and deliver time after time. A pot of beans will never give you disco, Bach, or Elvis. Maybe zydeco is their musical equal. A lot of accordion with smidgens of gospel, blue-grass, and bullfrogs croaking on cypress knees.
Yep. Those were the first words out of my building supe's mouth when I opened the door (he was there to fix my cable TV connection).
"Red cow beans," I told him.
He wrinkled his nose, ignored me and went about his business, which he wrapped up quite hurriedly, probably wanting to escape my apartment and the strong odor emanating from the pot on my stove as quickly as he could.
I'm a big admirer of beans, beans of all varieties, including those that are technically not really beans. Kidney beans. Pinto beans. Black beans. Butterbeans. Navy beans. Lentils. Crowder peas. Ford Hooks. Black Eyed Peas. Field peas. Limas. And whatever else there is.
Seldom do I actually get around to cooking up a pot of beans all the way from dried to table-ready. I normally just buy a can which I open, heat, and eat in five minutes. But there does come the rare moment when I decide to cook a bag of dried beans from start to finish.
I usually put in some onion, garlic, dried chili (the HOT kind), soy sauce, sesame oil, oregano, salt and pepper. It all gets quite involved and takes at least half a day. So you see why I don't do it too often.
Now, unlike my supe, I relish the smell of cooking beans. But I understand where he's coming from. They do fill the air with a slightly heavy, harsh, bitter odor. If you don't know how to disentangle the delicate, rich odors concealed therein, and to focus on each of them like the various notes in a musical chord, you are likely to respond the way my supe did.
My favorite note from the bean chord is the full, woody, oaken-like riff that comes flowing out after the beans have been cooking for at least an hour. There's something incredible rudimentary and solid about it, like thick, rough-hewn, dark-varnished hardwood beams in a hunting lodge. It's sturdy and comforting, beyond any doubt of cracking or breaking.
The absence of sweetness is a blessing. Were any there, it would give the broad richness a cloying, nauseating scent. Fortunately, beans spare me that. They stick to their proven formula and deliver time after time. A pot of beans will never give you disco, Bach, or Elvis. Maybe zydeco is their musical equal. A lot of accordion with smidgens of gospel, blue-grass, and bullfrogs croaking on cypress knees.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
"Just How Sick Are You, Mr. Taylor?"
Life in Germany has several benefits that I greatly appreciate: very good public transportation (I don't own a car and don't need or want one), fantastic electronic banking (haven't had to interface with a bank employee for nearly two years), good health care (although this is gradually eroding as the populace grows older and is placing greater burdens on the system).
And then there are the things that I miss (compared to life in California):
a) Good Mexican food. Of course, this one only makes sense since Mexico is not right next door. Fortunately, it makes up for it by offering numerous and wonderful Turkish, Italian, Greek, and even Indian restaurants. Still has a way to go on Asian restaurants, however.
b) The Pacific Ocean and the great beaches it offers. Germany does have the North Sea and the Baltic Sea coastlines, but they are largely different in nature from the Pacific coastline: next to no waves, often pond-like in nature. Cold to very cold for most of the year. Beachline water that is very shallow, allowing you to wade out for quite a ways before you get in over your head.
c) Large drugstores. The drugstores here are very small and can generally be considered pharmacies that sell a few non-prescription items. They don't feature the large and long aisles of everything that you could possibly want so common in American drugstores. There's growing pressure to change this, but at present German law has some tight restrictions on the pharmacy branch.
For example, you will not find any large chains of drugstores here because German law prohibits the large-scale franchising of drugstores. A pharmacy owner may operate at most three different stores. Thus, most pharmacies here are owner-operated. The three drugstores I visit most often (one next to the company where I work, one on the same block as my apartment, and one downtown) have standing room for no more than 10 people at a time. Just as you have to interface with a pharmacist for all prescription items, you also have to do so for most non-prescription health products and sundries. If you want aspirin or ibuprofen, for example, you can't just walk down an aisle that offers a variety of over-the-counter products and select the one you want. You have to tell the pharmacist exactly what you need. The pharmacist (who, by the way, are all very well trained) then asks you several questions to define exactly what your condition is (which, depending on your condition, can be slightly embarrassing since all the other customers waiting for service also get to hear the conversation). Once that is settled, the pharmacist runs into a stockroom behind the counter and fetches a product for you. Unless you know the exact name of the product you want, you get what they bring you. The pharmacist then gives you explicit instructions on how to apply or administer the product as if it were a prescription items.
And then there's the prescription drug aspect. The heavily regulated health care system here (which often falls under the term "socialized medicine") defines exactly which product make each patient may receive. For example, if your doctor writes you a prescription for high blood pressure medication, your health care provider (basically, an HMO) defines exactly which manufacturer of the product is allowed in your case. As there are dozens, if not hundreds, of different manufacturers that operate in Germany, this all gets very complicated. The pharmacist does not simply ask whether you want a name-brand or generic preparation. They, instead, look up your name and insurance number in their computer, which is connected to a national database that defines the exact pharmaceutical manufacturer and product that you are allowed to receive. As there are so many different manufacturers, this of course means that the pharmacy almost never has the exact product that you are allowed to receive. Instead, the pharmacist ends up having to tell you that they can order the product from a giant wholesaler somewhere and that they will have the product in hand either later that day or by the next day. Thus, you invariably find yourself having to make at least two trips to the pharmacy.
Which is good reason to have one that is near where you live or work. Fortunately, this is almost never a problem, because in cities you can find a pharmacy (or two!) on almost every block of every street.
When I first came to Germany, this system irritated me quite a bit. But, after a while, you mostly get used to it. Still, I do miss those giant American drugstores with their long self-service aisles that allow you personally to compare products and prices, and then select the one you want. The service I get here is generally very good, but I always finding myself wondering what else is on those shelves in that secret storeroom in the back and what is the difference in prices. I slightly resent always being forced to place such decisions (even minor ones) in someone else's hands.
And then there are the things that I miss (compared to life in California):
a) Good Mexican food. Of course, this one only makes sense since Mexico is not right next door. Fortunately, it makes up for it by offering numerous and wonderful Turkish, Italian, Greek, and even Indian restaurants. Still has a way to go on Asian restaurants, however.
b) The Pacific Ocean and the great beaches it offers. Germany does have the North Sea and the Baltic Sea coastlines, but they are largely different in nature from the Pacific coastline: next to no waves, often pond-like in nature. Cold to very cold for most of the year. Beachline water that is very shallow, allowing you to wade out for quite a ways before you get in over your head.
c) Large drugstores. The drugstores here are very small and can generally be considered pharmacies that sell a few non-prescription items. They don't feature the large and long aisles of everything that you could possibly want so common in American drugstores. There's growing pressure to change this, but at present German law has some tight restrictions on the pharmacy branch.
For example, you will not find any large chains of drugstores here because German law prohibits the large-scale franchising of drugstores. A pharmacy owner may operate at most three different stores. Thus, most pharmacies here are owner-operated. The three drugstores I visit most often (one next to the company where I work, one on the same block as my apartment, and one downtown) have standing room for no more than 10 people at a time. Just as you have to interface with a pharmacist for all prescription items, you also have to do so for most non-prescription health products and sundries. If you want aspirin or ibuprofen, for example, you can't just walk down an aisle that offers a variety of over-the-counter products and select the one you want. You have to tell the pharmacist exactly what you need. The pharmacist (who, by the way, are all very well trained) then asks you several questions to define exactly what your condition is (which, depending on your condition, can be slightly embarrassing since all the other customers waiting for service also get to hear the conversation). Once that is settled, the pharmacist runs into a stockroom behind the counter and fetches a product for you. Unless you know the exact name of the product you want, you get what they bring you. The pharmacist then gives you explicit instructions on how to apply or administer the product as if it were a prescription items.
And then there's the prescription drug aspect. The heavily regulated health care system here (which often falls under the term "socialized medicine") defines exactly which product make each patient may receive. For example, if your doctor writes you a prescription for high blood pressure medication, your health care provider (basically, an HMO) defines exactly which manufacturer of the product is allowed in your case. As there are dozens, if not hundreds, of different manufacturers that operate in Germany, this all gets very complicated. The pharmacist does not simply ask whether you want a name-brand or generic preparation. They, instead, look up your name and insurance number in their computer, which is connected to a national database that defines the exact pharmaceutical manufacturer and product that you are allowed to receive. As there are so many different manufacturers, this of course means that the pharmacy almost never has the exact product that you are allowed to receive. Instead, the pharmacist ends up having to tell you that they can order the product from a giant wholesaler somewhere and that they will have the product in hand either later that day or by the next day. Thus, you invariably find yourself having to make at least two trips to the pharmacy.
Which is good reason to have one that is near where you live or work. Fortunately, this is almost never a problem, because in cities you can find a pharmacy (or two!) on almost every block of every street.
When I first came to Germany, this system irritated me quite a bit. But, after a while, you mostly get used to it. Still, I do miss those giant American drugstores with their long self-service aisles that allow you personally to compare products and prices, and then select the one you want. The service I get here is generally very good, but I always finding myself wondering what else is on those shelves in that secret storeroom in the back and what is the difference in prices. I slightly resent always being forced to place such decisions (even minor ones) in someone else's hands.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Egg White Lies
Nothing more than a few stragglers
of graying snow and you're late again.
I order anyway:
bacon, grits, biscuits, two poachies.
Ten minutes and I'm served
like I had no time to kill:
grits in center, eggs an inch apart at one edge,
bacon and biscuits on a second plate.
I drop a biscuit in the middle of the grits,
lay one strip of bacon opposite the eggs,
one strip each above them.
The waitress gives me a dirty look.
My eyes fall back on the plate.
Round yellow eyes stare at the ceiling,
waiting for my fork to vent their tears.
But I'm in no hurry –
time to test the spillway
of breakfast art and waitress indulgence.
ring-ring
"I'll never make it there on these roads," you say.
"Let's reschedule."
"No problem," I reply,
recalling the last flake
fell a week ago.
of graying snow and you're late again.
I order anyway:
bacon, grits, biscuits, two poachies.
Ten minutes and I'm served
like I had no time to kill:
grits in center, eggs an inch apart at one edge,
bacon and biscuits on a second plate.
I drop a biscuit in the middle of the grits,
lay one strip of bacon opposite the eggs,
one strip each above them.
The waitress gives me a dirty look.
My eyes fall back on the plate.
Round yellow eyes stare at the ceiling,
waiting for my fork to vent their tears.
But I'm in no hurry –
time to test the spillway
of breakfast art and waitress indulgence.
ring-ring
"I'll never make it there on these roads," you say.
"Let's reschedule."
"No problem," I reply,
recalling the last flake
fell a week ago.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Pill-Os
In the past, my head often would not let me fall to sleep. Actually, this happened nearly every night. It started years ago...hmm, now that I think about it, the actual year was 1960. When the lights went out and my head touched the pillow, things at first seemed peaceful. But then some tiny little voice, as naggy and irritating as Woody Allen's, started whining in my cerebrum. Every time I almost fell asleep, that sliced-up little voice would suddenly shout out and jolt me back to the Land of No Sleep. This happened again and again, sometimes all the way till sunup.
I finally sought help. To be honest, I sought help many times, many many times, but it took about 29 years until I found anyone who could shut that damn little voice up.
And the solution proved to be so simple. A tiny little pill. A tiny little white, round pill. It looks like a compact, condensed miniature white couch cushion, no bigger than...well, an Aspirin. But it's not an Aspirin. I tried those things for years. Who are we kidding? That's sort of like trying to stop the Armageddon Meteorite with (sorry) an Aspirin.
So I place that tiny (not-Aspirin) little white round more-than-a-cushion in my palm each night, pitch it into my mouth, swallow it down with (not-bottled) water, and wait. 10, 15, 20 minutes. Ah! There it goes.
Off with the TV. Out with the light. Head down on the pill-o(w). Eyes shut. Count a few sheep (the cool neon-blue ones on a black starry background are my favorite). 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12..13...14.....15.......16..........17...................17..................................
I finally sought help. To be honest, I sought help many times, many many times, but it took about 29 years until I found anyone who could shut that damn little voice up.
And the solution proved to be so simple. A tiny little pill. A tiny little white, round pill. It looks like a compact, condensed miniature white couch cushion, no bigger than...well, an Aspirin. But it's not an Aspirin. I tried those things for years. Who are we kidding? That's sort of like trying to stop the Armageddon Meteorite with (sorry) an Aspirin.
So I place that tiny (not-Aspirin) little white round more-than-a-cushion in my palm each night, pitch it into my mouth, swallow it down with (not-bottled) water, and wait. 10, 15, 20 minutes. Ah! There it goes.
Off with the TV. Out with the light. Head down on the pill-o(w). Eyes shut. Count a few sheep (the cool neon-blue ones on a black starry background are my favorite). 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12..13...14.....15.......16..........17...................17..................................
Killer Tomatoes
Ha! And you thought it was just a bad B movie. Well, Hollywood didn't make this one. Someone out there is spraying nasty little (virtually) invisible critters on one of the entire world's major food habits. This could be serious. For decades, even centuries, now, that wonderful round red vegetable (fruit?) has been one of the few things tying all of humanity together. The Israelis eat 'em. The Palestinians eat 'em. The Iranians eat 'em. Nuke-happy American presidents eat 'em. Even Eskimos eat 'em. (Forgive me, I couldn't think of anyone who is a mortal foe of the Eskimos.) They all eat 'em, eat 'em, and eat 'em some more.
My theory: This is all merely a ploy by national politicians to take our collective minds off gas prices. After all, our elected ones know that there is absolutely nothing they can do about gas prices. Prices are up, and they are just going to keep going that way. But the Killer Tomato scare is not so chronic. After all 99.99 % of all tomatoes are actually OK. Plus, the fact that nobody is now eating tomatoes means that produce warehouses are piling up with tomatoes, overflowing with tomatoes, throwing rotting tomatoes away. And the market price for tomatoes is falling through the floor. So, in a couple of weeks, 100% healthy tomatoes will be back on the market, and they will be cheaper than ever. All that money you save when you buy tomatoes will quickly add up to enough to pay for your next gallon of gas. Send your Grats to your Congress(wo)man!
My theory: This is all merely a ploy by national politicians to take our collective minds off gas prices. After all, our elected ones know that there is absolutely nothing they can do about gas prices. Prices are up, and they are just going to keep going that way. But the Killer Tomato scare is not so chronic. After all 99.99 % of all tomatoes are actually OK. Plus, the fact that nobody is now eating tomatoes means that produce warehouses are piling up with tomatoes, overflowing with tomatoes, throwing rotting tomatoes away. And the market price for tomatoes is falling through the floor. So, in a couple of weeks, 100% healthy tomatoes will be back on the market, and they will be cheaper than ever. All that money you save when you buy tomatoes will quickly add up to enough to pay for your next gallon of gas. Send your Grats to your Congress(wo)man!
Tor! Tor! Tor!
It could get crazy here tonight. Germany and Turkey are playing each in the semi-final of the European soccer championship. To understand what this means, you need to know that Turks are the second largest nationality in Germany. Some 2.5 to 3 million of them in a total population of 82 million. I'll skip the historical reasons for this and just give you my take on how things currently stand. I've been living here for about 10 years now, and I always get the feeling that the Germans and Turks don't much like each other, yet they would not be able to exist without each other. I'm also not going to try to dissect that one. Personally, I live in a city district with one of the highest percentages of non-Germans. Lots of Africans and Asians of all varieties here. And lots of Turks. I love it. It's an environment I feel completely at home in. Previously, I lived in a district that was comprised largely of upper middle-class Germans. I was miserable. All that sameness and correctness just left me feeling hopeless. There seemed to be no color, no joy. So I moved.
At the moment, I have my apartment window open, as I do every night during the summer. I never watch soccer, but I always know when a goal is scored: Sudden deep male-voiced screams, either of great joy or great disappointment erupt from every apartment building on the block. Then, after half a minute or so, everything is absolutely silent again. It always leaves me feeling safe, as if the world is fully in order and running smoothly. Cold water comes out of the faucet when I turn the COLD knob, and hot water comes out when I turn the HOT knob. The TV remote control works. I can log in and log out from this blog. Sometimes, things just work the way planned.
At the moment, I have my apartment window open, as I do every night during the summer. I never watch soccer, but I always know when a goal is scored: Sudden deep male-voiced screams, either of great joy or great disappointment erupt from every apartment building on the block. Then, after half a minute or so, everything is absolutely silent again. It always leaves me feeling safe, as if the world is fully in order and running smoothly. Cold water comes out of the faucet when I turn the COLD knob, and hot water comes out when I turn the HOT knob. The TV remote control works. I can log in and log out from this blog. Sometimes, things just work the way planned.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Cat Swimming
OK. I admit it. I'm a white-collar guy with a blue-collar mind. The bank is constantly beseeching me to invest in some fancy retirement package. But I can't deal with it. All that caution and planning and foresight. It gives me a caged feeling, like a catfish swimming round and round in the fisherman's bucket. The end is gonna come one way or another. It's so crystal clear that someone else is going to skin me that I can't understand why I should do it to myself. I wish I had been a soldier in Alexander the Great's army. Fight and die. With glory. Stay on the road 11 months of the year. No cell phone. No blackberry. No grocery store sushi. Win a war, lose a leg. Those were the days. I just keep swimming, round and round, nervously pulling at my whiskers.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Morning Tea
Five thousand years of drinkable wisdom,
as rusty-clear and timely as the rooster's crow,
catch the shower of tiny white diamonds,
swallow their sparkle,
swell away their points and edges.
Two stirs, no more – a day in its starting blocks
deserves a long breath of unforced physics.
The porcelain, a scant degree shy of hot, takes my hand,
woos a marriage from fingers still miffed
at being torn from blankets and pillows.
My thumb curves upward, at sunrise crawl,
its back tracing the smooth, inner slope of the handle.
Instinct coaxes my chin and eyelids lower
with devilish promises that submission and darkness
are the perfect escorts to exponential pleasure.
The first sip issues a zesty tenor, almost sharp,
a tinge of wild pecan and green persimmon,
enough to jolt my eyes back open.
The ones that follow wander the orchestra,
finally settling on tones of comfort
from the morning's mandolin.
I give the cup half a swirl
just to watch the last few granules spring free,
a moment of play for a wrinkling child of fifty.
as rusty-clear and timely as the rooster's crow,
catch the shower of tiny white diamonds,
swallow their sparkle,
swell away their points and edges.
Two stirs, no more – a day in its starting blocks
deserves a long breath of unforced physics.
The porcelain, a scant degree shy of hot, takes my hand,
woos a marriage from fingers still miffed
at being torn from blankets and pillows.
My thumb curves upward, at sunrise crawl,
its back tracing the smooth, inner slope of the handle.
Instinct coaxes my chin and eyelids lower
with devilish promises that submission and darkness
are the perfect escorts to exponential pleasure.
The first sip issues a zesty tenor, almost sharp,
a tinge of wild pecan and green persimmon,
enough to jolt my eyes back open.
The ones that follow wander the orchestra,
finally settling on tones of comfort
from the morning's mandolin.
I give the cup half a swirl
just to watch the last few granules spring free,
a moment of play for a wrinkling child of fifty.
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