Love,
Tara
The last time you were in Europe, you were a precocious teenager. Equipped with only your Brother's sage advice of "Don't shave your armpits. If someone sees you with shaved underarms, they'll assume you're a prostitute." I imagine you would be in for a different experience this time around. For better or worse, I imagine Europe looks a lot different than it did more than thirty years ago, and I would like to show you around. More so, MOM, your grandkids miss you. So please, get on that passport thingy and come and visit us. I miss you too. Love, Tara HAPPY SAD
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Apartment hunting proved to be a difficult challenge for us. When we found our flat, we loved it immediately, but it was unfinished. Even by German standards. The owners had run out of capital to finish the reno and we stepped in and agreed to finish it for them, in exchange we paid less commission than was originally asked. Fast forward a couple of months, the owners now bankrupt and our flat is now owned by the bank. Enter the appraiser. We had previous experience with appraisers while selling our own home, and they're a scary lot. Sunday was all about cleaning the house to make sure that we appeared to be ideal tenants. Monday morning was all about making sure that the kids stood stationary in a corner until the appraiser showed up, lest they dare dump their bin of Playmobil toys all over the floor. I told Eloise, in my least dramatic voice, that a lawyer was coming and the house HAD to stay clean or else Mommy would go to jail. I would have gotten away with this threat had we not visited an old jail the day before. "Oh, that's okay Mommy. Jail isn't that scary, it just has lots of ghosts." Why won't my kids take me seriously?!? The old "Zwinger" is one of the original buildings in Münster. It's ancient. It's peppered history includes being a secret Gestapo prison. Forced labourers, Polish and Russian, were hanged in the courtyard for trivial crimes, stealing bread, loving a German woman, etc.. It now houses a modern art exhibit including a hundred hammers that tap on the interior walls, meant to mimic the communication between prisoners. It's eerie.
The prison has been left relatively untouched since its destruction by the Allies. As you walk around, unguided, you get a real sense of history. Interior bricks remain on the ground where they landed, rickety stairs stay rickety, the cells are still covered in dirt, the pathways dark as night. But it has an almost ethereal quality too. Nature has taken over and there is a juxtaposition of beauty and brutality that creates a stillness in the air, an invitation to reflect. Thanks to Grandma and Granddad, the whole female side of the family was able to make it over to Germany in time for Aaron's 30th Birthday. The days were filled to the brim with the stuff memories are made of. Claudia and Eloise have a new favourite person in their niece Charlotte, and it was nice for siblings to be together again. Donna and I made a habit out of grocery shopping together, and I didn't touch a dirty dish once this week. Donna brought her own supplies to attend to said task, which brought up a whole sponge vs dishcloth debate. We all ate too much, drank too much, and wished for more time to do it all in. Bright eyes. Aaron's little sister Katrina. On a boat. Parkin it with Grandma. We love the Netherlands! We even played good samaritan by helping a woman look for her lost wedding ring, which was discovered half an hour later at the bottom of her boot. Super duper snuggle fest. Every day, all day. xoxo
I'm just coming off of the buzz of having 8 people under our roof for a week. I have lots of stories to share, including how I received a multi pack of scouring sponges as a hostess gift (it came with a live in dishwasher) and how much I miss waking up to my little niece's smiles every morning. But for now, just a quick photo filled with colours that make me feel calm and restful. What can I say? I'm a sucker for greige.
Dressed to impress, this recipe is dead simple to execute. Make it once and you'll never need to look at the recipe again. Go to your market and buy local, in-season asparagus and you can give yourself a smack on the back for being such a conscientious at-home chef. You will need:
Preheat your oven to 375 degrees. Prepare your asparagus. Lop the woody inch off of the bottom of each spear. If using white asparagus, be sure to peel the entire stalk. I cut the asparagus in half lengthwise, and then set aside. Roll out your pastry and with a sharp knife, score the pastry about an inch away from the edge, around the periphery of the pastry. Be careful not to cut through. Bake for 10-15 minutes until just golden and remove from the oven. Bash the middle down with a spoon, until all the puffiness is gone. Your scoring made a magical crust. Go you! Now bash the hell out the middle, leave the crust alone. Spread your creme fraiche mixture over the bashed down surface, add your cheese and then arrange your asparagus along the width, alternating the direction of each spear if you're fancy. Drizzle olive oil over the top. Return to the oven and bake for another 20 minutes, or until you're worried the crust is about to burn. With a large knife, cut the tart into squares and serve with a crisp white wine. Enjoy!
So we took the kids to the park on Saturday, when all of a sudden I saw a sailor. Confident that I wasn't dreaming, I looked again and saw that the sailor had an accordion. In no time, I was being serenaded by a German Sailor Trio. Novelty aside, these accordion playing sailors were full of shits and giggles. We decided to move on from the spectacle before us, only to come upon another troupe, and another, and another. All along the promenade, bands had gathered. We stopped to listen to a mini orchestra, and decided to find a spot on the grass to listen some more. An hour later and the band played on. Aaron remarked how each musician seemed perfectly suited to their instrument, a fat tuba player, a delicate piccolo player and this guy: The hat, the sunglasses, goodness gracious. I have it on good authority that the saxophone is cool again, and this might just be the epitome of cool. Don't you think?
*update: Apparently I know what's cool as much as I know my brass instruments. He's playing a trumpet, not a sax. I still like his hat though. Schnüllerbaum is a tree at the neighbourhood park that holds onto childhood as much as an old photo does. When we decided that the girls were done with their soothers, we did what most parents do and went out to buy ear plugs, drank wine and played music loudly every night until they stopped crying. In Münster, however, parents meet on the first Wednesday of the month to ascend a cherry picker and hang their child's soother from this tree. And then, ever after, their children can come and mourn their soothers like a loved one who visits a grave.
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