If I used my grandmother visited, I often went for a walk with her in the fields outside the village.
We were talking mostly about what is happening around us, animals and plants that we saw. Sometimes my grandmother pointed out to me when they saw a bird of prey in the sky. Dark silhouettes moved slowly down large circles and fired abruptly after chasing a mouse. Especially the red kites had it done to her, she said. Because they are rare, and because it is between the other birds immediately attracted attention.
As we stood between the fields and our view wander across the plain to the horizon, made them pointed at a Milan, whose outline looming in front of the dazzling summer sky:
"When I am dead and you see a red kite, you know that I am."
And now every time I see a bird of prey, I hope it is a red kite.
The film, "Delicatessen" by Jean Pierre Jeunet, one of my absolute favorite.
I'm sometimes sensitive when it comes to food. Offal, for example, are not really me . Enthuse Since I am a curious person always on the other hand, I try but mostly from new or unusual foods. I do not like heart, I decided after I had a Japanese barbecue restaurant on a chewed extensively. It tasted so alive.
My gym teacher in high school (small, stocky,) was married to a Brazilian (small, delicate). Both had a daughter who (oh, Gene!) Was so tiny that it looked like the puppet version of a small child. Occasionally, the sports teacher brought his tiny daughter to class and placed so that each activity lame in the course. Huge basketball player leaned fascinated by the tiny Girl, put his head back to look at them. One of the times he brought a bag from Brazil originally, roasted and chocolate-covered ants. The attraction was just too big, I had to try them. It had already cost the teacher some persuasion, to him, we believed that we had real ants in front of us and no strange carnival joke. I was almost disappointed: The ants tasted of not much, except for chocolate. Quite crispy. But otherwise unspectacular.
quite different my childhood memories of my grandparents. My grandmother cooked really do not like, and therefore not particularly good. You was rather on the sofa, reading trashy novels and eating vast quantities Mon Cherie, after eight and Ferrero kisses. The scrap of paper into which the candies were wrapped, we found decades later, when cleaning the sofa crevices. From Koch pain warmed my grandmother therefore canned vegetables, and touched with thick sauces finished powder. All this could probably not count as "good bourgeois," it was just very unimaginative. One time my grandmother deeply offended when my mother smuggled a clove of garlic in the pot with the Sunday roast and the verdict of my grandfather (on the table, striking and full-mouth) then read: "Man, woman tastes not bad!". His wife, with "woman" to address corresponded to the humor of my grandpas. If my grandmother used fresh ingredients, so this came out of the allotment of my grandparents. Or the butcher. The butcher was in fact a friend of my grandfather. As my grandpa in another era, before I was born, was an electrician, he helped the butcher-friend, sometimes with its cooling system. For the service unofficially settled my grandfather was paid in kind, which meant that he wrapped completely absurd amounts of meat every possible origin in pink paper was presented.
was the special feature for me is that I come on these trips in the Slaughterhouse was allowed. The operation was located on a former farm on the outskirts of Lübeck, and belonged to a family whose members are from the grandmother to the grandchildren were all somehow involved with the work. The family was very proud of their slaughter and that they killed themselves and yet all manufactured products themselves. In the courtyard was a former pigsty, in which the now-dead pigs were processed into sausages. I was afraid a little bit flat before the dark building, were seen in the still empty sty, pale pink pork naked from the ceiling hung.
was obviously a part of the pickled pork, because I can remember pans made of tin plate, which contained the brine and the meat pieces. The tanks could have been so flat that I look with my six years into it. Spellbound as I stared down at the swollen flesh that I could still make empty eye sockets and hairless snouts. My horror was increased only by the battle Erin themselves, in a white rubber apron coming towards me to bow out to awe-inspiring size down to me. Their lobster-red from the Lake hands were immersed in rubber gloves, and with her right hand she held me against a pickled pig's ear: pink-whitish lapped it between their fingers and shone still wet. With booming voice, she praised me on this particular delicacy, an honor for me that I could enjoy just because I had such a helpful grandfather. I never have the friendship of my grandfather a butcher more enchanted. I think I'm just a pillar of salt solidifies appropriately.
