On Food: love and hate, Part 2 A red horses. A curious
Detail in the life of the family butcher, was that they kept horses. For fun, not for eating. The Butcher family had at least three children who were out all day and always wore riding boots and schlammbespritzte old sweatpants. I was very jealous of this wild, free life, although my children and their horses were too scary.
I grew up between the shelves of a small-town bookstore, where I spent a lot of time, all kinds of texts in me to suck on. My adventures were to occasionally fall into the neighbor's yard of a tree (allowed by the neighbors, however, not by my parents), with the four daughters of neighbors over fences allotment site to climb (even illegally) and me at the pool's neck to twist to older boys (which is not interested in year-old little girl).
But horses and slaughterhouses were definitely not my typical environment. The children of the butcher's family lived out there almost always close to their horses and always somehow engaged with them. I can not remember that there had ever been a different matter. So I found myself on a visit to my horror suddenly in the middle of a muddy coupling again, circling around me a dirty white horse on a longe line. On the fence sat the butcher children and their curious friends and cried to me; how should I manage it, using a pack and start a daring leap to around the belly of the mold and strapped Voltigiergurt me to jump on the horse's back. I've actually managed to me is still a mystery. I have had a sudden attack of courage.
Much fascinating I found the birth of Kurt. Kurt was a foal that was born on the Schlachterhof. Long the family had watched the pregnant mare and just as I came by to visit, Kurt had been born just minutes earlier. A whole series of people were gathered in the stable and pursued, based on the pit fence at the scene. The foal was in the straw, still wet, and was nudged by his mother constantly, so it finally got up. Unfortunately, Kurt has not been a long life, for no sooner had grown, he died of volvulus.
My grandfather was always worried that his grandchildren would be emasculated by the constant reading. Since he owned to his chagrin sons or male grandchild, my older sister and I were the sole aim of his ideal of an independent, courageous young. Who howled, was a coward and who wanted to sit inside and read, a poor climber. But the butcher children and their horses were popular, my grandfather. They corresponded exactly with his idea and came close to how he grew up was, on a small farm in Silesia, without a father. In that regard it was of course my fat little grandfather in his eternally the same gray sweater and shapeless pants, followed by head shaking, as his frightened granddaughter between the wild country of children, tried to attract attention as much.
On another occasion, I got called into the house because the head of the family wanted to meet me. Nervous about what awaited me well, I found myself alone in a corner room of the house. A bay window overlooked the fields outside of Lübeck, the view was directly on the paddock, where the young - and still living - Kurt capers made. The room, like the whole house was dedicated to the topic of horses. On the walls, engravings of horses, pictures of children on horses, pedigrees of horses and on the shelves of books about horses. In the bay window was a desk on which stands the sculpture of a proud stallion with aufgebäumtem neck. They impressed me most. I was so absorbed in watching that I did not notice how the landlady came in and approached me. When she asked me why I looked at the sculpture so intense, I was frightened terribly. I immediately wondered if perhaps I had done something improper. But they just wanted to know exactly what the horse to me for so impress. Totally confused indicating that an adult is seriously interested in my opinion seemed, I stammered a response.
The old lady was dark-haired, slender and held very erect. The stature of a typical rider, I could imagine if I had known then. And she was very respekteinflössend, almost Prussian in its severity, and yet not unfriendly. But I was too nervous to get much of the friendliness.
The World on the Schlachtershof was a complete stranger to me. She did not just different than what I knew, they smelled and sounded different. People had a different relationship to animals, to dirt and for food. And above all, As for the processing of recently killed animals for food. I knew sausages, minced meat and chicken cutlets. Everything reminded yet prepared optically clear on living things disgusted me. Already terrified a whole roast chicken or a roast me. That my grandmother told me once a piece of fat pork rind (and determined this was from the famous butcher) to snack on, gave me only has therefore not cause nausea, because they no longer comment on pig remembered and so I did not know what I'm about gnawing. Eating outside of my home I was afraid to stay with my grandparents made me too scared and eating with my grandparents was the most dangerous.
ago joined about 2 weeks, an ad in our mailing list with the statement: "Ick wants dit" (symbolically writes the hack!) All right, come around! First mail contact and a meeting was clear later - boy! (To quote Smikey " sky, ass and thread !") Of the hats on it! No Miracle. 20 years professional Mucke, many tours wind chill, 35 fingers and a metronome at a time gefuttert for breakfast, was our Wortadapteur the tram overhead line almost bought. They met now for the collective riot brushes in the rock house and what can I say? We had a bomb of fun - just makes more fun 'n Tornado auf'm camping! Now a sample of more-we know that we are the next concerts - the former will contest in Hamburg with him and he says to himself: "No matter - Rock'n'Roll! "children of the type put us all in the pocket (although his are too small - because his bass is taller than he - kidding on the edge ...) 
