Our German landlord just brought us a bucket of plums from his property. I would love to make a great plum kuchen, a tart, some jam, etc. Any favorite recipes out there? I’d love it if you’d share.
So a Roman and two nuns walk into a wine barge. . .
Oh, no, no–this is a serious post about a day trip we took some weeks ago, and I’m just now getting around to writing this. We loved the day we spent in Trier, and this fabulous city deserves a closer look than I’m giving you here, but I wanted to get some impressions down before they fade from my addled brain.
I’ll focus on just a few things from our trip: the fact that Trier is an ancient Roman town (and plenty of its Roman heritage is still a vibrant part of daily life in the city), the beautiful churches and religious heritage here, and the wine culture that abounds in the region and town.
But not in that order. Let’s start with the wine. All the best parties start with the wine, right? Besides, our approach to Trier was through the winding roads of the Mosel Valley, flanked by beautiful green vineyards, and our walk into the old section of the city lead us past an intriguing first site:
The Wine Barge and its Rowers: We entered the pedestrian zone of the Town Center close by Weinstube Kesselstatt (a wine garden). Of course, I had to stop and take a photo. Not because the wine garden was picturesque, although it was. (And serene, as you might guess from my sleeping son in the foreground.) But because of the large Roman stone carving out front: a Roman barge loaded down with wine barrels and oarsmen.
It’s enchanting both for the reminder of how deeply ensconced in its wine culture this region is, and also for the quality of life in its faces. The oarsmen’s excertion is so vivid that a moment’s pause will have you pulling out a hanky to wipe the beads of sweat from their foreheads. (It did appear there, didn’t it? I could swear I saw it…)
And, to be sure, these oarsmen should be breaking a sweat. The Romans planted vineyards along the Mosel and the Rhine to produce wine for their many garrisons. . .and production hasn’t stopped since. I’ve read somewhere that the Mosel region is Germany’s third largest wine producer, but first in terms of presitige. Reislings from this area are quite good!
The wine country in the Mosel: As you drive toward Trier, you’ll wind through the lovely Mosel wine region. Both sides of the road and the river are flanked by vineyards. It’s absolutely beautiful country, and the trip would be worthwhile even if you did nothing but amble around and enjoy the scenery. I can’t offer much insight into the individual wineries here–I’ll have to research that on a more liesurely trip–but the drive is heaven!
Vineyards along the Mosel River
The Nuns: I’m sure that few people would consider a superfluity of nuns to be a tourist attraction. But they did add atmosphere, and more than a little gravitas, to the cathedral. Coupled with the fact that the cathedral was mostly closed off for a service when we were there, they also served as a reminder that we were visiting a living place, not just a tourist attraction or an historical artifact. That always breathes some life and enchantment into a place.
I wasn’t able to capture the nuns on film, as they were surprisingly quick footed and I was busy explaining the concept of a nun to my son. But I found this fabulous photo of nuns in Trier on Flicker. After Maria von Trapp, we always knew that nuns were up for a little fun. And here they are browsing the market in Trier, pausing at a flower stall and headed toward the carousel. (Anyway, I’d like to assume that they’re headed to the carousel.)
Nuns in town square, flickr.com
The Cathedral and Chapel: Because there were services going on, I didn’t pull out my camera for many photos, but the Trierer Dom and the Liebfrauenkirche (Church of Our Lady) are exquisite, and boast the title of oldest cathedral in the country. It was built upon the foundations of an older Roman structure. The structure sits only a few blocks from the Roman basilica (the Aula Palatina–the old throne hall of the emperor), a structure that impresses by virtue of both size and beauty. But the cathedral seems larger and more beautiful still–I’m sure the Roman Emperors would roll over in their graves at that comparison.
The Romans: If you Google Trier, one of the first things you discover is that it is an ancient Roman town–perhaps the oldest city in Germany. The Romans called the town Augusta Treverorum, and it was an important economic center–surely because of the river and a Roman road that came through the town (including a bridge over the Mosel).
The most dramatic reminder of this history is the Porta Negra gate (photo below). It may no longer guard the city walls, but it’s certainly still a focal point for those who visit. Although my son knows a little Roman history–largely thanks to the British Horrible Histories series and its treatment of the Rotten Romans–he was more intrigued by his ability to find odd shapes and “pictures” in the walls of the stone structure than by the structure’s powerful mass, architectural prowess, or historical import. Puts those Rotten Romans in perspective, doesn’t it?
I pulled the rouladen (German rolling shutters) down tight before bed last night. Not to darken our rooms, but to keep the chill out. Then I woke hungry this morning–hungry for heat and sun. For summer. The rouladen were holding back the chill of a 44 degree (Fahrenheit) morning.
This is liquid yum! See the recipe below for a Pimms Cup.
Summer has been hesitant in the Rhineland these past two weeks–she’s given in way too early to cold and wet autumn. But I’m hopeful. I’m hopeful that she’ll be back for what we southerners call Indian Summer–an unseasonably late heat wave. I’d like to be scorched, for just a few days, to complain about the heat, the sweat that begins at 7 a.m., the stifling humidity. I’d settle for a day without a jacket and for an evening on the balcony, sleeveless and sipping Pimms.
The perfect summer drink–a Pimms Cup. Millions of Brits think so, and so does this one time transplant from the South. It’s not just for wedding parties or Wimbledon or the Royal Ascot. It’s pure summer deliciousness on a balmy day, OR the perfect taste of balmy-berry-sweetness-and-ginger-bite-sunshine when the day needs some reminding that it is, in fact, summertime.
According to the BBC, James Pimm, a London restaurateur, began selling the elixir in the 1840’s. Within a few decades the drink had become outrageously popular. If marketing slogans can reliably note a product’s popularity, consider this slogan from the 1930’s: We had to let the west wing go, but thank heavens we can still afford our Pimm’s.
Yes, we all have to have our priorities, and there are days when I might have traded my kingdom for a Pimms. . . especially if that Pimms came with a warm and sunny day attached.
Pimms No. 1 is a gin based drink with an infusion of bitters and herbs. I’m not a gin girl–it’s always tasted like pine needles to me–but the magic they work on Pimms is undeniable. Over the years, other recipes have been introduced, featuring whiskey, brandy, rum, rye, and vodka. At present, only Pimms No. 1 and Pimms No. 6 (vodka based) are being produced.
A traditional take on the Pimms Cup:
Mix one part Pimm’s with two or three parts ginger ale (preferably a strong ginger ale) over ice.
Add mint leaves, strawberry slices, thin cucumber slices, and raspberry or orange slices if you like. (We’ve even dropped a little watermelon in, and it was very tasty.)
You can mix this by the glass or by the pitcherful.
I know a few folk who love a good Pimms Royal, which is a mix of Pimms and Champagne. I haven’t tried it, but if the weather ever turns back to summer here, I’ll try a spot on my balcony and then get back to you with my thoughts.
Recently, another blogger I follow took note of the Germans’ penchant for pork. Took issue with it, really. And, while I think taking aim at another cultures’ tastebuds is a thorny undertaking at best, I do feel a little sympathy for other people who are swine-averse in Germany. There’s no easy way to steer clear of the pig when in the Palatinate.
And I should know. I am not a sausage eater. I don’t mind the aroma, the spice, the bite of garlic or pepper–those are all fabulous…seductive, even.
Not sure I like the idea of sausage, but sausage is not really one of those things anyone should think too closely about, so that’s not the problem.
I’m just allergic to pork. So I avoid it. No biggie. Up to this point in my life, there have always been lots of options. In the South, I go to BBQ joints and order shredded chicken or beef. I take a pass on bologna, and I feel no great loss. However, in the land of beer and brats, you find yourself adrift on a sea of sausage… absolutely schwimming in schwine.
The boys in my family think this is fabulous, and I won’t contradict them. But it does make for some awkward moments for me. I feel funny always asking what’s in a dish that I don’t recognize–it feels a little high maintenance. And, since my German is very rudimentary, I often don’t understand the answers I get back. So there’s a lot of just steering clear–taking the widest path around anything that might possibly contain pork.
en.wikipedia.org, weisswurst
Which knocks out a lot of things in Germany. (I thought my Ritter chocolate bar smelled slightly bacony the other day…but I ate it anyway, and I’m still standing.)
So here’s the plan: Germany may be a swine-fest 24/7, but it’s also a chocolate and pastry and spatzle fest, so I will not suffer (although my waistline might). My household will savor all that Germany has to offer by the age old “Jack Spratt technique.” What I won’t eat (pork), my husband will relish; what he will only nibble around the edges (pastries), I will greedily gobble. You’ll recognize us if you sit nearby at a restaurant: we’ll be the people who’ve licked our platter clean.
Guten appetit!
A little sampler of facts about German Wurst:
*A wurst is a German or Austrian sausage–it is not necessarily made of pork, although pork is the most frequent ingredient.
*Wurst is sold both raw and cooked; it can be sold as a sausage or as cold cuts.
*If you happen to be near New Braunfels, Texas, you can go to the Wurstfest in November. It bills itself as “the best 10 days in sausage history”–the best of the wurst. Or the wurst at its best. And then, later, you can confuse people by saying, “I was once in Texas and had the best wurst.” ?! The Pocanos also advertise a Wurst fest, complete with Polka Bands, Bavarian dancing, Lederhosen, and hotdog races. The wurst at its worst best wurst …whatever. Chicago also has a three day Wurst fest. (This begs for a windy city joke, but I’m trying to be mature.)
*Bad Durkheimer, Germany (in the Pfalz, which is part of the Rhineland-Palatinate and close to where I live) has a Wurstmarkt wine and wurst festival in September. Part of the national Oktoberfest fervor, but with wine. (And, I’m told, the wine is served in half-liter sized glasses, like beer. Ouch.) The Durkheimer Wurstfest is famous for being the biggest winefest in Germany. It bills itself as a nearly 600 year old festival. (The flyer should read “the best 570 years in sausage history”–that would show Texas!)
Bad Durkheimer
*Apparently, there are over 1,500 types of wurst available in Germany. It can be found on a German table at any time of day or night. It is the subject of festival and poetry. (Well, if Robert Burns can write a poem about Haggis, then sausage is certainly fair game!)
* Holzhausen, Germany boasts the Deutsches Bratwurstmuseum–yes, a wurst museum– which houses documents that can date the beginning of wurst from the year 1404. So there you go; plan your pilgrimage now.
**If this is the wurst post ever, I apologize. Consider the subject.
Yesterday, in Bitche, France/Hier, a Bitche/ Gestern in Bitche
Click on the photo if you wish to expand it.
I stopped to look out over the rooftops of Bitche–which were so beautiful, serene, and orderly in a charming, hodge-podge way. (Like all the most beautiful things–with just a hint of asymmetry to keep the eye interested.) It took me a few moments to realize that I was standing by a simple wooden cross, and I wondered how long it had been standing there, keeping its own unwavering watch over the rooftops of the citizens of Bitche. And if those citizens had, like me, been largely oblivious to its presence.
At the center of town, the church steeple kept peeping through the rooftops to note our progress through the streets.
But the watchers in Bitche were not only of a religous ilk: along many rows of old houses, the iron shutter stops (“shutter dogs”) were decorative women’s heads…some still distinct, others weathered or rusted to a ghostly decay. Charming, haunting, and resiliently functional. The story of life, n’est-ce pas?
And when all of the watching eyes had seen our small procession of four through the streets of the city, here is where we popped out on the other side: (The small photo doesn’t do it justice; click on the photo to expand it to a larger size.)
Hotel de Ville, Bitche, France
A day of small wanderings, but a fabulous journey. Surely the French have a phrase that captures this. Perhaps, “petite promenade, grand voyage”?
A few notes on Bitche:
*It’s located in Northeastern France, on the German border
*From the 17th century on, Bitche was a stronghold and much of the old citadel still stands
*If you are a modern history buff, Bitche sits very close to sections of the Maginot Line
Travels and Tomes: One Expat's Amblings and Ramblings 