Renate Mousseux gathered with her friends Bruno, Barbara, and Brigitte at the Fountain Hills Gallery after a body language presentation. Like many, they had been looking forward to Renatle’s Mosaic of Life with suspense.
“Renatle, Mosaic of Life” is now out on Amazon. The cover looks sassy and the story is full of suspense. I am so excited! Renatle’s mosaic of life adventures came beautifully together in her memoir. It is out on Amazon as paperback, plus a digital version on Kindle. Here is a review from the Fountain Hills newspaper.
YOU ARE INVITED: Friday, January 27, 2017, 7 p.m. Renate will be reading excerpts from her book at my house. Please RSVP to my e-mail.
One fine day, I chatted Renate up after the German luncheon about doing a story about her for Amerika Woche. Right there my own life changed. For this interview, Renate and I met in an Indian restaurant. She gave me the full scoop about her body language expertise—and some playacting examples. We had a fabulous time.
Several weeks later, Renate approached me about writing her life story. I had no idea what all was to come in Renatle’s Mosaic interviews. I was in for some genuine enrichment.
We started taping Renate’s story. Once a month I drove to her house on top of a Fountain Hills peak and listened to her true tales. War times in Germany. Concealed at birth. Prankster childhood. Love gone awry. Down and out in Los Angeles. More than once, my jaw dropped. Renate laid it all out. Barred none.
I won’t give away more than what is on the back cover: Renate was the love child between a French jazz trumpeter and a German patrician business woman. Renate’s questionable existence was concealed from the family for months. Aunt Liesel finally discovered the baby and brought her home.
As a toddler, in 1944, Renatle survived the infamous Tigerstorm carpet-bombing attack on her hometown Freiburg (Germany). The whole town lay in shambles. In that night 3,000 people died. Renate’s uncle and other good Samaritans brought aunt, grandmother, and baby Renate to a Luftschutzbunker—with nothing else but a blanket wrapped around their nightgowns.
Yes, but her mother and father, Trudel and Emile, were buried alive in rubble of the dental lab where they worked. By a miracle, both were rescued days later and put into a hospital for a year. They never fully recovered . . . and then, mother . . .
Tears welled up in her eyes. She asked me to stop the recorder.
More pauses were to come. Why did Renate go to America? She was expecting and wanted to give her baby a home—but not a brute, bisexual, drug-addicted father. Renate escaped, but barely. Finally, things seemed to fall into place in Arizona, with her teaching immersion classes for French and German. It all seemed good, or was it? Her new husband had charm and pedigree.
“I never dwell on the past, even though I sometimes cry”, Renate said. She is one of the most cheerful and people-oriented persons I know. And like any serious Girl Scout she is looking to do at least one good deed a day. She always carries a gift for unforeseen occasions in her purse.
Now it’s two years later and the book is done. “Renatle” turned out well. And so did her book.
Since we started writing, Renate has made many appearances at TV stations commenting on presidential candidates’ body language or the expression of witnesses in high profile murder cases. She started her flourishing BodyLanguage4Success business after her retirement as an Arizona foreign language professor for almost 30 years. More information at BodyLanguage4success
All this fame could have spoiled Renate, but quite to the contrary she is a charming, helpful, and very open person. A gem. And I learned a great deal from her. Each interview and every editing meet was a lesson for me. Here we are at the Fountain Hills Gallery presenting Renatle’s Mosaic.
A story about food poisoning seems tacky. I kept this draft on file for two years. After much indigestion with our elections, this seems to be the perfect timing.
What a dreadful topic! Did you ever have food poisoning? Probably, yes. My physique makes me prone to attract biohazards. But I will spare you most of the messy details except for these.
My first food poisoning that I can remember happened on a Monday, layout day at the weekly paper print shop. I was in my twenties. Unfortunately, the lunch salad at the Italian bistro must have been laced with pathogens. I had to use the train to get to the print shop across town, somehow made it just in time. I thought I would explode at ten-minute intervals for the next two hours. But somehow I got the paper done, and the toilet (t)issues too.
All my trips to India have been memorable and enriched with cultural experiences. But the first trip put me into the emergency room. Fortunately, disaster hit towards the end of the journey. And fortunately I kept the stuff inside on the flight by using utmost restraint, although with a barf bag in hand. I ended up fighting this remarkable bout of food poisoning on American soil with an IV for rehydration two days later. It also passed. I never knew what organism had hit me. My family made a diagnosis: Delhi belly.
I had two memorable encounters with some tough bugs at American eateries. One happened at a popular Mexican theme restaurant. Maybe the critter hid in the chalupa? The other disaster struck at a soup and sandwich shop. Was something in the tomato soup or was I contaminated by bathroom use? The spotty potty should have been a warning.
Either way, both these incidences, sent me to urgent care after the second day. And so did the bottom layer of a prewashed salad box. OK, here is something that I learned. Wash it, wash it, wash it, even when it says, “ready to serve”. One time I went to a vegetarian party given by a newly minted vegan. Doubtlessly, the veggies were scrupulously clean. However, the mix of cooked beans, fresh sprouts, and cabbagy things set off some gas works of a monumental nature. Cramps, cramps, cramps—I was afraid of involuntary releases. And yet I kept my smiley face and conversation. The longest party in my memory.
Interestingly, I cannot recall any bouts with the infamous Montezuma’s revenge, even though I have traveled to Mexico frequently. The Mexican bugs have so far agreed with me.
My longest lasting food poisoning, contracted in Mumbai in 2004, must have dragged out for about a year. Initially, the affliction started with severe stomach and intestinal eruptions. I was lucky since my place of stay had a functioning Western toilet.
To this day, I vividly imagine that slightly tattered papaya that I bought from the grimy sidewalk. Ask natives, they will easily admit that Mumbai streets are filthy, especially during the monsoon, when sewers spill into the street and mingle with the drinking water. Let’s say, it was the papaya and that I didn’t wash it well enough.
Or had the microbe jumped from my toddler’s mustardy diapers? After the acute infections had subsided, the problem lingered on. I lost weight, felt weak and listless. It was a parasite called giardia, which hopped around the family for about a year. That brought on excessive trips to the doctor, disgusting medication (metronidazole), and regular testing—until all family members took the medication simultaneously.
My husband survived the food poisoning. No such luck for me.
All done with that, here comes the best. I would call it the Jaipur double-trouble. Yeah, I can still precisely picture the”last supper” from a reputable-looking restaurant. My husband and I, we both enjoyed it. Exactly after two hours—I had ingested a fast-acting little critter—my fever-vomit tango started. My Indian husband seemed to be taking the food bug (lingering resistance) just fine until four more hours later.
Let’s chill, I pleaded. What? he said, waste the whole sightseeing trip in a four-star hotel? No way, Jose! That’s the kind of people we are. So up goes my six-month-old in an L.L. Bean carrier, and we take the town of Jaipur. Wait, let me puke a little before I take the picture of the Red Fort. Tonight we’ll puke in tandem. And tomorrow we’ll try not to fall through the hole between the two footprints of the bumpy train while doing the other business.
Yeah, what a trip that was! And why am I telling you all this? When I have traveled to distant places, adventures have made my trips memorable. Food poisoning has sharpened my perception so much that some images are indelibly burnished on my mind. Food poisoning has made me more aware—and Jaipur quite unforgettable.
However, don’t be foolish and get a food poisoning on purpose just for the sight-seeing experience. I have been there. It’s not so enjoyable. I did not carelessly challenge my fate, but stuff happens, you know.
Tasting local foods is still what makes foreign travels ultimately exciting. Be judicious about eating, but savor your delicacies without regret after you accept the risk of natural reactions.
How to Avoid Food Poisoning
Wash hands conscientiously
Use bottled water for brushing your teeth
Wash all fruits and vegetables thoroughly with clean water
On the road, eat only fruits that can be peeled (orange, banana etc)
Look for freshly deep fried foods
Packaged cookies, crackers, snacks are OK
Bakery items are a good selection
Canned foods are a safe option
Avoid salads, leafy greens, or cut fruits
Avoid stews with meat or fish in gravy
Avoid meats in general, because proper refrigeration may be lacking
The Taj Mahal was a highly involved school project from the last year. Susmita got totally into it with the sugar cube building method. She built a fairly large (2×2 ft) replica of the most famous romantic mausoleum on the planet. I forget how many boxes of sugar cubes went into this construction, perhaps 2 kg. Card stock, plastic cups, foam balls, Christmas light decorations—it all turned out fabulous!
Then the Taj Mahal, as happens with many projects after presentation, sat on the work bench in the garage for the next six months. It was still beautiful, too nice to toss it out. What to do? We couldn’t keep it. So we found a creative way of deconstruction. We put the Taj Mahal in “acid rain” (symbolically, because our drinking water in Arizona seems to be fairly pH neutral). How long would a sugar Taj Mahal hold up in the sprinkler?
We recorded the experiment for you. Enjoy the show!
We made a creative experiment, but the erosion of the Taj Mahal is for real. See this Taj Mahal Case Study from India.
Bohemian Strawberry Torte (recipe by Edda Buchner) is a delicious and not too sweet treat. The egg white topping would normally have been higher, but I had only three eggs left (12 inch form).
Strawberries are available all the time. The season stretches from Chile to Vancouver and covers the whole year. They have become a staple at the store. This season, traditionally May through July, has no end.
To tell you the truth, the self-picked ones are the best. I used to scavenge for strawberries at the farm fields near my mother’s house in Germany. This summer, we indulged in farm fresh berries from the fields around Ottawa. A heavenly taste!
Strangely enough, our Indian family didn’t share the same passion for strawberries. Why? When they were living in New Delhi, the strawberries were imported from Kashmir. There they were picked “green,” so to say. How sour and expensive they were!
But imagine what these Indians have been missing! (like I have missed all the mango and lychee stuff, duh) I skipped through the forest as a child, picking the fragrant pearls of wild candy berries. Sometimes enough to make a torte with them
Nothing beats ripe strawberries and fresh whipped dream. Strawberry shortcake is simply delicious. What else can you do with strawberries? Mush them up in a smoothie, put them on cereal, stir them into yogurt, cut some into your salad—if you have too many, cook marmalade or syrup.
Here is a recipe, Bohemian Strawberry Torte. My friend Edda Buchner brought my attention to. I baked this many years ago and rediscovered it. It is really quick and easy. You can whip this cake out in 30 minutes before company is coming.
Shortbread Base:
2 egg yolks
6 oz. flour (whole wheat or white)
2 oz. cornstarch
1 stick (4 oz.) unsalted butter
2 Tbs. sugar
1 Tbs. vanilla essence (or rum flavor)
Topping/Filling:
4 egg whites, beat
1 Tbs. sugar
1 Tbs. vanilla sugar
16 oz. strawberries
Separate the egg white from the yolk; don’t let the least bit of yolk get into the whites, else the snow won’t stiffen up. (yeah, two egg yolks will be left over)
Put all the dry ingredients for the crust in a large bowl, make an indentation in the middle, drop the egg yolks in there and stir them lightly in there. Add small butter pieces and knead this into a smooth shortbread ball. (Refrigerate for 30 minutes, if too sticky.)
Roll or press the dough into a 9- (or 12-) inch spring form or pie shell. Build a little “retainer wall” (ring) around the pie. Pierce the shell with a fork (to avoid bulging). Bake shell at 180 F approximately for 20 minutes or until golden brown.
Whisk the egg whites, with sugar and vanilla sugar, insanely stiff. So stiff that you could easily cut it in cubes.
Fill the egg white into the toasty shell, drop the cleaned strawberries into the white “linens,” and bake this at 450 F for a couple of minutes until the peaks of egg white turn a golden color.
“We judge a person in less than the first two minutes of an encounter based on their appearance and behavior,” body language specialist Renate Mousseux says. “65 percent of our communication comes across in nonverbal expressions.” That’s significant.
Renate, my friend from nearby Fountain Hills, is unstoppable. Not only because she drives a Jaguar. She has achieved outstanding honors in foreign language (French, German) education. After her retirement from a busy high school and college teaching career, she ventured into BodyLanguage4Success.
Renate, or as she likes to be called “Renatle” in the Freiburg dialect, has commented close to 50 times on presidential speeches, criminal cases, and witness depositions at Arizona TV stations. She has read every book about body language that she could get her hands on. Now she delivers highly involving seminars to professional or social groups. Here is her take on Hillary Clinton for a Phoenix TV program:
And here is her piece on Trump:
Renate reads through the body language. She has eyes in the back of her head, her students discovered. “I could tell from far if anyone in class was cheating or not,” Renate says. “They called me Eagle Eyes.” Since she was a child, she liked to observe and imitate people. In college, she put funny mime acts on stage. Consciously or not, we all do it and read it—ever so sublimely.
“Body language doesn’t lie, especially not in the long run,” she says. She keeps the humor light and on its feet. When she models the stances, gestures, and facial expressions at a seminar, she draws the audience into some real life situations.
I have seen Renate in action many times. Her gigs are definitely charming and entertaining. She means every word she says. How is your handshake? Let’s see. She can give you good advice for an excellent first impression.
“Well, Schätzle, when you are with me, you don’t need to do this,” she tells me and gently pulls my hands from my hips. She caught me again. Hands on hips means a defensive attitude. Honestly, I didn’t mean to. Do I have to investigate my subconscious now?
Also beware of crossed legs, arms behind back, or someone stroking their chin. There is an explanation to everything, but one odd behavior alone does not make a “criminal.” I learned these features from Renate while taking notes for her book. We have been working on her life story, Renatle, A Mosaic of Life, for some time. Later this fall it will be ready for the launch.
Renate’s life story is an incredible adventure. She married into a Hollywood disaster, was down and out, and overcame some terrible blows. Yet she always stayed positive. Her turbulent story, a roller coaster of curve balls, will be available on Amazon soon.
Recently, her hometown paper, the Badische Zeitung published a write-up about her activities. CLICK on image.
“We always have to see the whole picture of a person and not judge them by a single feature,” Renate says. She has, among others, volunteered her skills for Find Me, a worldwide network of psychics working on missing person investigations.
Body language is active twenty-four hours a day. In company with people, you use body language as much as the other one. In fact, some 800 body language signals are emitted within a thirty minute conversation.
You never know what side benefits you will have from volunteer work. As long as I have been involved with the Phoenix adult literacy program Unlimited Potential, I have enjoyed the fiestas for their Thanksgiving or End-of-Year celebrations. You know what, my mouth waters just by thinking of the smorgasbord of enchiladas, pollo con mole, or a savory rice casserole. Of course, I couldn’t cook all of these delicious things. One of the participants, however, luckily shared her easy recipe for shrimp cocktail with me.
Ingredients:
1 pound (16 oz.) frozen, cooked shrimp
2 cups of tomato ketchup
1 small onion (or 1/2), diced
1 jalapeño, diced or grated
3 small limes (juice)
1–2 cloves garlic
5 sprigs cilantro, chopped
Defrost/thaw the frozen shrimp; wash them in a colander; let them drip dry for a bit.
Dice the onion, grate the jalapeño and garlic, and mix this with the tomato ketchup in a bowl. Add the lime juice and chopped cilantro. Stir in the shrimp. Done!
Serve the shrimp cocktail in decorative bowls/glasses with crackers on the side.
You can make this any time. Don’t wait until New Years Eve! It’s too good to be saved for last minute.
Green mush is delightful. The longer we are living in the Southwest, the more we adopt the food styles of this spicy region. Although not all flavors of Southwestern cooking are intuitively delicious–for example the pungent aromas of corn tortillas or cilantro–we loved guacamole from the start. It consists of mushed up avocados and a few other things. And avocados are good for you.
Ingredients:
3 avocados
1 (or 1/2) clove garlic, grated
1/2 jalapeño pepper, grated
1/2 lime (juice)
5 sprigs cilantro, chopped
1 small tomato, diced
salt to liking
Halve the ripe avocados. They should have a creamy consistency. If you bought hard ones, leave them to ripen at room temperature. You will develop the right eye and touch to determine the avocados’ ripeness.
Scoop out the avocados with a spoon into a mixing bowl; mush the pieces, but leave some chunky pieces for diversity. Then add the other ingredients, salt to liking, and stir it all well together. Serve the guacamole in a pretty bowl and have tortilla chips ready.
TIP: I use the MICROPLANE grater/zester for just about any grindwork. My jalapeños may be frozen, and that works too.
“If nothing else, there is always a Jim Horton’s in Canada,” a friend of mine joked. True, we saw one on every corner. But there was so much else. And my expectations of bakeries and sceneries were not disappointed. Our Canada trip was a worthwhile journey of nature immersion and city scouting. The landscape was gorgeous.
Canada is the country of lakes and forests. Hills and dales glowed with undulating wheat fields and pick-it-yourself strawberry farms. The farm scenery reminded me much of Germany. Trees, trees everywhere. Compared to our subdued desert vegetation, they were huge. Between Toronto, Ottawa, and Montreal, we cruised along countless waterways and swampy gulches, and very scenic lakes. Everybody seemed to be fishing in Canada. Our family reunion on Rice Lake at Serenity Estate (a gorgeous cottage on the lake with canoes, paddle boats, and a pier) turned out marvelous. We had ourselves an Indian-German-Canadian party; almost all the cousins and half the uncles had gathered.
The “cottage” (6 bedrooms) had a game room with billiards table, a full-size bar, and a poker table. By the boat landing was a fireplace all prepared. At sunset—what an amazing glow—squadrons of black flies would attack. Close the screen door, quick! On the road again, the four of us stopped over at the Hastings House Bed & Breakfast. What a gem of a cottage! We felt like living in a cute jewelry box that left no detail to accident. Housekeeper Elise cooked a luxurious breakfast with ham, egg, and homemade jellies for us. We should have stayed another night.
Next day we reached Ottawa from the Nepean side on the eve of the NAFTA summit. Our sightseeing was busted for the next two days because President Obama was to meet the other two “amigos” (pres Trudeau and pres Peña from Mexico).
So we did a walking tour along the Rideau Canal, the locks, the Parliament area, and ended up at the Byward market. We luckily got in a visit with the “We are persons” (women’s rights) sculpture set. The museums in the heart of town were barricaded against tourists because of the impending state visit. But the Moulin de Provence Bakery made up twice for the disappointment. Their cream tarts and chocolate mousse domes were exquisite. The patisserie had a showcase with Obama cookies—maple leaf gingerbread—but his picture wasn’t on them. So we didn’t buy any. Oh, well.
We whiled away the next day with the cows and ground hogs at the Experimental Farm in Ottawa, and finally, after departure of the foreign dignitaries, we saw the amazing National Gallery of Art. Of course we didn’t get done with it. The Canadian naturalist paintings of the Group of Seven reminded me of Georgia O’Keeffe; the Inuit exhibit was awe-inspiring. So much creativity from almost nothing! But it was time to head over to Montreal.
Our dear friend Evelyn gave us a blitz tour of Mount Royal, old town, the harbor, and the museum district. The food at the Andelfinger home was outstanding; crepes with blueberries for breakfast, naturally grown beef for dinner. And the croissants! We had the greatest time at the Montreal Jazz Festival, fireworks included. Next day, we browsed through the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts on the Golden Square Mile. We passed up the Ritz Carlton because we already had the best lodging in town.
Back in Toronto we tried the Fringe Festival of independent theater productions, some experimental. Blind to Happiness was according to the reviews an audience favorite; we liked the one-man, three-character act with an imaginary cat and other pendants. Number two was a set of two burlesque, one weird mime act set in WWI and a Commedia dell’ Arte–style piece, produced by a whacko clown troupe; it was a raunchy, bawdy performance, to say the least, but still quite comical. We left the theater and didn’t know what had hit us. Oh, well. Never stop learning.
We finished off our Canadian tour with a trip to the Central Island in Lake Ontario via Tiki Water Taxi from Toronto.
Why are there never any big headlines about Canada? We observed an amazingly colorful mix of people. Canada is huge, but 20 percent of its population huddles along the great lakes, with Toronto the largest city. We came to the conclusion it’s a good thing that Canada is staying out of the headlines and therefore out of controversy and mass shootings. They have a really dashing prime minister, Trudeau, whose father also held that top office. He makes for such a handsome picture. That’s why they put him on the cookies too.
What is art? It is definitely a skill. And? Art is also the way we look at things. How we perceive an object or image is in the eye of the beholder. Sometimes, however, art is in the blind spot. We overlook it. Guess now what the above image is. (Curious? Read through to the bottom.)
Let’s try this art thing again. Sometimes you just have to close one eye and look with the other. Squint real hard until the horizon blurs with the sky. Stand on your head. That’s a visual perspective too. If you do it right, you can pick up the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty between your thumb and index finger. Or sometimes you just need to close your eyes to get the full picture. If you stare at something too long, it might fade away, like the famous blind spot. Or you might hypnotize yourself. Life is pretty much an optical illusion. Our brain likes to play games with us. (The photo above was concocted by my daughter Susmita.)
Perception: is the glass half full or half empty? Yes, we all can self-therapize ourselves into happiness. This art form called mindfulness is also a skill. Like everything, it takes practice. Look at the optical illusion on the left. All the squares inside the stripes are middle gray. Would you believe that?
At the Fringe Festival in Toronto we saw a well-done play called “Blind to Happiness”. The one-man act reflected three characters. The least fortunate one, a dish washer in a tavern, learned to deal with his strict boss, skittish girl friend, dominant mother, and a spoiled cat. Was he happy? Maybe. It’s all relative.
And so is art. I have learned to take fairly good photos. Yet they may only look spectacular to me. You have Instagram? Styles and flavors in photography and visual arts are endless. Photos are so cheap and easy these days, iPhone does them all. Why did I ever bother with Dektol? Digital manipulations are the thing. The last little shred of truth goes down the drain, right?
Everybody has their own taste in colors. But how can I be sure that the other person’s teal or mauve or aquamarine registers in their brain at the same value as mine? Perhaps this is less a question of the brain than of the heart. And that is even more inexplicable. Can you distinguish the shapes in the graphic? Congratulations, you are not color blind.
With conscious perception and mindfulness, we can bring art and happiness into view.
SO WHAT’S THE PHOTO ABOVE? It’s a water feature at the National Gallery of Canada in Ottawa. I took several photos from underneath a square wishing fountain with a glass bottom. Then I made a gif out of four frames.
In Germany we have many names for “meat balls”. You can order the same savory cutlets in different places as Buletten, Frikadellen, or Fleischpflanzerl. The spice may vary, but these delectable treats are all cooked in a similar way. Here is my swift and easy procedure for spicy turkey cutlets. Preparation time, 15 minutes; cooking time: 30 minutes.
INGREDIENTS:
1 pound of chuck (turkey, pork, beef)
1 medium-size onion, finely diced
1 jalapeño, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic
10 sprigs cilantro or parsley
1 egg
3 slices sandwich bread, soaked
1/2 teaspoon oregano
bread crumbs as needed
salt, pepper
COOK IT
In a large non-stick skillet roast the diced onion until translucent or slightly brown, along with the diced jalapeño.
Put your meat in a bowl; add the soaked bread (soak it in a bowl, or under running water, then squeeze the water out as well as possible); add the egg, salt, pepper, and spices; also add the cooked onion and jalapeño; finally add the finely chopped cilantro/parsley and the grated/chopped garlic.
Mix up the dough with your hands; add breadcrumbs as needed, if the dough is too sticky. It will be sticky to some degree, just as long as you are able to form tomato-sized balls in your cupped hands. Fry the cutlets in some oil on medium low heat for 15 minutes on each side.
If you want to be fancy, make a good sauce: After the spicy turkey cutlets are cooked, deglaze the pan with a good shot of tequila, wine, broth, or cream. Now, let’s play: Add a cup of water, seasonings, spices, herbs, heavy cream in good measure. Thicken your sauce with 1 teaspoonful corn starch dissolved in water.
(I am sorry that I can’t be more specific, but I make my sauce differently every time.)
Serve the cutlets as finger food at a party with chutney, mustard or any condiment. Make a dinner out of them by adding mashed potatoes (or rice) and a mixed salad. Just perfect with a German potato salad.
Enjoy! These spicy turkey cutlets will be gone in no time.
Andreas Kauer giving a tour of his woodworking shop to my friend Maria.
Sound soothes, sound heals—sounds good to me. Music always chases away my bad thoughts. It gets me into the swing of writing. Mellow music, especially guitars, brings out the best of my ideas.
We all know about Tibetan singing bowls, right? My daughter bought one in Sedona. But sound chairs and sound beds were new to me. I had never done any music therapy. What is it all about, I asked Andreas the Eibenklangzauberer from my home town Ascholding. He calls himself the “Yew Sound Wizard” for deep reasons. “Just try it,” he said.
Relaxing Sounds
I sat for 20 minutes on the sound chair made from curly maple. I let the continuous harmonics that Andreas played on the strings of the backrest wash all over me. It was so relaxing, sitting down, letting go—beautiful, easy, flying like a baby to be born.
I am not a candidate for yoga or meditation, too high strung. Yet these harmonics induced their magic on me. I eloped from my daily confines and my inner dictator. Yeah, now I am in love with these musical chairs for healing.
“On its back the sound chair has 32 steel strings but only two different notes”, Andreas explained. He built one of his two sound chairs himself. His favorite therapy instrument is made of yew wood.
Rare Woods: Yew
“The yew wood is the most important wood for me”, Andreas said. “It is among the oldest trees and has the calmest radiance.” As this rare wood is strictly prohibited from commercial use in Germany, he had the rawlings brought over from Ireland.
“I have furnished my therapy room entirely with sculptures and therapeutic instruments made from yew wood”, Andreas said. The yew artifacts create an inspirational atmosphere. Mind you, every part of the tree except for the berries is highly poisonous. But the energy is very positive.
And the poison is good in just the right dosage. Extracts from the yew’s needles—the tree resembles a scraggly stunted spruce—contain the chemical taxol. Known for its healing properties since ancient times, the yew is now being formally investigated as a cancer cure. Yew trees are rare and grow very slowly. They had become almost extinct in Europe in the Middle Ages because they were the best material for longbows.
Bottomed Out
“When I had reached the bottoms, living out of my car like a migrant, the yew trees talked to me,” the healer said. Several years ago, the formerly successful businessman had crashed from overwork and burnout. During his recovery he studied up on the energies of different woods. The yew tree spoke to him, like it did to the ancient druids. He sensed the energy transpiring from an eternal source.
Andreas’ clients have had amazing experiences on the sound chair. One man with a pinched nerve tossed away his cane after the session. Not every transformation is this drastic, but everybody feels better after the sound massage.
“It is my dream to build a sound bed from yew wood for cancer patients,” Andreas said with his calm and soothing voice. “I strongly believe the spirit of the yew can attune the cellular level. There is another hope for cancer patients.”
When Andreas makes his wood sculptures, he removes the decayed matter and sets the innate beauty free. He sands the wood ultra-fine and polishes the orbs and other pieces scrupulously with natural oils. He wants the therapy tools to be comforting to the touch. And here are some of Andreas’ fabulous sculptures:
An Fräulein Anna Waldmann, Schmiedmeisterstochter
In Schönegg, Post Dietramszell, Oberbayern
Am 2. April 1917
Liebe Base! Die besten Grüße aus dem Lazarett sendet Dein lb. Vetter Seb. Disl . Zt. Festungslazarett II, Reliktenheim I, Saal I, Warschau
Viel Grüße auch an Eltern und Pumperer Zilly
To Miss Anna Waldmann, Master-Smith’s Daughter At Schönegg, Postmaster Dietramszell, Upper Bavaria
April 2, 1917
Dear Cousin! Fondest regards from the sickbay sends you your dear Cousin Seb. Disl. At this time from the Fortress Sickbay II, Infirmary 1, Room 1, Warsaw Many regards also to your parents and Zilly Pumperer
This is a postcard from World War I. One day I rediscovered my grandmother’s correspondence. MIND YOU: The man lies in a “Lazarett”, no telling what his wounds. I don’t think the generals would have excused him for the flu. And there he sends “best greetings.” Never mind, he was still alive. That was the important message in all postcards from the war.
Mighty Old Postcards
Growing up, I used to think, “Wow, these cards are really ancient!” I kept them together like they were, in an old tin can for tea, ever since I crossed over to the American continent. Now these postcards from the war are even more ancient. The older I get, however, the more these relics seem like yesterday. 100 years is not a long time. 100 years ago from 2016, I would have been in the middle of a World War like both of my grandmothers.
Anyway, my grandmother Anna seemed to have had galore of boyfriends, judging by the stack of postcards she received from soldiers. The pictures from the front lines were newsworthy and showed captured cannons, bombarded churches and all kind of technology of war. The backside contained brief pencil greetings, no complaints whatsoever. Everything always seemed to be good with the troops.
Mail from the Frontlines
My grandmother wrote many letters to the front lines and encouraged the “homeboys” who she grew up with. Her two brothers were drafted as well. Oma kept the postcards from the field in a neat stack, which are my treasure now. Writing to soldiers in Word War I was like sending care packages to Iraq and Afghanistan. I always wonder, did these young men come home to tell their stories? Did they perish in the trenches? St. Mihiel was near the Siegfried Line.
Erich Maria Remarque was born the same year (1898) as my grandmother. He went to war too, was wounded and wrote a book about his experiences: All Quiet on the Western Front. It wasn’t usually quiet for very long. The grenades hit with awful blasts. My grandfather never talked much about the war action. He served in the cavalry on the western front. After he returned unscathed, he had a cross made out of grenade shrapnel that he collected in the field. A token of thanks to the maker of us all.
I don’t have any postcards from World War II. But I heard from a German lady I just recently interviewed that she, at the time an art student, was also expected to send letters of encouragement to soldiers in the field.
Let’s hope we will never need any more postcards like these.
Geschrieben den 29. 5. 18
Will Dir kurz mitteilen, dass ich in Frankreich bin, geht mir bis jetzt ganz gut, und bin gesund, was ich von Dir sehe. Auf baldiges Wiedersehen, grüßt Dich Josef Lämmler
Josef Lämmler, Feld Rekruten Kompy. 4a
2. bayr. Inf. Division
Written on May 29, 1918
I just want to briefly let you know that I am in France. Until now I am doing rather well, and I am healthy, which also seems to be the case with you. Looking forward to seeing you again soon. Many greetings, Josef Lämmler
Josef Lämmler, Field Recruiting Company 4a
2. Bavarian Infantry Division
12. Juni 1918
Werthe Nanni! Komme heute endlich dazu, Dir zu schreiben. Bin noch gesund und guter Dinge und mit meinem allgemeinen Leben zufrieden. Seid ihr wohl schon fest an der Landarbeit. Wo ist dein Bruder Kaspar? Hoffe immer auf Glück und freu mich auf ein frohes Wiedersehen. Freundlichen Gruß sendet Franzi
June 12, 1918
Dearest Nanni! Finally I managed today to write to you. I am still healthy and in good spirits and content with the general circumstances of my life. I assume that you are already working hard in the farm fields. Where is your brother Kaspar? I am always hoping for luck and am looking forward to a happy reunion. Sending fond regards, Franzi
Congratulations, Edda, now it’s out! Texas Kaktuswein, a collection of Texas ranch stories was released on Amazon this April. Kaktuswein provides an enjoyable glimpse into the Buchners’ first-hand-living experience. Much of their Bat Cave Ranch experience follows the German pioneer tracks.
Texas Kaktuswein—written in the German language—was five years in the making and covers 30 years of ranch life. When the Buchner “greenhorns” (Edda, Helmut, daughter Virginia) arrived in Texas, they started supplemental farming. Through learning by doing, Edda soon collected story material: circus acts with chickens, adventures in the vegetable garden, meeting the snakes, raccoons, and vultures.
The Buchners sought the simple life away from consumer society. They built up the “rock pile” (a half-built stone house with no electricity, no running water, but a windmill & water tank) with their own hands’ labor. Along the way, they taught themselves with library books, advice from the hardware store, or the proven experience from their farming neighbors.
Bat Cave Ranch was always a little paradise for me. There I could recover from college deadline pressures. The Buchners have left the pasture under the majestic live oak trees grow naturally. “The animals were here before us, so we can get along”, Edda likes to say. Get along for the most part. Snakes, or ringtails, or pesky squirrels are evacuated to the wild when the chicken when they are causing too much damage.
One fine day, about five years ago, as I was lying in a hammock and Edda was feeding me mustang grapes, we made a plan. These stories must be published! We eagerly sorted, remixed, and laid out the course. I was still sorting after I got home. My whole living room was plastered with chicken, snake, vulture, and even grasshopper stories.
Five years, why so long? I learned the Word formatting and Create Space magic soon enough. But then came the changes, rearrangements, and turnarounds. All right. Too many tough choices. What pictures are the best? There was no end to it. Now I know much easier ways right from the start.
But the result was all worth it. And come to think of it, I never got tired of the stories. Nothing was made up. In my mind, I often strolled across the deer pastures under the mighty oaks.
And I laughed out loud: Who else grabs a big snake by the tame end and hurls it around until they are both dizzy? Or who sticks a half-drowned baby opossum under her sweater to warm it back to life, skin-on-skin? Or who catches fruit flies for an injured humming bird or road kill for a vulture? Answer to all three: my friend Edda. She is very compassionate.
All in the Buchner family are nature-oriented and grandsons Tristan and Markus fully enjoy their childhood in the country. They don’t know how lucky they are.
Finally, the Buchners really do make cactus wine from prickly pear fruits, as the title Texas Kaktuswein says. If you want to find out how, buy the book and brew your own.
When you thought, no stranger things than a “bra” can happen, look at this. Well, I had to protect my miracle tree this year. We have tons of grackles that can empty a whole fig tree in a day. So how could I keep my sweet apricot secret and the fruits for myself?
Don’t take me wrong, I would share the treasures of nature. Here, birdie, have an apricot. We have some “love birds”, itinerant green parrots from central America, that would make for such a nice addition to our backyard zoo. We have squirrels, lizards, stray cats, geckos, quail, pigeons, humming birds–and too many grackles. But our birds are either stupid or greedy. Or bad mannered. Do you think, they would the eat whole thing up? No, they peck a little bite out of each sweet apricot. Just enough to make each fruit unfit for human consumption. Give me apricot bird defense!
Common Materials
Don’t you dare eat my apricots, birds! I came up with a whole arsenal of bird defense. What best to do than conceal the prey? With plastic shopping bags I wrapped the heavy laden branches. Yet more area was to cover. With a 7-yard-long turban I barred the landing spots on the lower ranges. The bird net was harder to install. It got caught at every little nook and cranny. What about up there? OK, these CDs on fish line glisten and reflect. Hopefully the birds hated dancing discos? Finally, a plastic owl, the “super tank” in my armamentarium for the bird defense, took its post on the fence pillar.
Paper Plates and T-Shirts
I didn’t quite trust my installation. Wait a minute! What about scare crows? An easy fix. I grabbed some themed t-shirts (faces printed on them) from my daughter’s closet. I attached paper plate faces from a school project with cloths pins on the hangers. And then I hung my scare creatures in the most suitable locations.
Voilá! Now don’t dare to come, birds! Or I will sick the stray cat on you.
If you want to make enchiladas, you need to have a sauce. Don’t cook this green enchilada casserole when you are in a rush. Make the sauce ahead of time. This recipe is enough to feed eight people. But you can also prepare individual portions in the microwave.
Green Enchilada Sauce:
2 pounds tomatillos (or more), peel, wash, & cube
2-4 jalapeños, diced
1 or 2 green bell peppers, diced
1 medium onion
2 cloves garlic
juice from 1 lime
10 sprigs cilantro
salt, 2 TBS oil, 1 cup water
Chop onion finely, sauté (2 TBS oil) in sauce pot until glazed. Add jalapeños and bell peppers, keep stirring (10 min). Add the tomatillos and keep cooking on medium heat, until the vegetables turn mushy (ca. 15 min). Then add shredded garlic, lime juice and chopped cilantro. Cook until well blended (ca. 5 min). Add 1 cup water, let this bubble up one more time. Then blend this mixture (careful hot!) into a sauce with your blender or food processor. The sauce freezes well for later use.
Make the enchiladas:
Fry the flour tortillas 1 min each side in oil. Create your stack of 12 tortillas.
For the filling:
Chicken or any meat (left overs), roasted vegetables, cooked shrimp, potato fries
Shredded Mexican or Colby cheese
Seasoning or sauce
Roll the enchiladas: Use ca. 2 TBS filling and cheese, and roll up each enchilada, put them all neatly in a casserole. An 9×12 inch form can hold 8-12 enchiladas. Pour the green sauce over the enchiladas, sprinkle generously with cheese and bake this 45 minutes in the oven at medium heat. Serve with rice and black beans.
For individual portions: Roll up your (2) enchiladas on a dinner plate, pour sauce over them, sprinkle with cheese, and cook in the microwave for 1 minute.
Hang in there with me, and read the whole story to see what this means.
One fine spring morning, the doorbell rang unexpectedly. A little aggravated I jumped up from my computer and suspiciously pulled the door open. Could have only been special delivery or preacher guys this time of day.
Francisco stood there smack in the middle of the walkway. “You need clean up,” he says. “Your trees too big.”
“No, if I trim them now, they will only grow faster.” It was April. “Come back in June.”
“Look,” he points to my debris-littered island. “We make it all nice.”
I am not worried yet about my “naturalized” landscape and send Francisco off to other gardens. Mine can wait. Yep, sometimes I need a little help from the pros, especially when I can’t put up with the loads of trimmings.
About two weeks later, in the middle of a household commotion, the bell rings again insistently. It was a really bad time. I thought we had a deal? Come back in June? Apparently, Francisco had jumped a month in his calendar.
Well, turns out, it wasn’t Francisco but Jacinto, his brother. “Your trees, trim?” Maybe. I remembered we had a major party coming up. OK, OK, do clean up! The price was negotiated as usual. Settled halfway. As long as the sum is right, my yard crew goes the extra mile.
My landscapers always show up instantly. At least one magic worker starts with a saw or rake usually within 5 minutes after I call them. Thus Francisco makes sure that I don’t change my mind or hire someone else for the project. He brought Jacinto plus two more helpers along to my “construction site.”
Fine by me. These men work hard, clean up tidy, and try to honor my requests for strange style cuts for my bushes (al mano, no maquina).
This job turned out bigger than expected, because the citrus tree had gone wild and proliferated extensive growth. Towards the end of their assignment, I asked Francisco as usual for horticultural advice in yard maintenance. Sometimes Francisco’s expertise turns out to be helpful, sometimes it’s not working at all (like killing Chinese Elm roots with gasoline), but every time he is eager to come up with some expert idea.
I have this mid-size, really lush apricot tree. In the last three year it had not had any fruit. Quite to the contrary, its little shabby apricot brother on the “desert” side of my backyard had sweet little fruits galore. Was my best tree still pouting since the last trim that I had given it myself? What could I do?
“Usar Ro-pa-mui-yer.”
“I don’t understand, what did you say?”
“Ro-pa-mui-yer.” He said it more slowly.
“Where can I buy that?” What a strange name that was for a fertilizer.
Francisco laughed. “You don’t have to buy it, use your own.”
I was confused. “Like what?” I asked
“Calcetines,” (stockings), he said, grinning all over his face. “O pantaloncitos (underwear slips). O camisa (undershirt).”
Ropa de Mujer! He is saying, “women’s clothing.” Was he serious?
“And how do I use these with the tree?”
“Wrap it around, hang it in there. I don’t know.”
“For how long?”
“A day, a week, as long as you like.”
“Eres chistoso?” (Are you kidding me?)
“No es broma, es un truco.” (No, it is not a joke. It is a trick.)
A trick?
“It will awaken the tree’s desire to produce.”
So I guess, the tree was male.
I tried it out. I hung a bra in that tree for a day. Let’s see about the results next year, Francisco.
Let’s not deal with politics but character—A case study
Horoscopes and psychic methods are fun toys. I like to read my daily or weekly predictions, calculate my “daily number,” or watch out for the typical omens, such as a black cat. On the left, the Tyrolean Numbers, my newest discovery. Let’s do the wheel on Trump after I explain the basics.
Oooh, yeah, numerology. When I am having a really “interesting” day, I calculate my daily number to see if I should have expected everything to go wrong. Definitely. Everybody has his or her own pet peeves or superstitions. Unfortunately, I never made it far enough to calculate my ascendents, descendents, transcendents, or, for that matter, houses and angles, and the planets orchestrated therein. I am so failing as an astrologer. Astro-logic? Maybe there is no logic, but I find this sort of intelligence enticing.
Now, here we go again. I “discovered” the Tyrolean Wheel of Numbers. “Das Tiroler Zahlenrad” by Johanna Paungger and Thomas Poppe (Graefe Unzer Verlag). Based on a person’s birthdate numbers, this easy-to-remember method provides an analysis of personality, character, and talents. Johanna Paungger collected this traditional tool for healing and decision making from her childhood experience. She grew up in a small mountain community with little money but a lot of folk wisdom. The English version of her book is available from Simon & Schuster.
I have used the Tyrolean Numbers on the analysis of friends and family members and was perplexed how well it struck a chord each time. All you need is a person’s birthdate. What is it good for? It can be a decision help in childrearing, partnership, or business deals. It helps you think about people you are dealing with.
The Tyrolean Wheel of Numbers has five pairs of numbers and five colors. The numbers of a birthdate are entered in the wheel by color designation (see below); zeros are only entered as parts of double digits (10, 20, 30 etc.); years are only counted as the last two digits (zeros ignored in, for example, 2003 = 3)
North: 1 & 6, color blue = intellect, creativity, new inventions, sensibility, analytical capacity; water is on the move and finds its way; looking beyond the current horizon; professions are journalists, scientist, pioneer, or diplomat; negative: may feel lonely, bored or anxious; easily offended; may show attitudes and power lust
East: 3 & 8, color green = compassionate clarity, diplomatic and pedagogical, shows musical and “green” talents, caring, harmonious, generous, hopeful; great success in healing and agricultural professions; negative: can be pedantic, meddling, nosey; stubborn regardless of consequences; wasteful; may give too much (depletion)
South: 2 & 7, color red = passion and temperament; charismatic and entertaining; early risers, talented dancers, enthusiasm; inspiring and motivating; great problem solvers; tend to gather awards and recognitions (public life); professions are in religion, show business, philosophy, art; negative: can be despotic, arrogant, tight wad, extravagant, exaggerating, overly dramatic, or depleting him/herself
West: 4 & 6, color white = business acumen, well versed with money, rational, reliable, enduring; talented in the crafts; driven for success; critical and ambitious; keeps up relationships well; professions are builder, mechanic, pilot, lawyer, inventor, merchant/business; negative: contradictory, pedantic & petty; materialistic, corruptible, destructive; egocentric and power hungry; manipulative; critical to others, but easily offended himself
Middle: 5 & 0, color yellow = centered character, reliable and self-reliant, trustworthy, deep spirituality, rooted in traditions, taking care of people; born as natural helper; enduring; professions: farming, forestry, geologist, mother, (sincere) merchant; negative: spendthrift and wasteful; brooding in deep thought; tolerating too much without protest; detached from reality.
Let’s do the Tyrolean numbers, for example, on D Trump, born June 14, 1946. As you can see, we filled all the numbers into the blue and the white areas. The green, red, and yellow talents and personality traits do not factor. Disclaimer: the “missing” areas don’t mean that the person entirely lacks these capabilities; he/she can also work on developing the missing traits to complete all areas. It will take conscious effort to balance every personality.
Now let’s ask the colors. Is this person creative and a “starter”? Yep. Does he come out “reborn” after sinking the Trump Mahal? Definitely. Is he a visionary? In business, all right, to his own pocket’s advantage. Is he clear in speech? Might seem so, but too simple. Is he good in business? Duh. Is he a good builder? Right, he does real estate for a living.
Other questions: Is he a good boss? Well, yeah, if you suck up to his vanity or like to be fired, because the corporation (so human???) is always right. Does he like sharing? Are you kidding me, he wouldn’t have come this far if he did. What about love and passion? Move that over to the “white” business side (for money, yes). But he takes care of kids and exes from his empire by making them CEOs in his enterprises.
And here comes the “middle.” It’s not there. This person might create constant fuzz and buzz and wealth just to make sure he confirms through bank accounts and the mirror effects and adulation through indentured servants, and the media he buys—that he EXISTS. He is NEEDY for attention and extremely smart. A dangerous combination.
Now go, Donald, develop your better sides. You have a lot of work to do. Stay cool, stay in business. Stay out of government.
Someone is playing the (sorcerer’s) Apprentice game. He wants to win at all cost.
He knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.
He manipulates the “judges” (voters) at all cost. But this is not a game.
He brings out the worst in all of us.
Donald, you are so fired in my book! Stop selling the constitution back to people who wrote it in the first place.
It seems strange, but Arizona is a winter paradise. Not only for snowbirds from Wisconsin and North Dakota who flock here to the Valley of the Sun, but also for people who really like snow. We have it good in Phoenix. When El Niño’s clouds move in, we get a heavy rain in the valley. But up in the mountains, Payson, Prescott, Flagstaff, and so forth, it’s another story. They get the flaky stuff.
So we go to see the snow. It’s a real attraction for us. We grab our hiking boots and bundle up. Yes, we use those gloves and hats once a year. And off we drive. We can see the white beauty from afar on Four Peaks Mountain. Let’s go!
Smoky the Bear advises us in Payson that fire danger is low today. No wonder, the snow pile reaches well above his waist. We drive up to the trout farm on the Rim by Horton Creek. Barely a one-lane track is ploughed. What if we get head on traffic! We don’t want to get stuck in the berm. No snow tires, chains or shovels anywhere. Who knows if our T-Mobile will get a call out of here.
But we are driving through a winter wonderland of pristine snow. The pine trees are loaded, bending under the heavy white weight. Is this Narnia? We expect snow creatures, but they are only happy sledders parked by the road.
We get out at the parking for the trailhead. The trout farm is closed, but there is a little trail into the snow-covered forest. We tread gently into the quiet scenery. Sculptured trees of sugar loads decorate the path besides us. Paff, that snowball hit right on my chest. Wait a minute, take this!
We like to see and touch the snow, and then be out of it. We basically know all the coffee shops in Flagstaff, our favorite one Macy’s with its coffee roaster and inspiring photographs. Yeah, we could trying skiing sometime on Mount Humphreys, but we are too lazy. Instead we enjoy the vista across the winter wonderland from up there.
This is Arizona winter wonderland. You may see Prickly Pear cacti covered with snow. They sure look funny that way. Or a white cap on a saguaro, a Santa-guaro. When it snows, we run to catch a whiff of it. And we get out of it just as quick. What a good deal.
Look at our beautiful Arizona snow mountains: Four Peaks, Bell Rock, Mt. Humphreys
Has this social media itch bothered you too for a while? Do you have a Facebook? I thought so, I do too. Fortunately, I am not the most curious person, neither am I the impulsive type. As a matter of fact, I have never understood Facebook. (What’s there to understand, you might ask.)
Of course, I always like to hear from my friends, of whom I have at least three dozen out there. Still Facebooks seems like a coincidental, random barrage of flicks and clips and news of people, some of whom I never met, others who I might have met but forgot about, and any mysterious connections that I can’t recollect. Everything, like the injured cat’s paw, a nuclear disaster, how to fix a seam with superglue, who is dating who, who escaped to Bermuda, who added a new picture and so on. On the other hand, there is a page, my page, where only stuff gets shown that I posted. At least I know where that is coming from.
Oh boy, you can do so many things with Facebook: you can post, or repost, or like, or tag, or follow, click happily away. But when it was important, it seems I always missed it. I find out from somewhere else much later. And, what the heck, does the FB IM and mail system do? In the little doodads in the top bar with the numbers on the red circle, I discovered messages that were three years old. My own fault, I don’t do Facebook enough.
Naturally I am on LinkedIn too, for the last seven years or so. Haven’t done much on this serious contact database for doctors, marketers, and real estate developers. (I am a writer, he he.) You can enter your kudos, awards, degrees, and accomplishments there. Has it done much for me? Not that I am aware of. Nobody from LinkedIn has ever bought me a cup of coffee. I didn’t even know until yesterday, that you can blog away there. Or you can repost your very own business blog. Or you can populate your page with reams of professional advice. And feature your skills and endorsements. It seems, however, whenever I made a connection, it was always in person first. Only afterwards we linked up on Facebook or LinkedIn, snooping out each others’ accomplishments.
Certainly I have a YouTube like every “sick” (I learned that word from a teenager) person on the planet. It happened by necessity because I had to put a movie clip on a website. There you go, something useful. My kids follow their favorite YouTube artists; some are getting paid and eventually end up on TV. This is fun!
So how do I work the social media? I post my hand-knit Imakinations blog on Facebook and wonder where it goes. Facebook often puts the wrong picture with the story. Ten minutes later, my post has traveled off the FB Diagon Alley below the edge of the screen. Never to be seen again? Tag me me, like me, share me.
Yes, I do like to be reminded about events on Facebook, even randomly. After looking at the stream of posts and pictures for a while, I can’t help but feel the coercion to comment, reply, or add something. Facebook feels like a Las Vegas situation. What happens on Facebook stays on Facebook. Yes, I am afraid so. FB is the most powerful data warehouse and phishing industry on earth, stronger than the IRS or Amazon.
Yet some people, take good old superstar Golden Girl Betty White (has she died, or hasn’t she?), refuse to participate. Betty must be close to a hundred years old. And she says, she hasn’t got much time. And Facebook is a huge waste of her time.
Social media can be a lot of trouble. I remember art competitions and fundraisers, where you had to vote every day for a month or so, and like it, and tell your friends to like it. And you could vote from all five computers in your house, each one once a day, only to find out that the competitors had a thousand-people-strong organization. So many happy clickers, like brushing their teeth each morning. My poor clicker couldn’t keep up.
On my Imakinations blog I know exactly where everything is. If you like me (please), the story gets around on Facebook, you see. It makes me happy when I get a vote or two. Once I had spam tsunamis washing through my Internet mail account (Did Facebook rat me out?). OK, I installed a Spam Assassin and a Boxtrapper and downloaded a few plug-ins, as far as my HTML skills allowed. Now, try to spam me!
—ADVERTISEMENT—
I go to Facebook (or other peep shows) like I go to Goodwill. I don’t expect a system to the madness, but I come away with some real surprises. Next I check for job postings on LinkedIn and get seduced by professional cooking recipes. What? It’s 11 o’clock? Darn it, tomorrow will be a Facebook fast. I seriously need that after so much grazing.
The buck doesn’t stop at Facebook. My kids do Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, and Tumbler too. You can order RSS newsfeeds, add channels, subscribe to special interest services etc. Don’t forget the tweets and bleeps and hate mail that you can leave in the comments section of every online article. Is anyone doing e-mails any more? Are you kidding me?
There are days when I wish I could shut down the buzzing Internet. Even when my computer is not on, I feel something is whirring through the air, like bats around my head. As if cobwebs strike my face while I am daydreaming. Some evil spirits hide in the invisible net. These facts become clear when your mouse wiggles a little bit too much or your finger slips off its back. Suddenly you end (unintentionally) up in low down adult garbage. Quick, switch of the browser!
Now the final question, who has time for all that? (I do, I do, I do, I do, I do, Abba).
—Notice how the advertising creeps in?—
Are we bored out of our minds? Can’t we talk in person any more? (No, we can’t. That’s what texting is for.) So I spin a blog that is hopefully not “normal”. Because if Facebook is the new normal, I prefer the “old crazy.” I love computers and digital media, but not the social insanity. As we are busy blogging and posting, we might miss out on life. Didn’t John Lennon say, “Life happens while you are busy posting”?
Social media happen in the clouds. I like to keep my feet predominantly on the ground. And I certainly don’t need help with (day)dreaming. Because even Facebook can’t compete with my wild imagination.
There goes another bleep or tweet to feed the social insanity. Oh, how I love computers!
Robert Earl Keen, Merry Christmas from the families
Everybody is doing it: the season for baking. I don’t like to cut corners, but I also want to be fast. And I am saying it like it is: cookies are bad for you. Don’t give me no Crisco either. So let’s make the best of a “bad” thing. The results will be delicious.
Let’s make two batches of cookies in one go: Santa’s Thumbprints and Macaroons. They originated from traditional German recipes, but I had to Americanize them by necessity. Split your eggs: the yolks into the butter cookies, the egg whites into the macaroons.
INGREDIENTS (best guesses; use your own judgment):
THUMBRPINTS
MACAROONS
3 egg yolks, 1 egg white
2 egg whites
250 g (1 3/4 cups) white flour
1 tsp baking powder
ca. 1 1/2 cups hazelnut flour (or pecan, walnut, almond)
100 g (3/4 cups) sugar
100 g (3/4 cups sugar)
1 packet (1 Tbsp) vanilla sugar & 1 pinch salt
zest of 1/2 lemon (lime)
150 g (1 1/3 stick) butter
ca. 30 whole nuts for decorating
red jelly (marmalade) for filling & sprinkle sugar
Dr. Oetger baking wafers (optional)
PREPARATION:
For the Thumbprints (350F):
Put the dry ingredients (flour, baking powder, sugar, vanilla sugar, salt) in a large mixing bowl; make an indentation (dale) for the eggs in the middle.
Separate the eggs: all 3 yolks go into your dale; 1 egg white in a small dessert bowl (fridge); 2 egg whites into a mixing bowl (fridge).
Cut up the butter (room temperature) in small slices/flakes and drop them around the margin of your egg yolk pond. Mix up the egg yolks with a fork; once semi-blended, knead the (short bread) dough together consistently and smoothly. Wrap that “butterball” in aluminum foil and set in fridge for ca. 1 hour.
For the Macaroons (200F):
Whip up the egg whites with sugar into a stiff mass, add lemon zest, and gently fold in the nuts meal. Use judgment about the stiffness; the mass should not flow but hold together as little “piles.”
With two teaspoons, set little piles of dough on a baking sheet (nonstick alu foil!), decorate each with a nut.
Bake the cookies at low heat (200F) for ca. 20 minutes. Tip slightly on their peaks to see if they are firm to touch. If needed give them another 5 or so minutes.
Back to the Thumbprints:
On a baking surface (board), cut the butterball into four equal sections; roll these out with both hands into 1-inch thick “sausages”; cut these sausages into 1-inch pieces.
Roll the pieces of dough into balls and set them aside on your work surface.
Dip each little ball in egg white, then in sprinkles, set them on the baking sheet.
With a cooking spoon, make small indentations on every ball, fill (with a dessert or baby spoon) the jelly into the holes. Done!
Bake the cookies at 350F for ca. 25 minutes. Watch them. They might be done when their fringes turn golden brown.
Santa will bring you two bags of gifts for these, no matter how naughty you have been!
We started taping Renate’s story. Once a month I drove to her house on top of a Fountain Hills peak and listened to her true tales. War times in Germany. Concealed at birth. Prankster childhood. Love gone awry. Down and out in Los Angeles. More than once, my jaw dropped. Renate laid it all out. Barred none.
Yes, but her mother and father, Trudel and Emile, were buried alive in rubble of the dental lab where they worked. By a miracle, both were rescued days later and put into a hospital for a year. They never fully recovered . . . and then, mother . . .
Now it’s two years later and the book is done. “Renatle” turned out well. And so did her book.
All this fame could have spoiled Renate, but quite to the contrary she is a charming, helpful, and very open person. A gem. And I learned a great deal from her. Each interview and every editing meet was a lesson for me. Here we are at the Fountain Hills Gallery presenting Renatle’s Mosaic.
When you thought, no stranger things than a “bra” can happen, look at this. Well, I had to protect my miracle tree this year. We have tons of grackles that can empty a whole fig tree in a day. So how could I keep my sweet apricot secret and the fruits for myself?
