This morning I pulled back the drapes and I saw this:
covered in a fine layer of snow. Like this:
Here, in Marienplatz, an enormous Christmas tree is being erected:
and Christkindlmarkt structures are obscuring the view of the Neu Rathaus.
They are playing Strauss waltzes at night on the U Bahn platforms, which can keep your mind off the fact that you are freezing your butt off in Central Europe, and can be a bit romantische, too:
Today, in the studio:
“She might become the Yoko Ono of this band and break us up.”
All I’m doing is stealing your wireless connection so I can check email. I’m not even paying attention. I won’t be your Yoko Ono, if you’re not good enough for me.
Funk you very much.
Upon further research, I have found that dietary restrictions go deep and cut to the heart of me:
No/limit: asparagus, mushrooms (does this include truffles?), beans!, spinach!, meat, alcohol, mackerel or anchovies (okay) or other seafood!, oatmeal.
Yes/increase: cherries, strawberries, cheese (thank GOD), eggs, other fruit, nuts, sugar, veggies, whole grains. Eh.
Pretty dismal, but if I can get over this first bout of symptoms with tons of water and anti-inflammatories without having the needle in the joints, then maybe I can indulge (in some beans?) a little later. Just have to monitor the pain level and adjust accordingly. Meanwhile I read Delicious Days and curse my fate.
Also dismal: my cooking situation. Limited in scope and function. The suite has a kitchen, but the floor plan has me cooking in the closet, basically. It will be nice to get out of this hotel and into the apartment, especially if the liebling’s project extends into the new year as is being predicted.
PS: The Munich, it is the leeetle city. Pretty, wealthy, and a bit boring. Nowhere near as vibrant and funky as its northern neighbor. Two weeks till Berlin.
This is what I got for my birthday:
There were only 50,000 of the aluminum case versions released, and I now have one of the last three. I am special. I’m not allowed to listen to it with him around, and I’m not allowed to point and laugh at him when he comes home. He does have the final chuckle, however, because Carbonara is now permanantly burned into my brain and I hum it all the time. Thank you neue deutsche Welle. Thank you, liebling.
True confessions: I now know what has been causing the pain with the walking and in the joints, and I know that I have to lay off the meat and alcohol (which means no beer. in Munich. Fuck). But when I went down to the Viktualienmarkt to pick up dinner (walnut and gorgonzola ravioli, pesto cream sauce, white bean salad to have with rucola salada), I also had a leberkase sandwich. JUST A SMALL ONE. Can I get away with it? NO. Mustard on the white jacket. For fuck’s sake.
This formatting shit is starting to upset me. I don’t like change and I don’t like learning, so when blog.com takes away my idiot-click editing tools and provokes me to learn some html I get the pouty lip.
Hey look, it works now:
To begin birthday day, breakfast (1 pm) at the huge food hall at the Victualienmarkt in the Old City Center. Weisswurst mit brez’n and giant weissbier. Quark and apricot strudel with vanilla cream sauce and cappuccino. Drunken walking to the Museum of Modern Art.
Modern art: looky, looky. Some really great stuff, but some installation art that just makes me mad, it’s so crappy. Then nap and then this here:
Acetaia’s menu is constructed around a 25 year old balsamic vinegar, the restaurant itself is small with high ceilings and glass and dark wood- very old world european, very romantic.
To start, from the chef, complementi: marscapone flavored with raspberries and mustard, crouton, and a glass of champagne. Prost. Buon compleanno.
Primeri: more cheese, grilled, of course, with polenta and wild mushrooms and truffles. For him: stuffed calf’s cheek (better than it sounds) on a bed of beet carpaccio.
Secondi: raviolini, stuffed with ricotta and spinach, with lobster. Him: torteloni with that amazing balsamic out of the legendary cask.
Terzo: branzino/seewolf/loop de mer/a kind of fish vertically stacked, with red kale, beautifully turned potatoes and zucchini. For him: a game bird, stuffed with something or other, I was focused on the fish. Italian chardonnay to loosen the tongue and make you want to take a cab home.
Finalmente: honey-pepper mousse on lemon zabagione. For him: whiskey-hazelnut parfait that easily trumped the mousse. Decaf espresso and green tea and chocolate shortbread to end the evening.
A day of eating like that will put a person in a daze for days and that is what it pretty much did. And I didn’t even mention the ethiopian restaurant around the corner when the clock struck 12 the night before. Will fill you in on the studio being next to fake company disguising US Secret Service but I’ll leave it for next time…oh, potential for bad behavior…
pedometer: 10,236
