This is one for the entomologists among you.
It's a long story, one which I'll tell bit by bit in my leisurely fashion. Be warned.
For many years now, oh, well over twenty I'd warrant, we've been using the same kind of paper shade on the lamp hanging in the middle of our bedroom. Do you know the kind? It's a big round Chinese lantern style shade, a ball around 60 cm (two feet) in diameter with a hole in the top to introduce your light fixture and a corresponding small hole in the bottom for, well, your guess is as good as mine what that hole is for. I suppose the little 6 cm (two inch) hole gives some ventilation. We'll come back to this hole later. I can stand under this lampshade and my head will just brush up against it. We replace the things every couple years or so at IKEA, when the paper seems to have gotten brittle and the dust leaves smudges and streaks when we try to clean it.
What does this all have to do with bugs? I warned you, didn't I? We're getting there. It's just that I like to set the scene, to give you the background gist. Yeh.
So the thing is, even in my first years of living over here in Berlin I started noticing something about that paper lantern shade. In the summer I'd sometimes be aware of one or two little flies that seemed to favor the bottom surface of that big hanging ball. Of course in one's quotidian existence one has other things to think about so I took little mind of those little guys.
As the years went on however, they'd appear every summer, just slightly encroaching on the periphery of my attention. I'd give them a moment's thought, then go on to other things.
Over time though I realized that I had begun to expect them as one little element of summer, and that I actually watched them in the odd moment, noticing behaviors as I would in my birding hobby. I certainly started wondering what they were, what species. Perhaps they are the Common European Lampshade Fly, with an appropriate scientific name in Latin.
I definitely want to know. This is beginning to sound like an obsession, isn't it? Well, as I plumb my soul I can say I still don't spend much time thinking about the little denizens of the underside of our lampshade, but if I sit there at the end of the bed putting my socks on I may look up and can't help noticing them and their comings and goings. There seems to always be one or two there in the summer months, at the height of their season maybe three.
In the meantime I have seen them so often I could write a slim monograph about their natural history.
They first appear in the latter half of June usually, depending on the weather. This year it was in the last week of June I think. They are small and black - about half or 60% the size of a normal housefly. They are quite innocuous, never bothering people or going after food at all. I only see them in the one place I've described, although I grant that, being so small they'd be very easy to miss in other locations.
They have a very definite set of behaviors. Usually they are seen at rest, clinging to the underside of the hanging paper ball lampshade. Above, I have described a small central hole at the bottom of this shade. Nearly invariably the tiny flies hang onto the paper with their heads pointed downward, towards the central hole. In fact if they land they hitch themselves around once or twice so that they do point downwards.
Sometimes they feel like exercising their wings, and dropping from the paper shade they start a jerky sort of flight, back and forth, all straight segments and then sudden acute turns, around 60 °
each. They seem to concentrate around the bottom of the lampshade, back and forth, with never much of a curve in their flight.
If there's a second one on the other side of the bottom hole, it may take off and egage the first in a furious close-on dogfight before both break off and land again. Either that or it's one of their courtship rituals!
As I write this, early July, I still see only one hanging out there. Others will surely appear soon. When evening comes, they disappear too, heading off to some unknown night roost.
There are so many mysteries about these little fellows. What do they eat? Do they die off in the autumn or hibernate in some hiding place? They must also lay tiny eggs somewhere. I imagine them like the horrible pulsing eggs of the Alien movies, in miniature: little dots probably placed on the paper of the lampshade itself.
Probably my second-biggest question about them is what they do out in the natural world? Hanging paper lampshades have only been around for a splinter of the time needed for them to evolve. Do they find some hanging blossoms in the woods on which to congregate?
Question Number One for me is simply what are they? After more than twenty years I think I'm entitled to know. Any professional entomologists out there reading this?
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Weel, weel. Son Daniel pointed me here, and so I now have my very own 'Pirate Name', for what it's worth.
My pirate name is:
Mad Roger Flint
Get your own pirate name from piratequiz.com.
part of the fidius.org network
My pirate name is:
Mad Roger Flint
Every pirate is a little bit crazy.
You, though, are more than
just a little bit.
just a little bit.
Like the rock flint, you're
hard and sharp.
hard and sharp.
But, also like flint, you're
easily chipped,
and sparky. Arr!
and sparky. Arr!
Get your own pirate name from piratequiz.com.
part of the fidius.org network
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Ode to Joy
Yesterday I was driving home from the in-laws'. I had Klassik-Radio on. Suddenly this brass music started, horns and trumpets, deep bass. I recognized it, and within moments I felt a joy welling up within me; tears began streaming down my face. I felt giddy and was cackling my joy to the world.
Why? What was it? It was some film music, some processional march from one of those "Roman Type" movies, as we say in my family. I wasn't sure at first, I must admit, if it was from "The Robe" or what, but those strains of music were intimately familiar, that stirring marching music, conjuring up the pomp of Rome, the might, the glory of Rome. When at last it had run its course, the announcer came on and of course! It was from "Ben Hur", the parade of the charioteers by Miklós Rózsa.
Parade of the Charioteers
I know most anybody else will listen to this piece with a different feeling, from apathy to dislike to whatever.
Why did it stir me so, just at that moment? Listening to it again now, I don't get the same feeling. It's just some piece of music I know. I thought about other pieces of music I might hear on a classical station. Somehow it didn't seem my reaction would've been the same if I had heard one of my favorite pieces from Mozart, say, or Beethoven. And surely I didn't count this piece among my great favorites anyway.
A lot was the serendipity of it, I thought. I surely didn't expect to hear such a piece then and there. This was Klassik Radio however, and they are famous for their eclectic mix of film music in the afternoons, so really in the back of my mind I was hoping to hear something of that ilk. So this was only part of it. Surely too, it had to do with the recognition I experienced.
Certainly I was filled with such joy, cranking the volume all the way up, for a number of reasons, but I think one main one was that the movie was one I had seen every year on TV in my childhood, like "Moby Dick" or "The Wizard of Oz". But the latter, sure, I have since seen and heard music from so many times that if I suddenly heard "If I Only Had A Brain", say, would I react the same way? Hmmm. Well, yes, I would melt into tears of joy if I heard "Over The Rainbow", since I love that song anyway.
So OK, I'm trying to analyze a nearly ineffable experience here. Give it up, kiddo. Life offers up these moments of joy. You can't put your finger on why it happens. You can't push a button and say, OK, I'm going to have an uplifting experience now. I suppose that's the object of my ruminations here, to figure out where the sudden feeling comes from, to perhaps manufacture more of them for myself in the future.
Weel weel. Though it is certainly true that I can't produce such moments like a magician, out of thin air, I know I will continue to enjoy them when - like magic - they happen.
Why? What was it? It was some film music, some processional march from one of those "Roman Type" movies, as we say in my family. I wasn't sure at first, I must admit, if it was from "The Robe" or what, but those strains of music were intimately familiar, that stirring marching music, conjuring up the pomp of Rome, the might, the glory of Rome. When at last it had run its course, the announcer came on and of course! It was from "Ben Hur", the parade of the charioteers by Miklós Rózsa.
Parade of the Charioteers
I know most anybody else will listen to this piece with a different feeling, from apathy to dislike to whatever.
Why did it stir me so, just at that moment? Listening to it again now, I don't get the same feeling. It's just some piece of music I know. I thought about other pieces of music I might hear on a classical station. Somehow it didn't seem my reaction would've been the same if I had heard one of my favorite pieces from Mozart, say, or Beethoven. And surely I didn't count this piece among my great favorites anyway.
A lot was the serendipity of it, I thought. I surely didn't expect to hear such a piece then and there. This was Klassik Radio however, and they are famous for their eclectic mix of film music in the afternoons, so really in the back of my mind I was hoping to hear something of that ilk. So this was only part of it. Surely too, it had to do with the recognition I experienced.
Certainly I was filled with such joy, cranking the volume all the way up, for a number of reasons, but I think one main one was that the movie was one I had seen every year on TV in my childhood, like "Moby Dick" or "The Wizard of Oz". But the latter, sure, I have since seen and heard music from so many times that if I suddenly heard "If I Only Had A Brain", say, would I react the same way? Hmmm. Well, yes, I would melt into tears of joy if I heard "Over The Rainbow", since I love that song anyway.
So OK, I'm trying to analyze a nearly ineffable experience here. Give it up, kiddo. Life offers up these moments of joy. You can't put your finger on why it happens. You can't push a button and say, OK, I'm going to have an uplifting experience now. I suppose that's the object of my ruminations here, to figure out where the sudden feeling comes from, to perhaps manufacture more of them for myself in the future.
Weel weel. Though it is certainly true that I can't produce such moments like a magician, out of thin air, I know I will continue to enjoy them when - like magic - they happen.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Oh! The Smell of Early Summer!
Have you ever, come June let's say, noticed a lovely fragrance in the air? I have. Now, later in summer as I write this, the scent has faded or as my brother suggested, been overlaid with other more redolent summer smells, but cast your mind back to those early summer evenings...
For me it's a hallmark of that time, late late spring or early summer. You can smell it anywhere there's anything green growing. Maybe it's somewhat fainter downtown where it's mostly asphalt and buildings, but where we live it's streets lined with apartment buildings, having bits of green here and there and trees sticking up through their little allotted slots in the pavement. Of course behind the buildings the irregularly-shaped courtyards have their plantings of flowers and grass and trees too. And the scent is strong.
When I come home of a pleasant June evening, or later as it's just getting dark, the delicious sweet smell surrounds me, tantalizing, captivating.
What is it? It doesn't seem to come from anywhere in particular; it's all over the place. My best guess is that it's tree pollen, but I have yet to have a botanist confirm this.
And the smell itself - what's it like? It's pleasant; it's sweetish. Well we all know smells are notoriously hard to pin down. Add to that my own personal poorly developed sense of taste especially. If I am given a slice of bread with jam on it, I have a hard time identifying it, especially if I don't see what color it is. If I see Red, then I can rule out a bunch. But in any case I taste it, and somehow know the taste, but can't put my finger on it till I'm told "Peach, of course!" and then I slap my forehead and say "Oh, yeah, sure." This may be some kind of deficiency on my part.
But in any case this scent I'm talking about is a really delightful facet of those warm, glowing evenings: the sun sets late, the light lingers long; it's shirtsleeve weather. And as you walk up the block to your door every breath you takes in this sweet, almost magical smell.
For me it's a hallmark of that time, late late spring or early summer. You can smell it anywhere there's anything green growing. Maybe it's somewhat fainter downtown where it's mostly asphalt and buildings, but where we live it's streets lined with apartment buildings, having bits of green here and there and trees sticking up through their little allotted slots in the pavement. Of course behind the buildings the irregularly-shaped courtyards have their plantings of flowers and grass and trees too. And the scent is strong.
When I come home of a pleasant June evening, or later as it's just getting dark, the delicious sweet smell surrounds me, tantalizing, captivating.
What is it? It doesn't seem to come from anywhere in particular; it's all over the place. My best guess is that it's tree pollen, but I have yet to have a botanist confirm this.
And the smell itself - what's it like? It's pleasant; it's sweetish. Well we all know smells are notoriously hard to pin down. Add to that my own personal poorly developed sense of taste especially. If I am given a slice of bread with jam on it, I have a hard time identifying it, especially if I don't see what color it is. If I see Red, then I can rule out a bunch. But in any case I taste it, and somehow know the taste, but can't put my finger on it till I'm told "Peach, of course!" and then I slap my forehead and say "Oh, yeah, sure." This may be some kind of deficiency on my part.
But in any case this scent I'm talking about is a really delightful facet of those warm, glowing evenings: the sun sets late, the light lingers long; it's shirtsleeve weather. And as you walk up the block to your door every breath you takes in this sweet, almost magical smell.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Botanical and Ornithological Musings
Recently here in Berlin we have been somewhat blessed by little wisps of white, floating on the breeze. I look out of the window and I can see these bits of cotton here and there, anywhere in town it seems. It seems obvious that they are coming from some trees or other, but I am a bit challenged as the parlance goes, concerning trees. Birds now, I can rattle off your English and your German names as well, but trees? Hmm, not so good.
In my teaching of English as a foreign language to Germans, I often throw out questions to them
to compare things in America to here in Germany. Recycling, cell phones, hot water heaters. This time it was little wisps of cottony stuff floating almost wherever you look.
They said, unanimously I believe, that the stuff came from Pappeln, poplar trees in English. Oh, I said, having in my mind a generic picture of a poplar as a tall thin columnar tree which you often see lining roads in pictures of Tuscany and other such romantic places. I further told them that I remembered back from Denver that at some time of year you would have a similar phenomenon, but it would come from a different tree altogether, which we call a cottonwood. The stus got a laugh out of that, after translating cotton back into German: Baumwoll, to get Baumwollbaum. We laughed.
So today I went online to expand my knowledge of this poplar tree which causes these spring snow flurries to fall. I find it's a large family of trees which include the aspens, those lovely trees with the gold bark and bright yellow leaves when they turn in autumn, up in Colorado's Rockies. And - hey! What do you know. The family also includes my 'completely different tree', the cottonwood. Did I feel sheepish. But online here too, I then asked my brother if the same phenomenon was going on now there too, back in Denver. He said no, but he remembered that cottonwoods do that too at some point in the year.
Well. I think of myself as a bit of a naturalist, in some respects. I am a birder, am interested in sky phenomena and astronomy; but as I say trees and plants are not my strong suit. Now with birds, it is interesting to compare the avifauna of Europe with that of North America. The species on the two continents are different for the most part, though many are related. So you will find jays on both land masses, but the lovely though raucous Blue Jay looks quite different than the mostly tan european Jay. As I understand it this is tied to the geological history of the Earth, the continents having once been one connected land mass. As they parted, the species became differentiated more and more over time. A few kinds are interestingly the same on European and North American soil however, like the Magpie, or Elster as they say here in Germany. Same bird.
Having read about this, I naturally assumed the same to be true for trees, and indeed it does seem to be. The cottonwood is in the same family as the Black Poplar of Europe but is a different species. I'm learning. For example, I have always loved the word sycamore. What a lovely name for a tree, one which I thought was a peculiarly North American kind. On researching, I see that again I was wrong - it's a member of the plane tree family, which is found throughout Europe too with other species. In German it's Platane. I've heard of them, sure, but never connected them with sycamores because I never really knew what a sycamore looked like, just liked the name.
You know:
Pennies in a stream
Falling leaves - a sycamore
Moonlight in Vermont
But to go back to the topic, yes the tree species on the two continents seem to have split over the eons into different versions of similar trees. Interesting, like the birds.
In North America there are many more different species of birds than in Europe, also because of geologic history, as I have read. During the various Ice Ages, the ice sheets covered all of Europe down to the Alps I believe, wiping out many species which had been there before. As the ice receded, only animals which had been able to survive in more southerly areas were able to repopulate the country. In North America on the other hand the ice only came down to the middle of what is now the United States of America; hence there was still a great buffer zone to the south for birds to retreat to - the continent was not competely covered. The birds simply moved north again as the ice receded. More species survived.
In my teaching of English as a foreign language to Germans, I often throw out questions to them
to compare things in America to here in Germany. Recycling, cell phones, hot water heaters. This time it was little wisps of cottony stuff floating almost wherever you look.
They said, unanimously I believe, that the stuff came from Pappeln, poplar trees in English. Oh, I said, having in my mind a generic picture of a poplar as a tall thin columnar tree which you often see lining roads in pictures of Tuscany and other such romantic places. I further told them that I remembered back from Denver that at some time of year you would have a similar phenomenon, but it would come from a different tree altogether, which we call a cottonwood. The stus got a laugh out of that, after translating cotton back into German: Baumwoll, to get Baumwollbaum. We laughed.
So today I went online to expand my knowledge of this poplar tree which causes these spring snow flurries to fall. I find it's a large family of trees which include the aspens, those lovely trees with the gold bark and bright yellow leaves when they turn in autumn, up in Colorado's Rockies. And - hey! What do you know. The family also includes my 'completely different tree', the cottonwood. Did I feel sheepish. But online here too, I then asked my brother if the same phenomenon was going on now there too, back in Denver. He said no, but he remembered that cottonwoods do that too at some point in the year.
Well. I think of myself as a bit of a naturalist, in some respects. I am a birder, am interested in sky phenomena and astronomy; but as I say trees and plants are not my strong suit. Now with birds, it is interesting to compare the avifauna of Europe with that of North America. The species on the two continents are different for the most part, though many are related. So you will find jays on both land masses, but the lovely though raucous Blue Jay looks quite different than the mostly tan european Jay. As I understand it this is tied to the geological history of the Earth, the continents having once been one connected land mass. As they parted, the species became differentiated more and more over time. A few kinds are interestingly the same on European and North American soil however, like the Magpie, or Elster as they say here in Germany. Same bird.
Having read about this, I naturally assumed the same to be true for trees, and indeed it does seem to be. The cottonwood is in the same family as the Black Poplar of Europe but is a different species. I'm learning. For example, I have always loved the word sycamore. What a lovely name for a tree, one which I thought was a peculiarly North American kind. On researching, I see that again I was wrong - it's a member of the plane tree family, which is found throughout Europe too with other species. In German it's Platane. I've heard of them, sure, but never connected them with sycamores because I never really knew what a sycamore looked like, just liked the name.
You know:
Pennies in a stream
Falling leaves - a sycamore
Moonlight in Vermont
But to go back to the topic, yes the tree species on the two continents seem to have split over the eons into different versions of similar trees. Interesting, like the birds.
In North America there are many more different species of birds than in Europe, also because of geologic history, as I have read. During the various Ice Ages, the ice sheets covered all of Europe down to the Alps I believe, wiping out many species which had been there before. As the ice receded, only animals which had been able to survive in more southerly areas were able to repopulate the country. In North America on the other hand the ice only came down to the middle of what is now the United States of America; hence there was still a great buffer zone to the south for birds to retreat to - the continent was not competely covered. The birds simply moved north again as the ice receded. More species survived.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Asparagus Time
Here in Berlin, Germany's capital, there's a delightful, a quaint, even to say a delicious aspect of the culture which rolls around this time of year, from April to June or thereabouts.
Yes, as the title up there says, it's the Asparagus Season. Asparagus, Spargel in German, is grown locally and eaten here during these few months. There is a whole culture which has grown up around it, something nearly harmless which really has a quaint aspect to it and which hurts hardly anybody. That can't be said of many things nowadays.
It reminds me of the culture surrounding the cultivation of pipeweed in Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. Then too, another similarity strikes my mind. Here in the Dahlem district of Berlin there is a huge labyrinth of a museum, really a number of museums all knitted together in one sprawling complex, the "Dahlem Museums". You have to go through Asia, India and then through the Gold Chamber, down half a flight and through Africa, up three or is it four more flights, way up till you're under the roof and you come to a small gallery, the half to the one side holding the Musical Instruments collection, the other side containing a really delightful collection of Japanese Folk Arts.
These are little figures, games, miscellaneous objects each belonging to one specific locality in Japan, each relating to a very local custom, be it a festival or anniversary or whatever. Each is beautiful in its own way, completely strange and unintelligible to outsiders. Granted, these seem to be very localized customs, whereas the Spargel culture does seem to be more or less nationwide in Germany; I do, however, get the same feeling of quaintness out of both, and the fact that each represents a rather minor part of the national culture as a whole but one which people do look forward to.
It starts, for most of us here in town it starts around the middle of April, when we begin looking for these little stands to appear on less-cluttered street corners, advertising Beelitzer Spargel for some ridiculously high price per kilo. €15, €16, €18! And some people will pay it, at the beginning of the season that is. Pretty soon the price becomes much more reasonable, eventually leveling off at around €5 per kilo. Oh, and the Beelitz part? Why, that's the town south of Berlin whose name is synonymous with the growing of asparagus in these parts. For miles around there you can find large and small asparagus fields. So Beelitzer Spargel tells us that we're getting the genuine article there, not having some imported goods foisted off on us.
Exactly when those stands begin popping up depends mostly on how the weather has been in the few months before, whether the outgoing winter has already released its grip or if there's still been snow recently. This year the latter part of the winter was rather severe so the season was a bit late in getting started. I was out birding on Easter Sunday and saw maybe one stand; that was April 14 this year. But I did see a number of those characteristic fields.
The Germans love white asparagus, the spears cut just as the tips begin to break the sandy soil. When the head has come through and turned violet and then green by sunlight, it is considered a somewhat inferior product, although as far as I know green asparagus is the standard type available in the States, imported year-round from Peru as I have read. To produce white asparagus, the plants are cultivated in long ridges, their tops perfectly flat, their sides beveled inwards. The whole ridge is then covered in dark or light plastic, depending on the weather as I understand - the dark side absorbs heat, the light side reflects it. The plastic is neatly tucked into the base of the ridge. Specially built machines do all these various steps as they move down the rows. In home gardens of course the ridges are not so perfectly formed: they are lower and are much more uneven.
Go down to the Beelitz area any day you like from mid-April to the end of May, especially in the early morning, and you will see people at work in these Spargel fields. Most of the workers come over from Poland for the day to help in the harvest. The commercial outfits prepare things for them, depositing little collections of mineral water bottles at each row, and especially leaving a kind of Spargel wheelbarrow there too. This is a little one-wheeled affair with a plastic box in the middle to receive the cut stalks, the whole just big enough to roll between the asparagus ridges, propelled by a single handle. The harvesters use a kind of long screwdriver, the tip bent over to one side, flattened and sharpened to cut the spears. They find where one is just deforming the soil surface, stick the tool down into the ground to cut it off at the base. It takes quite a bit of skill to do it without mangling the stalk, I'm told.
Down around Beelitz and the surrounding villages - Zauchwitz, Schlunkendorf and so on, you will find many stands to buy your Spargel and nearly as many places to eat it. Our favorite little place is just east of Beelitz itself, a couple kilometers out, on the left side of the road where a dirt road leads between the asparagus fields. There's a little stand at the side of the field where the stalks are as fresh as they come. You may even have to wait a bit for the next batch to come in off the fields - off in the distance you can see the workers gathering it. We usually buy ours there and cook it at home, but all around are big commercial outfits which run eating establishments during the season. To one side you can enter a building and buy the goods too, while sometimes you can even watch a production line to see how the spears are processed mostly by machine. There are various steps they go through in a production line, being washed, peeled, sorted and finally collected in plastic tubs.
Oh and while you're in the area you can visit one of Germany's three Asparagus museums, directly in Schlunkendorf. It's a small building, once a single-family house it seems, with information on history and cultivation, complete with historical Spargel utensils. It's a fun little stop, and doesn't take itself too seriously - you can visit while you're waiting for the next load of the product to be delivered from the fields.
And of course there are innumerable ways to prepare the asparagus: in soup, baked, in a casserole, with mushrooms, wrapped in prosciutto ham, and on and on. I recently tasted a spoonful of asparagus ice cream, which I'm not sure I would recommend. I think I like it best when my wife prepares it in the simplest way, very traditionally. It is boiled or steamed, the spears presented on a plate with some chilled slices of boiled ham and some boiled potatoes. Hollandaise sauce over the asparagus completes the dish, or simply a little melted butter. That way you really can appreciate the delicate flavor of the tender vegetable itself without anything to distract from it.
Oh, lovely Spargelzeit, something to look forward to as winter draws to a close. In these times when supermarkets offer produce from halfway around the world, in and out of season all year round, it's pleasant and heartening to participate in this much more local custom, buying and consuming local products, and still having to experience that anticipation as the season draws near.
Yes, as the title up there says, it's the Asparagus Season. Asparagus, Spargel in German, is grown locally and eaten here during these few months. There is a whole culture which has grown up around it, something nearly harmless which really has a quaint aspect to it and which hurts hardly anybody. That can't be said of many things nowadays.
It reminds me of the culture surrounding the cultivation of pipeweed in Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. Then too, another similarity strikes my mind. Here in the Dahlem district of Berlin there is a huge labyrinth of a museum, really a number of museums all knitted together in one sprawling complex, the "Dahlem Museums". You have to go through Asia, India and then through the Gold Chamber, down half a flight and through Africa, up three or is it four more flights, way up till you're under the roof and you come to a small gallery, the half to the one side holding the Musical Instruments collection, the other side containing a really delightful collection of Japanese Folk Arts.
These are little figures, games, miscellaneous objects each belonging to one specific locality in Japan, each relating to a very local custom, be it a festival or anniversary or whatever. Each is beautiful in its own way, completely strange and unintelligible to outsiders. Granted, these seem to be very localized customs, whereas the Spargel culture does seem to be more or less nationwide in Germany; I do, however, get the same feeling of quaintness out of both, and the fact that each represents a rather minor part of the national culture as a whole but one which people do look forward to.
It starts, for most of us here in town it starts around the middle of April, when we begin looking for these little stands to appear on less-cluttered street corners, advertising Beelitzer Spargel for some ridiculously high price per kilo. €15, €16, €18! And some people will pay it, at the beginning of the season that is. Pretty soon the price becomes much more reasonable, eventually leveling off at around €5 per kilo. Oh, and the Beelitz part? Why, that's the town south of Berlin whose name is synonymous with the growing of asparagus in these parts. For miles around there you can find large and small asparagus fields. So Beelitzer Spargel tells us that we're getting the genuine article there, not having some imported goods foisted off on us.
Exactly when those stands begin popping up depends mostly on how the weather has been in the few months before, whether the outgoing winter has already released its grip or if there's still been snow recently. This year the latter part of the winter was rather severe so the season was a bit late in getting started. I was out birding on Easter Sunday and saw maybe one stand; that was April 14 this year. But I did see a number of those characteristic fields.
The Germans love white asparagus, the spears cut just as the tips begin to break the sandy soil. When the head has come through and turned violet and then green by sunlight, it is considered a somewhat inferior product, although as far as I know green asparagus is the standard type available in the States, imported year-round from Peru as I have read. To produce white asparagus, the plants are cultivated in long ridges, their tops perfectly flat, their sides beveled inwards. The whole ridge is then covered in dark or light plastic, depending on the weather as I understand - the dark side absorbs heat, the light side reflects it. The plastic is neatly tucked into the base of the ridge. Specially built machines do all these various steps as they move down the rows. In home gardens of course the ridges are not so perfectly formed: they are lower and are much more uneven.
Go down to the Beelitz area any day you like from mid-April to the end of May, especially in the early morning, and you will see people at work in these Spargel fields. Most of the workers come over from Poland for the day to help in the harvest. The commercial outfits prepare things for them, depositing little collections of mineral water bottles at each row, and especially leaving a kind of Spargel wheelbarrow there too. This is a little one-wheeled affair with a plastic box in the middle to receive the cut stalks, the whole just big enough to roll between the asparagus ridges, propelled by a single handle. The harvesters use a kind of long screwdriver, the tip bent over to one side, flattened and sharpened to cut the spears. They find where one is just deforming the soil surface, stick the tool down into the ground to cut it off at the base. It takes quite a bit of skill to do it without mangling the stalk, I'm told.
Down around Beelitz and the surrounding villages - Zauchwitz, Schlunkendorf and so on, you will find many stands to buy your Spargel and nearly as many places to eat it. Our favorite little place is just east of Beelitz itself, a couple kilometers out, on the left side of the road where a dirt road leads between the asparagus fields. There's a little stand at the side of the field where the stalks are as fresh as they come. You may even have to wait a bit for the next batch to come in off the fields - off in the distance you can see the workers gathering it. We usually buy ours there and cook it at home, but all around are big commercial outfits which run eating establishments during the season. To one side you can enter a building and buy the goods too, while sometimes you can even watch a production line to see how the spears are processed mostly by machine. There are various steps they go through in a production line, being washed, peeled, sorted and finally collected in plastic tubs.
Oh and while you're in the area you can visit one of Germany's three Asparagus museums, directly in Schlunkendorf. It's a small building, once a single-family house it seems, with information on history and cultivation, complete with historical Spargel utensils. It's a fun little stop, and doesn't take itself too seriously - you can visit while you're waiting for the next load of the product to be delivered from the fields.
And of course there are innumerable ways to prepare the asparagus: in soup, baked, in a casserole, with mushrooms, wrapped in prosciutto ham, and on and on. I recently tasted a spoonful of asparagus ice cream, which I'm not sure I would recommend. I think I like it best when my wife prepares it in the simplest way, very traditionally. It is boiled or steamed, the spears presented on a plate with some chilled slices of boiled ham and some boiled potatoes. Hollandaise sauce over the asparagus completes the dish, or simply a little melted butter. That way you really can appreciate the delicate flavor of the tender vegetable itself without anything to distract from it.
Oh, lovely Spargelzeit, something to look forward to as winter draws to a close. In these times when supermarkets offer produce from halfway around the world, in and out of season all year round, it's pleasant and heartening to participate in this much more local custom, buying and consuming local products, and still having to experience that anticipation as the season draws near.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Blithe Amusement at Curious-looking People
These thoughts were running around my head today, on my way to work through a late winter wet snow drizzler. I don't know what reminded me, but the image came up of a droll-looking pair of twin sisters I encountered some months ago at a do-it-yourself market south of Berlin where I live.
I got out of my car and saw these two implausible, identical figures on their way into the place way in front of me there in the parking lot. They seemed to be female from their attire, but were tall, thin as sticks and dressed alike. They each had on a long, brownish raincoat-like affair. They were shiny plastic-looking things. that reached to below their knees. Of course I was seeing them from the back, but I could also see that each was wearing a light colored knitted cap too, covering her short hair. They reminded me faintly of witches. I was amused and wanted to get a look at them closer up.
I went in, took the escalator up and found what I was looking for after some searching. In the meantime I had glimpses of these two odd personages down this aisle or at the paint counter. I further saw they each had squarish dark rimmed glasses on too, each with a beak of a nose protruding out the middle. You couldn't say they were attractive in any sense but they sure were characters. They strode purposefully about in their dark green rain boots, grey leggings tucked primly into the tops of them. It was a wet day, after all.
They were so fun to look at. As one goes through life one encounters people who just have a look about them, you just have to smile as I did. They really made my day, and I got an especial thrill as I noticed one of the sisters in front of me, looking through the €1.00 bins near the registers when I was ready to check out.
I always check them out too anyway, so I went over. In a pleasant speaking voice she exchanged notes with me about the kitchen sponges. I think I started the desultory conversation. I often do that over here in Germany; most Germans won't give you the time of day on their own, but just to be contrary I often make eye contact and give them a 'Guten Tag' in passing. They often respond. But my new friend here seemed fine with talking to a stranger. She even mentioned something about her sister.
That was about it; we parted, she going into her little world and I into mine, a little brighter for our chance bumping into one another.
As I said up top, their image appeared to me while changing lanes in the light sleetfall. And then I thought of another person who'd struck me in a somewhat comical way. I got to thinking about Willis Conover.
Way back in the early 90's I became aware of a voice on the radio. We still had AFN here then, Armed Forces Network, and I started catching this jazz show while driving around. The announcer had this deliberate, slow delivery, and spoke in an ancient sounding, nasal kind of voice. "This is Willis Conover..." I sat up and listened, as the voice seemed so unusual for radio. What was this 198-year-old sounding guy doing? It seemed so funny to me at the time. I smiled to hear him, and by and by began getting into the music. His theme song was a sizzling rendition of "Take the 'A' Train", for example, and he seemed less to be about free form or experimental jazz and more about the traditional kind with a beat - Duke Ellington, Dizzie Gillespie and company. Right up my alley too, I realized, so I began to look forward to hearing him every week.
Not many folks in the States knew about him, but he was a huge ambassador of American culture especially in Eastern Europe all through the Cold War on Voice of America radio. His show introduced millions to jazz, and he thousands flocked to see him at appearances in Prague and at the Red Square. The molasses-slow delivery was a trademark of VOA, which they called Special English. Announcers would use simpler words and speak very slowly so non-native speakers would have a better chance of understanding them.
I discovered Mr. Conover near the end of his career, as it turned out. Some later shows I heard were made up of earlier recordings where he'd host the leading jazz lights of the day, and then his voice! It was a deep, resonant baritone, full of control, elegant and gracious, completely different from the now obvious wreck of that voice I'd become familiar with. I could no longer just think how droll it was that this ancient guy was still broadcasting. He now seemed to be one very sick man, and indeed it actually was near the end of his life that I'd discovered him, as he died of lung cancer in 1996.
Yes both of these encounters somehow touched my life at least initially in a funny way. I had to smile when I saw or heard them. But of course the second one I described ended tragically. I wanted to say something profound about it, something about the human condition. But now that I've gotten here I can't think how or what to say without making it sound trite or pretentious or preachy. I always say I'm not very good about being philosophical. But if I could formulate it, I would say something about the stories everyone carries around with them, tragic or otherwise. I would like to say that maybe I was too young to appreciate Mr. Conover for what he was and what he was going through. Little kids laugh, often cruelly, at people different from them. Not that I was being cruel, in either of these situations, no I don't think so. But perhaps a bit ignorant, maybe somewhat arrogant even, just looking at things from my own little bubble. OK, well what else can one do, one might ask. I think maybe I'm trying to get to a point to say one ought to understand where the other is coming from, to put yourself in their shoes for a bit. I'm confused on the point, because should one not find things to get a smile from in the world around one? Of course, and try to retain some kind of sense of childlike wonder. Are the two aspects mutually exclusive? I don't know, and as this rambling paragraph shows, I can't come to a real synthesis or even conclusion.
But as the little wet bits of snow came down as I was on my way to work, I thought "Hey, I'd like to write something about that." So there you are.
Remind me sometime to tell you the story of the Oracle of Friedrich-Wilhelm-Platz.
I got out of my car and saw these two implausible, identical figures on their way into the place way in front of me there in the parking lot. They seemed to be female from their attire, but were tall, thin as sticks and dressed alike. They each had on a long, brownish raincoat-like affair. They were shiny plastic-looking things. that reached to below their knees. Of course I was seeing them from the back, but I could also see that each was wearing a light colored knitted cap too, covering her short hair. They reminded me faintly of witches. I was amused and wanted to get a look at them closer up.
I went in, took the escalator up and found what I was looking for after some searching. In the meantime I had glimpses of these two odd personages down this aisle or at the paint counter. I further saw they each had squarish dark rimmed glasses on too, each with a beak of a nose protruding out the middle. You couldn't say they were attractive in any sense but they sure were characters. They strode purposefully about in their dark green rain boots, grey leggings tucked primly into the tops of them. It was a wet day, after all.
They were so fun to look at. As one goes through life one encounters people who just have a look about them, you just have to smile as I did. They really made my day, and I got an especial thrill as I noticed one of the sisters in front of me, looking through the €1.00 bins near the registers when I was ready to check out.
I always check them out too anyway, so I went over. In a pleasant speaking voice she exchanged notes with me about the kitchen sponges. I think I started the desultory conversation. I often do that over here in Germany; most Germans won't give you the time of day on their own, but just to be contrary I often make eye contact and give them a 'Guten Tag' in passing. They often respond. But my new friend here seemed fine with talking to a stranger. She even mentioned something about her sister.
That was about it; we parted, she going into her little world and I into mine, a little brighter for our chance bumping into one another.
As I said up top, their image appeared to me while changing lanes in the light sleetfall. And then I thought of another person who'd struck me in a somewhat comical way. I got to thinking about Willis Conover.
Way back in the early 90's I became aware of a voice on the radio. We still had AFN here then, Armed Forces Network, and I started catching this jazz show while driving around. The announcer had this deliberate, slow delivery, and spoke in an ancient sounding, nasal kind of voice. "This is Willis Conover..." I sat up and listened, as the voice seemed so unusual for radio. What was this 198-year-old sounding guy doing? It seemed so funny to me at the time. I smiled to hear him, and by and by began getting into the music. His theme song was a sizzling rendition of "Take the 'A' Train", for example, and he seemed less to be about free form or experimental jazz and more about the traditional kind with a beat - Duke Ellington, Dizzie Gillespie and company. Right up my alley too, I realized, so I began to look forward to hearing him every week.
Not many folks in the States knew about him, but he was a huge ambassador of American culture especially in Eastern Europe all through the Cold War on Voice of America radio. His show introduced millions to jazz, and he thousands flocked to see him at appearances in Prague and at the Red Square. The molasses-slow delivery was a trademark of VOA, which they called Special English. Announcers would use simpler words and speak very slowly so non-native speakers would have a better chance of understanding them.
I discovered Mr. Conover near the end of his career, as it turned out. Some later shows I heard were made up of earlier recordings where he'd host the leading jazz lights of the day, and then his voice! It was a deep, resonant baritone, full of control, elegant and gracious, completely different from the now obvious wreck of that voice I'd become familiar with. I could no longer just think how droll it was that this ancient guy was still broadcasting. He now seemed to be one very sick man, and indeed it actually was near the end of his life that I'd discovered him, as he died of lung cancer in 1996.
Yes both of these encounters somehow touched my life at least initially in a funny way. I had to smile when I saw or heard them. But of course the second one I described ended tragically. I wanted to say something profound about it, something about the human condition. But now that I've gotten here I can't think how or what to say without making it sound trite or pretentious or preachy. I always say I'm not very good about being philosophical. But if I could formulate it, I would say something about the stories everyone carries around with them, tragic or otherwise. I would like to say that maybe I was too young to appreciate Mr. Conover for what he was and what he was going through. Little kids laugh, often cruelly, at people different from them. Not that I was being cruel, in either of these situations, no I don't think so. But perhaps a bit ignorant, maybe somewhat arrogant even, just looking at things from my own little bubble. OK, well what else can one do, one might ask. I think maybe I'm trying to get to a point to say one ought to understand where the other is coming from, to put yourself in their shoes for a bit. I'm confused on the point, because should one not find things to get a smile from in the world around one? Of course, and try to retain some kind of sense of childlike wonder. Are the two aspects mutually exclusive? I don't know, and as this rambling paragraph shows, I can't come to a real synthesis or even conclusion.
But as the little wet bits of snow came down as I was on my way to work, I thought "Hey, I'd like to write something about that." So there you are.
Remind me sometime to tell you the story of the Oracle of Friedrich-Wilhelm-Platz.
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