My pants don’t fit, and we can’t get the lyrics right to any of the Steely Dan songs. Cooked onion hangs like phlegm from the lips of Eberhard, the seafood gumbo I made: we were so full from lunch, mom and I just sat there watching him eat it. My feet swell up from too much salty food and wine, and when I touch down first thing in the morning I can hardly feel the ground. Eberhard pushed the red on us he brought, but it looked like gas station wine so I only took a courtesy glass and then opened a different bottle. He said what, it’s not good enough? He’s cheap, doesn’t see the point in spending money on things you’re just going to swallow. Had my first ćevapčići today at the Croatian restaurant (pronounced tɕɛv̞ǎːpi), but there was a guy at the bar glaring at us the whole time and I was the only one who noticed. After, we went to Ellie’s restaurant and got the good Champagne: I said, Haben-Sie diese Champagne von der schwester stadt in Frankreich?, and somehow she understood, then went for it right away. The sister city in France is called Ay. Dawn and I walked up the road to the Saturday market to pick up our turkey (they come in clear plastic bags with flecks of blood still, just a label outside with the weight and price). I needed a pot big enough to brine it in so we drove to the hardware store looking for one of those all-purpose painter buckets but it wasn’t big enough still, so I got a storage tote, fixed the brining solution, set the bird inside the pot, nested it in the storage tote, and now it’s brining in mom’s gemüse area next to the barn, probably a safe enough temperature, <40F. Everything begins to slow down, now.

Categories: Memoir, prose, travel

Tags: cooking, German Christmas, humor, Memoir, No Christmas in Germany, prose, stream-of-consciousness, travel, William Pearse writer