Back to Beerland

Ah, it's nice to be home.

Well, my other home. Right now I'm sporting 3 variations of "home"- one being my actual residence with Husband in Germany, another being my parent's/family home in Indiana, and another being the Washington DC Metropolitan area where I had been living for the last 5 years prior to the Great German Adventure. Diversity is good, right? So, I should say, it's nice to be at my permanent residence.

Somehow I miraculously escaped the throes of jet lag both on my trip out to Indiana to see my family and on the return trip, and despite a real lack of energy today, think I'm back to being all German and whatnot. I'm working on a few posts right now, but couldn't resist the opportunity to mindlessly drone a bit now that I'm back.

Your welcome.

Still Alive

Hi friends!

It's me, Guten Allie. Just checking in to say that I am still alive (yay!) but still taking a tiny bit of a bloggy hiatus to spend time with my family. Oh, how the posts will flow after this- family time is good blogging fodder.

In other news, I went to the dentist today and enjoyed a clean bill of dental health. Three cheers for fluoride and floss sticks! However, during the cleaning I encountered an awkward problem, and I wonder if I'm not alone on this. Maybe the dental hygienist had abnormally large hands, or maybe my freakishly long tongue was to blame, but I kept inadvertently licking her hand. That's right, full on, how ya doin, licking her hand. I don't think I've ever done that before. For the record, she didn't seem to notice or mind, but still, that can't be normal. I just couldn't keep my tongue out of the way. It tasted like latex and regret.

More to come later, including the thrilling tale of my trans-Atlantic never ending flight and the benefits of a good run in with karma, but alas my friends these are for another day.

I will leave you all with this: if you haven't already, please make haste to your favorite DVD rental facility and immediately start watching Battlestar Galactica. Check your reservations over SciFi at the door- this show is so much more than that. Husband and I just wrapped up the last season, and I can say without any hesitation that it has been my absolute favorite TV show of all time. Not only is the story line riveting and rich and the characters robust and beautifully developed, but the acting is simply phenomenal. There were times I actually lost track of the plot because I just so mezmorized by the quality of acting- unlike anything I've ever seen- especially Edward James Olmos as Admiral Adama. The show is quite dark, and pretty intense, but it is truly a beautiful thing to behold. So go on, waste no time. Get to beholding! 

She works hard for her money

I'm a working woman.

I started my job this week, and I gotta tell ya, this waking up at 6:45 am business is certainly no fun. Or if I'm being trendy, phun. Regardless, I don't like it. But I do like the job (what I know of it so far) and my coworkers seem friendly, so I guess I'm set.

Unfortunately an unintended byproduct of the new job is complete lack of interest in blogging. Well, I shouldn't say interest...it's more like energy. With the sharp decline of sleep (it's hard to transition from a 2:00 am to 10:00 am sleep schedule to a more traditional 11:00 to 7:00) and the focus on learning a new job, I don't have much mental...uh...uh. I can't think of the word. See. See what I mean!?!

So here's to a wonderful fun change! And here's to a new schedule to get used to! And here's to coworkers and office gossip and timesheets and TPS reports! And here's to the blog that will not be ignored, but may have to suffer the embarrassment of poor writing and uninspired posts while I adjust.

Oh yeah, and next week I'll be in the U.S. for 10 days to visit my family. Shopping, eating, shopping, eating. What could be better?

A Bad Case of Flea...Markets

We went shopping.

I've never been one to spend much time territorially vying for other people's used homegoods at the crack of dawn. I have no need for musty placemats or chipped trinkets or pre-worn shoes. Urgh. Especially the pre-worn shoes. My skin just crawls thinking of it. But flea markets seem to be a bit of a thing here in our corner of Deustchland, so one fine Saturday morning not too long ago Husband and I merrily, if skeptically, found our way to a haven of gently used baubles and whatnots.

At first I was tempted to slink right back out the doors of the community center and make haste to the nearest mall and/or hand sanitizing station, but upon the gentle urgings of Husband (who convienently had the keys), I found myself halfheartedly pawing through a veritable sea of pilling matronly cardigans and scuffed porcelain figurines.  Had I been in the market for tiny statuettes of shepherds or stained lace doilies or straight to VHS movies I would have been set for life. 

As it was, I was not.

But, the more I looked, the more I found. And I'm not talking about broken kitchen appliances or sun bleached curtains. We actually came across some (gasp!) desirable goods, and in the end I'm glad I went. 

A for-realsies coffee grinder.

As soon as I spotted the coffee grinder, I fell in love. Which was really embarrassing considering Husband was there. After an awkward conversation wherein I basically made clear that my loyalties now lie with an old timey kitchen appliance, Husband agreed to purchase the item in exchange for our continued matrimony. A good decision. The lady we bought it from, who appeared to be an antique herself, delighted us with stories of this, her mothers coffee grinder, and the various places she lived and used it. I was charmed. Eventually we'll hang it in the kitchen, maybe even use it. The lady assured us it works and she actually used it the week prior- as evidence by the still-aromatic bean residue in the glass bowl at the bottom.

The same lady had this stunning copper planter. I don't think it is particularly antique or special in any way besides the sheer coolness of it. And really, what more can you ask of a copper planter? We haven't quite figured out what to do with it yet- I want to put it inside and find some decorative use for it. Husband, however, expected us to actually grow a plant inside it. Psh. Ridiculous idea.

This is just a basket for our formerly bare-boned powder room. Obviously. I guess given that I've included a picture, the description is completely unnecessary. There you have it.

We bought a few more things- a hair straightening iron with a proper German plug so I don't go blowing up the house trying to use mine on a transformer, a ridiculous beer stein with a duck bill as a lid (Husbands pick, not mine, and I couldn't really argue after having just broken his heart over a coffee grinder), a board game and a modern decorative bowl for the living room. I actually had to take the bowl to the car and hide it in the trunk as every few feet a different lady would approach me with some kind of snarky, "I was going to buy that bowl" comment (many of the people at the flea market spoke English) and I began to fear for the safety of my decor. Vicious, these flea market hens.

And finally, the very highlight of the excursion, the pièce de résistance, the very thing husband opposed the inclusion of on our wedding gift registry...

A WAFFLE MAKER! 

Bonus points that the waffles come out shaped as hearts. Maybe I'll make one for the coffee grinder.

I Challenge you to a Challenge!

I do love a challenge.

I've had several challenges this past week. Surprisingly, I have come out victorious in all of them! Where's my epic music? And the wind machine to blow my cape back? And a muscular black cowboy to ride up on a white horse and offer me a plate of chocolates? Not coming, you say? Disappointing.

So the first challenge, as I alluded to in my previous post, was to prepare myself for a swift departure from my current unemployment status as a practically useless hausfrau to a highly productive quasi-employed responsible member of society. The timing couldn't be more perfect, too, as I'm finding- much to my absolute and resounding surprise- that I'm just not suited for unemployment. Apparently, I'm not as lazy as I thought. Did you hear that mom? Not as lazy as I thought. The world, it's a changing.

Looking exceedingly nerdy in my ID badge picture that I got to take myself. This was something like Take 37. I had to settle.

While I'm grateful for the job, it's probably not going to tax my mental or physical capabilities in the way I've experienced in previous employment situations. I'll be doing data entry. Part time. On call. But not like "Paging Dr. Strudel" on call. No, rather a far more desirable Monday through Friday, 8:30-5:00, "Bertha at the front desk has the plague, can you please work for her while she suffers horribly" on call. I'll be one of two PTOC employees in this office, and the other one has worked every single day since he was hired in February. So I'm looking forward to once again enjoying the delights of coworkers. Seriously. I do love me an office environment.

So that takes care of Challenge the First. On to round two! The lovely Kelly over at The Peanut Gallery issued forth a call to Get Out of Your Comfort Zone last week, and I'll be darned if I didn't participate just to win the cookbook she was giving away. I chose to uncomfort myself with what I thought would be group exercise, an activity I am most voraciously opposed to, with good friends Jennifer and Lisa, and new friend Lizzy, who I do hope will accept my embarrassingly awkward and frequent pleas of friendship. Lizzy is pretty cool. And she's a nurse, so you can just imagine the types of fun conversation a group of girls can get into.

Leave your horse-drawn carriage at home, folks. This path was made for walking.

Jennifer suggested we all go for a hike (ugh) on a particularly beautiful Thursday last week, and the only bit that gave me pause before my imminent decline was that the final proposed destination of the hike was to be a beer garden. With yummy drinkey German beer. I'm not much of a drinker, but I do love a social brew. I was really milking my response time kind of close to the limit when I came across the Comfort Zone challenge, so I thought, what's the worst that could happen? I mean, I guess it's unlikely that halfway through the hike I would break into a rapid and profuse sweat and keel over in exhaustion, and then be left panting for breath and begging for water on the dusty trail clutching my chest while my fit and active friends march on without me and ants eat my face? What are the odds. So I went.

And it was so fun! The hike was more like a leisurely stroll, sans the trip back which was more like scaling the Eiffel Tower, but at that point we were having such a good time, and Lisa was merrily chatting away, that my labored breathing was barely noticeable. Perfect. Oh, and we had had several drinks with no food, so that probably helped things along as well. So success on Challenge the Second!

See that light at the end of the trail...that's where the beer is.

And before we pack it in, Challenge Three. Husband and a few of his coworkers have been (presumably) porking up a bit lately (that's not some kind of sexual slang that I'm not familiar with, right? This is a PG blog, folks!), so they instituted a 2 week weight loss challenge. What good is a weight loss challenge that only lasts two weeks, I don't know. But nonetheless, Husband was participating, and he's nothing if not a winner, and I'm nothing if not his wife, so I decided to support him in the only way I knew how. Self deprivation. I voluntarily gave up all fried foods and (gasp!) chocolate in an act of supportive solidarity and resolutely made nutritious and low calorie meals just about every night. The result, you ask? I dropped 5 lbs. and Husband swept the competition with an impressive 8 lb. annihilation. And today I ate half a bag of dark chocolate M&Ms. Half a one pound bag, that is.  Heh. I'll drink some water- that will flush it out.

Oh the shame!

Augh, the blogger's guilt is setting in.

So, I have 3 different things I want to blog about, but I just don't have time today, and the constant mental yo-yo between getting my paperwork done for my new job (oh yeah, did I mention I got a job- huzzah, thing the first I wanted to blog about) and the urge to spend a couple hours crafting a bit of bloggy nonsense is driving me crazy. So I thusly hereby do grant myself a reprive of blogging today and today only. I'll be back tomorrow.

Ok, guilt- begone!

A tale of pre-wedding spaz

I just remembered something.

Me, looking normal. 

 This is too good not to share. We all have those moments we aren't proud of, right? Secrets we wish to keep, correct? Things for which we would almost assuredly die of shame should they be brought to light, hmmm? Well, I do. Before the invention of the blog, these secrets would be safely tucked away in mental lockdown in the far reaches of the corners of your brain. You know, in the mental ghetto. The place to which you only traverse once or twice a year when you have no other option, and you do your business as fast as you can and you maybe even take a gun. Or, if you are opposed to guns, then maybe a slingshot. Or an African poison blowdart pipe. Whatever. The means of personal protection is actually unnecessary, since all this is hypothetical. 

Anyway, lest I be sidetracked...oh wait. So, blogging. Blogging has brought out in most of us a desire feral and primal need to happily divulge those things which we would have otherwise hog tied our grandmothers in order to keep private. One such memory just escaped mental incarceration and immediately broke into the pre-frontal cortex. Or something. I'm no doctor. As I physically stopped in my tracks at the assault of a memory I have been quite good at repressing the last 4 months, I simultaneously cringed in horror and made a mental note to blog about it. WTF.

Those who know me well, or maybe not even them (hi family!), may recall that roundabouts 4 months ago Husband and I were blissfully wed. A lovely event, a joyous event! However, the day before the whole "I Do" business, I had what can only be described as a total body bridezilla demonic possession. Luckily, and unbeknownst to either of us, Husband happens possess a natural ability to cast out such spirits, a skill which must have laid dormant for the last 31 years. 

Before we continue, hows about a gratuitous wedding photo, or two.

Mmmmm, cake!

So there I was, the day before the wedding, putting on my makeup to go about the activities of the day, and as I swiped my mascara on my normally luscious and lengthy (read: average) lashes, the wand seemed to be wrapping things up far sooner than expected. So I did another coat- and another. Whats all this?!? My lashes were not lengthening. They were stubby and uneven and had thickened to the point where it looked like I had mini lash sausages affixed to my eyelid. I knew it, my lashes had all broken off overnight and I was doomed to look like a troll for our wedding.

And enter the demonic bridezilla unnatural horror. I burst into tears. Heaving, choking tears. Big fat streams of tears. My nose immediately went all shiny and red. Snot bubbles popped and reformed at will, streaking great runs of mucus down my stubby lashed face. My skin got all blotchy and red. My eyes swelled. An agressive amount of saliva came rushing forth to produce the unsightly spit string from top teeth to bottom teeth each time I opened my wailing mouth. I think I may have been growling. Oh it was ugly. And loud. And ridiculous. Seriously, I don't know what came over me. And the whole time, I'm just dissolving into gasping rounds of, "My eyelashes are gone! They all broke off! I'm not getting married like this! I can't do it." And so on, and so forth.

Within the first ten seconds of my howls of agony, Husband rushed to my side, surely expecting to discover a severed arm or all my teeth missing or a second head or something of equal horror. He wasn't expecting a stubby lash. BUT, and pay attention because this is where Husband should get some kind of award, after he realized what I was saying (or rather, wailing) he didn't run or scoff or slap me across the face with a long leather glove- all of which would have been appropriate actions- but he actually took my slimy face in his manly hands and inspected my lashes as though I was not some kind of devil spawn invading the body of his dearly beloved, and the idea that my lashes had all broken off in equal measure overnight was a perfectly valid claim to investigate. To say this was a temper tantrum would be an understatement.

I should say, I was still sobbing uncontrollably while husband is trying to get a look at my lashes. Hot, crying breath in his face. I'm sure the spittle was flying. The whole works.

So, after assuring me that my lashes looked perfectly normal, which took, I can only assume, all the mental composure the man had to offer, I was no better off than before. At this point I had reverted to primal sign language as my voice was no longer suitable for words, only loud, garbaling wails. 

Husband was great. He pulled up pictures of me to compare the length of the lash, he assured me things were fine, he let me fall into his arms and wipe snot and tears and who knows what other manner of foul fluid all over the shoulder of his clean shirt. 

And then, it was over.

The demon had been cast out! Hallelujah!

It was the hug. 

 But, uuuuugh, how embarrassing. I consider myself a reasonable and well mannered lady of common sense, and this display of unbelievable idiocy tops the list of regrettable moments. Seriously. I was ready to postpone the wedding so my (completely unaltered) eyelashes would have time to grow. 

As it turns out, and I'm sure you saw this one coming, there was absolutely nothing wrong with my lashes. I was just panicking. Like, severely panicking. Like I'm surprised I didn't need a Valium and a paper bag, panicking. But the next day was wonderful, my lashes were luxurious, and we got all kinds of married. Perfect.

He still loved me and everything!

Now, you ALL should know, that my wedding photos were seriously amazing. Absolutely unbelievable. My dear and wonderful friend, Alev Sezer-Jacobs, who has more talent in her fingernail than I do in my whole being, past and present, graciously followed us around all day and put up with me being a silly bride to capture the most incredible shots. I would hands down, no questions asked, recommend her to anyone. Just for good measure, here it is again.

http://www.asjphotography.com/

The One Where I Fall Off My Bike

Germans like to bike.

Some people here in beautiful Deustchland don't even have cars- even in the suburbs where public transportation is a bit slapdash- but choose instead to use a bicycle as their primary mode of transportation. You know how I know this? Observation, my friends, observation. The sheer number of bikers riding around in the snow during the winter leads me to believe the bike is just as much a transportation staple as the car. I can only assume that given the option of a comfortable heated car ride with ample lumbar support and very little threat of discomfort in the middle of winter where the windchill hovers around 5 degrees, you would always choose the car over a bike. Always. Ergo, anyone riding a bicycle in such conditions must have no other choice. And frostbite.

Husband and I bought a secondhand bike off a fellow headed back to the U.S. a few months ago, and now the beautiful weather and our need for secondary transportation have joined forces to create the perfect scenario in which to stretch our...wheels. So I took the 'ole girl out for a spin yesterday and was absolutely delighted by the wind whipping through my hair and the sun beating down on my face as I breezed down side streets and through bike lanes. Germany seems to be on board with the whole cyclist mentality and has invested in creating a well run and complex infrastructure to accommodate the casual biker, which falls neatly in line with their overarching concern for the environment. In many places there are just as many bike paths as streets, and most intersections have traffic lights not just for cars, but also little ones to the side for bikes. Cute.

One of the coolest things about the biking culture here is the pervasiveness of the act. As Husband and I sat outside our favorite sushi place enjoying the lunch special, no less than 10 senior citizens came peddling by, most of whom were clearly returning from the grocery store, as evidenced by their heaping cloth baskets affixed to the back overflowing with prunes and danish and all other manner of old-lady food. During rush hour it's not uncommon to find about half as many commuters using the bike lanes as the highway, and kids of all ages ride bikes to and from school (have I mentioned that German parents haven't yet succumbed to the "culture of fear" in raising their children, and it's awesome to see kids given free range to have fun and learn on their own).

So, if Granny From the Block can ride her 6 speed all over town, surely I, a capable, relatively fit 20-something of robust health can manage a trek on my own two-wheeler. After all, riding a bike is like...riding a bike. Once you learn, you never forget.

Right?

Well, kinda. I was doing great and having a blast with my new-found freedom of transportation until I rounded the corner approaching homestead Guten Strudel, and attempted to transition from the street to the sidewalk, via curb. This was a small curb, a rounded curb, one might say a gentle curb. A curb that seemed at first no more dangerous than a piece of cheese or a wool sock. No problem. The bike, however, saw things differently. To the bike, this curb represented all that was wrong in the world: insurmountable troubles, constant struggle, certain death. I think it was aiming for certain death. So down I went as the front tire refused to proceed forward of the curb line, but my own inertia required additional movement in that general direction. I toppled, sideways and awkwardly, to the ground, luckily in the direction of the sidewalk (and not into oncoming traffic).

Ugh.

I managed to break my fall with the cunning use of my bare hands and ample amount of natural padding, and escaped the incident with nothing more than a small bruise on my leg and permanent shame. Seriously, who falls off their bike? I didn't even crash into anything, I literally just fell.

How embarrassing.

Friday, you come at long last!

Can I get a huzzah?

Oh Friday, how I love you. Yes, even unemployed where one day just blends into the next in a vicious cycle of eternal monotony, I still look forward to Friday. You can just feel the relief in the air around 5:00, and it feels like sunshine and lovecicles. I could just eat that up. 

Speaking of eating, it's high time for another sporting round of Allie in an Apron! Who's with me?!?

Cilantro Shrimp Pasta

modified from

The Pioneer Woman's Shrimpo de Gallo

Make this immediately.

I saw the recipe for Shrimpo de Gallo on The Pioneer Woman, and immediately set off to make it, if for no other reason than to just pay homage to the name. Bonus points that it's filled with cilantro and I love, lawwwwve, cilantro and would eat it in Pop Tarts or on ice cream or with pancakes or alongside anything edible if I could. But then I'd be spending a fortune on cilantro, and I'd always smell herby, and I may turn green, so I refrain. For all these reasons.

The recipe sounded awesome and made my mouth water upon skimming the ingredients. Have I mentioned that simple recipes which are hard to mess up often make my mouth water? Very convenient. But I had grander plans still than just a salsa appetizer. I wanted to eat a whole plateful of this dish and not feel like I ruined my dinner. I wanted this to be dinner. So dinner it was.

I used the basic recipe from The Pioneer Woman, but omitted the avocado, as Husband and I don't like it, and the olives, as Husband won't eat them (ugh, bad Greek!), and threw in whatever spare vegetables I had in the fridge- this time cucumbers and yellow pepper. And red pepper. Oh, and I had some soy beans on hand so I cooked those and tossed 'em in too. Oh yeah, and some garlic and onion powder. I think that was all...I think.

So that made a pretty hardy dish itself, but to finish it all off, I cooked up a batch of orzo (love those slimy little suckers!) in chicken stock and used it as a bed to soak up all the deliciousness. The whole thing worked like a dream and Husband and I ate it all weekend. And I'm making it again this weekend. But this time, a double batch. And I may use black beans instead of soybeans.

Can I just say, this was so good and flavorful that it didn't even need cheese. Virtually unheard of 'round these parts.

Beer Bread and "Healthified" Buffalo Chicken Dip

from 

Eat Better America

I can't even look at you.

Ok, so this meal was actually sinful and delicious and Husband and I inhaled it with embarassing efficiency. It was a bit indecent, gastronomically speaking.

The reason it's BAD and not OHMYGOSHPLEASE is because that....that's a WHOLE loaf of Tastefully Simple (yes, what a lame name) Beer Bread. And that other thing....that's an ENTIRE DISH of the "healthy" chicken dip that still contains a whole brick of cream cheese. And you better believe we ate it all. 

ALL OF IT.

Come to think of it, I believe there was some celery left over. Naturally.

Ugh, my stomach turns just thinking about that ill fated night. But we were both feeling blah with colds, and we wanted something comforting on which to imbibe while we watched episode after episode of Big Bang Theory. And we found it. Boy did we find it. And the next day I was a whole 3 pounds heavier. And none the wiser.

Allie's Non-Fried Chicken

with

Sauteed Zucchini, Onion and Mushroom

This was food. Decent food. I basically made a slapdash mix of "breading" out of crushed Crispex, Italian breadcrumbs and garlic powder, paprika, crushed red pepper, salt and pepper. Then coated my chicken and baked away at 350 for about 30 minutes or so. Nothing special. It tasted good, but not awesome. I'll probably make it again when I don't have any more pans clean and/or don't want to mess with the stovetop.

The veggies were just sliced and cooked on the stove with a bit of olive oil and an obscene amount of McCormick's Season Salt. Love that stuff.

So that's all the action my kitchen saw this week. Oh, except last night I tried out a Balsamic Glazed Pork Chop, and the glaze was awesome (though Husband and I could both drink Balsamic Vinegar for breakfast), but I must not have cooked the chop properly as it was a little tough and dry. Maybe I'll try it again and post. Maybe.

Happy eating everyone!

All Sicky and Yuck

Ok, so it's not that bad.

I never get sick. Well, hardly ever. Ok...not very often at least. I have the immune system of a really hardy house plant and typically enjoy the benefits of robust health. But then, every once in a blue moon (mmm...Blue Moon), disaster strikes and I am suddenly rendered absolutely useless.

With the exception of the ability to complain, of course.

I'm a bit sicky today, or as my mom would say, "Feeling punky." I never really understood how punky equated to illness. Should I dye my hair purple and wear black lipstick to truly express my physiological state? I'm not above that. Sickness destroys me, it annihilates me. I disolve into infancy and can do nothing but mope around and breathe heavily, sometimes changing position on the couch to prevent bedsores. Sometimes not. I drink indeterminate volumes of Diet Coke to soothe my aching throat and read a more readily determinate, but far larger, number of pages of Harry Potter. 

Ok, I'd be doing that anyway.

But it feels more indulgent to say I'm wasting my day reading a childrens book while depleting our stock of Diet Coke due to general malaise. 

Oh, and I don't like taking medicine. At all. It's like admitting defeat. I will protest the consumption of medicinal goods until I'm so weak with fatigue that my in-home health care provider (i.e. anyone I live with who is developing facial ticks and rapid sweats each time I blow my nose loudly with intermittent heavy sighing. Hi Husband!) needs only to slip a pill into my gaping and unmoving mouth, pour in a measure of water and hold my nose and mouth shut until I'm forced to swallow. So, if I have taken medicine on my own volition (and sometimes you actually have to keep tabs of the number of pills to make sure I'm not lying...also not above that), like today, then it's the real deal. Something's up. In fact, I'll likely take some MORE medicine when I'm done writing this. A very bad sign, indeed. Sore throat, headache, congestion- begone!

Good thing this only happens a few times a year- if that. I fear any more frequent and I would be friendless and alone. I can hardly stand me when I'm sick.