Bake Date: Networking Applesauce Brownies

These mysteriously fruity yummies have scored me so many friends. They are moist and luscious without being overly sweet or overly chocolatey. I've introduced them to several large, differently flavored groups of people and they have never yet failed to evoke groans of belly pleasures and eyes of amazement. They make typically standoffish strangers come a-droolin' at my toes for the recipe. As the old saying goes, "The surest way to great networking is through a person's stomach." These are one of the hottest tools I've got. (WARNING: May be addictive.)

Adapted from this recipe.

What you need:

• 1/3 cup margarine
• 1/2 cup brown sugar
• 1/4 cup white sugar
• 2 eggs
• 1 tsp pure vanilla extract
• 1 cup whole wheat flour
• 1 cup all-purpose flour (Though recently I've been introducing myself to alternatives, such as spelt flour and wheat germ, yeah! Or you could be boring and ditch the whole wheat flour for 2 cups all-purpose. I won't judge.)
• 3 healthy Tbsp unsweetened cocoa powder
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 1 healthy tsp baking soda
• 1 1/2 tsp cinnamon
• dash of nutmeg
• 2 cups applesauce
• 1 cup chopped up chocolate bits (you 'mericans could use chocolate chips, but then you miss out on the tasty workings of the resulting choco-shavings)
• 1 cup chopped walnuts

Oventemp: 350 degrees F (175 degrees C)((450 degrees K))
Makes: Use the big pan, 9x13'' or something along those lines. Halve the recipe for a smaller pan. Duh.
Musik: Anything that puts you in a crowd-pleasing mood, perhaps veering toward bouncy folk.

Paint the pan with margariney hues. (I know it's annoying. Do it anyway.) If your chocolate and walnuts are in need of chopping, chop chop!

Large bowl: Discourage segregation of margarine/butter substitute and sugars with the vigorous mediation of your friendliest wooden spoon. Once happily united, introduce eggs and vanilla.

Large enough bowl: Integrate flour(s), cocoa, salt, baking soda, spices, and cocaine into one big, thoroughly whisked pile of powder.

Add about half of the powder bowl into the slimy bowl and mix until just combined, then daintily fold in half the applesauce, then the rest of the powder, then the rest of the applesauce. (I'm not exactly sure about the chemistry of doing it this way, but that's what the original recipe said to do and it hasn't failed me yet.) Fold in the majority (BUT NOT ALL) of the chocolate chops and walnuts and lay it all down into the pan before you're tempted to overmix. Sprinkle the remaining chocolate and nuts over the top in a spontaneously symmetrical fashion.

Cash in its coupon for a 25-minute trip to the sauna of your oven, though make sure to check it at 20 (or before) as some ovens tend to be more enthusiastic than others. Cool, be cool, stay cool, chill with your new friends and feed them hot brownies. Oh, yeaaaah.

In which Amis are too happy and fingers get cold.

I had an interesting cultural experience a couple weeks ago that I was rather surprised by and then promptly forgot about. It came about when I went to see a performance-art-esque-performance of The Hunchback of Notre Dame at a popular alternative theater space in Hamburg in conjunction with the theater class I audited this semester. It was a very, very interesting show that involved the audience walking in circles around a room wearing mega protective headphones attached to wheelbarrows with string and a lot of impossibly loud bass and fog and costumed persons breaking out of plastered walls and smashing boards over helmeted heads and... cool stuff, really. I went on a whim and hadn't done much research about it beforehand, was open to whatever happened and thus had a jolly good time.

On the bus afterward I found myself standing next to a man from my wheelbarrow pod of audience and he asked me what I had thought of it-- also asking if I was a typical, run-of-the-mill audience member and not a critic or theater studies major of whatevah. Unsure of his motive, I told him that I found it interesting and enjoyed myself, etc. He then let the cat out of the bag and said he was part of a very prestigious organization that provides funding for performing arts groups and had come from Berlin to check out this group after having received a funding request. After asking where I was from (and then asking if I could understand what he was saying and if he was speaking too quickly [ugh, bitte]), he said something along the lines of, "Well yes, that's very typical. Put an American in a room with a little stimulation and they'll be happy." He said this in what sounded to me like a very degrading tone, which I took to mean that American's aren't culturally refined enough to form their own opinions and recognize bad art. I immediately had the urge to defend myself and pointed out that, of course, not all Americans were like that. Then I realized that my reaction to the play that I had just shared with him fit his idea of Americans perfectly, and that what he said was actually somewhat applicable to me. I do tend to be very open to and content with most sorts of performing arts matters and only look for the best in a performance rather than focus on aspects that I don't particularly like. I know that this makes me a terrible critic, but is that necessarily bad? Sure, I know when something doesn't tickle my fancy, but I'm so anti-complaining at the core that I find it much more pleasant to talk about nice things instead. All depending on circumstance, of course. Ugh, now I'm all flustered again. Here, look at these!:

Now for some Hamburgian winter scenes. And before we return to the ice age, let it be known that I'm typing this with the window cracked and birdies tweeting outside about how pleased they are that the snow and ice is already gone (all in catchy statements of 140 characters or less, of course). Most of these were recently awakened from my hibernating hard drive.

< View from my swanky balcony. >

< / View from my swanky balcony. >

And my fave.

In which looking out the window brings a chuckle.

Witnessed 8:42am: Classic Hamburg Parking.

However, I think I'd give the prize for the Most Creative Parking to Smart cars, at least in this fine city. They appear to find themselves far superior to parking laws and whenever a controller struts over to write up a reprimand, the Smart just bats its windshield wipers at them adoringly and thus flirts its way out of a ticket. I have no idea why this association came into being, but whenever I see a wee liddow smaht cah parked diagonally/on a sidewalk/in a shopping cart/on a rooftop/wherever, I am always reminded of the dolphin complaints in Finding Nemo. I mean, really, they just think they're soooo cute.

...At least that's how I feel when I'm driving the paternal parental unit's bright yellow Smart convertible. It fits EVERYWHERE! Why take up an entire parking spot when I could courteously save it for an SUV and make up my own?

...Or not.

In which there is some people watching and a lot of legs.

I'd just managed to snag a forward-facing seat on the train at the ever-bustling Jungfernstieg stop when my suspiciously non-bustling wagon was suddenly innundated by a colorful flood of young hipsters. I braced myself for the wave of noise that usually follows such acts of nature, and when none came I braced myself harder in case the sound had drawn back in a solid tsunami of teenage word gush that would break any moment. Still nothing. Befuddled, I peeked in their general direction and saw that yes, they were talking up a tumult, but seeing as I can't hear with my eyes/don't understand sign language, all that washed over me was the choppy breezing of their handspeak. Two minutes later they all flowed out into the Hauptbahnhof. I watched them trickle up the escalators and sheepishly thought about stereotyping.

Later, the sun's barcode shadows turned the train into a strobing disco as we wooshed past thin, scantily-clad trees. I watched the bumblebee-striped light dance across the first-round rush hour faces and contemplated one of my favorite StoryPeople quotes:   

My favorite time of day is just at dark
when all thoughts of what must be done
stop & small pools of light come alive on
tired faces everywhere.

And on a completely unrelated note, Hamburg's got some supersized arachnid royalty residing in the art musuem.

If I was a spider princess, she said, I
would spin webs the color of sky & catch
drops of sunlight to give to children who
watch too much TV & then everyone
would remember to come outside to play.
If I was a spider princess, she said, things
would be different.

In which we look for Waldo and hope desperately that he'll hang on to his scarf and hat for a change.

Otherwise known as the Alstervergnügen, a.k.a. the "How many hot Glühwein-filled people can you pile on a frozen body of water before it breaks?"-Game. In case you're wondering, the answer is "x > 1,100,000", which happens to be the approximate number of hot Glühwein-filled people that swarmed the Alster last weekend. The icy wind of the past two weeks has been breezing rumors from Hamburger to Hamburger about whether or not, and then later when, the Alster would officially be opened for frolicking. It was finally announced at the end of last week that the ice was thick enough for a mega party and the city, a faithful proponant of festivals both spontaneous and planned, declared Alstervergnügen upon its citizens. For those of you who do not have the regular pleasure of having silly German sounds in your mouth, "das Vergnügen" translates into words such as "enjoyment", "fun", "pleasure", "amusement", and "delectableness". Basically it's like a big block party celebrating how cool it is to have your city built around a buncha watah. There's one every summer, but it rarely ever gets cold enough for the Alster to freeze over, which is clearly a perfect excuse to go spend excessive amounts of time out of doors. ...Right?

In anticipation of this event, I kept hearing people exclaim how the Alster only freezes over around once every ten years and how the last time this happened was in 1996 or some such rubbish. I know for a fact that the Alster was just as frozen and person-bedecked two winters ago, though I don't remember there being any official city Vergnügening, which must be what all the fuss is about. In any case, some friends and I added our footprints to the body count tally on Sunday. I'll tell you what, the giddiness on the ice spread faster than germs in a kindergarten classroom. Just like two years ago.

It was just a Hungry-Man frozen dinner buffet for the eyes. There were all flavors of people, bicycles, baby strollers, giddy diggidy dawgs, sledders, small people that were bundled to immobile extremes, big people bundled in incredible amounts of animal, ice skaters, smoochers and giant squid kites, to name a few. Booths were set up on both sides of the shore selling mulled wine, Wurst, delicious vegetarian curry and all sorts of other yums. Rosy grinning grimaces abounding. 

We mingled with the masses until the great snow-slurping fog replaced the sun residue with purpley haze and we all went home to drink tea and wrap our frozen legs in sweatpants warmed on the heater and snuggle up with the memory of the enjoyment, the fun, the pleasure, the amusement, the delectableness of the day.

Techno-update: The puta's dead like whoa, but thanks to the Mighty Notification Umph of the Book of Faces, a friend heard of my plight and offered to sell me her swanky new Netbook for a delicious price. It basically looks like a regular laptop that someone accidentally stuck in the dryer. A cute little thing that functions well while lacking the convenient burdons of lots of memory space and DVD drives. The keyboard dimensions are teaching my fingers to type in a squished and German fashion, but I don't have any serious complaints. I did lose a very healthy chunk of my research notes and oodles of photos, though I am confident that they can be rescued from eternal hard drive hibernation with some careful techno-spelunking. Now I've just got all these mega terabytes of gratefulness for being back on the bandwagon and nowhere to store them.

In which we experience technical difficulties.

Hey all,
My laptop started smoking this morning (I told it that was a bad idea) and then melted some of its plastic bits and now I, uhh, seem to be laptopless. (Well, my lap still has a top, but the computer that I usually put on it no longer functions.) Does anyone have recommendations for potential new models/anything?
Much appreciated.
Love, m.

In which we crawl back into the real world.

The Shakespearean adventures of the last many evenings/weeks have finally come to an end. 'Twas all marvelous good fun with truly marvelous people, though I am relieved to have myself back. 'Twas also exhausting. I'll share pictures at some point.

In other news, winter has finally arrived in Hamburg with a light (but devoted) layer of snow, ice on the Alster, sub-zero temperatures (Celsius, mind) and freshly frozen sunshine. There was a lovely moment  late at night after one of the last Hamletings which consisted of me walking home from the S-Bahn amidst the feathery sparkle fluff puffing around the air. It was cold enough that my eyeballs were icing over, but with this cold and this white came a cleanness that was wholly delicious. I felt like I was walking through a scene in a film that had been put on pause, it was so still and muted. (Ha, I first wrote "mutated", which I suppose would make it a zombie film. Mmm, brains.)

And speaking of brains, all the words in my brain are currently tangled in a big, sleepy mess and don't seem too keen on sorting themselves out any time soon, so I'll leave you with some more heart-warming translations from the world of cruise ships that are not floating on their sides off of idyllic Italian coastlines.

In addition, some outer cabins are featured with a luxury balcony. Let the breeze and the fresh sea air blow around your nose. 

Many stores invite you to extensive shopping-tours. Inside, you will find a multifarious assortment of products.

The balcony features wooden deck chairs, a table and a telescope for an incredible far-sightedness.

Furthermore the gym is perfect for everyone who wants to impoverish or calm down a guilty conscience.  

...Have you impoverished your guilty conscience today?

In which we word aloud.

 
   Night:   histrionics now history, glitter deglitzed, this should-be-tuckered self
   sought not to be snuggly tucked, but instead avoided bed with a jaunt. Wanting
   to relieve/release/remedy a certain restlessness,
   Magical Thrift Store Cowboy Boots (MADE IN TEXAS) clop atop
   rainwashed sidewalks, gold in the bright light of the wealthy shopping glow—

   no stopping, go. Lungs slurping up the evening fresh o're
   The Almost Lonely Promenade, empty but for the clopping
   of the Magical Thrift Store Cowboy Boots (MADE IN TEXAS)
   and the tut-tut tittering (not yet twittering) of The Snazzily Clad Octogenarians
   emerging from the no-longer bellowing belly of the Opera.

   This-- this is nice.
   Yes, please paint my flesh with this air, this fresh, this deliciously exhaled
   sigh. Sit me down awhile aside this canal, filled to its seagull-spotted brim with dark
   ripple sparkles, arching their backs over the black before rejoining its deepness.
   This water sings like an accordion. No, wait-- the water brings the accordion, carefully

   carrying its melancholy musings from the hands of the Musician across the way--
   too old for this cold, empty hat overturned on the ground instead of warming
   itself with the fullness of his hairless noggin. His body is framed perfectly twixt
   waves of white arches.
   Opening this heart as it lurks in the shadows, it pulls in the song

   of arthritic fingers, pulls in the wind
   whipping flags above as they jangle their poles in protest, pulls close
   the sound of sleeping gulls, heads tucked
   under wings, swathed
   in the feathery silence beneath.

   Pretty sure I saw this scene
   in a movie somewhere.
   Seven stars wink their tiny
   selves above green spires and golden ships.
   They've seen it, too. Can't remember how it ends.

   Knees unbent, anchor pulled, this body shakes off shadows, drying off
   their dark drops with the breeze. Clop.
   Magical Thrift Store Cowboy Boots (MADE IN TEXAS) call out to bare
   ears as they make their way by the water, wander bridges and pause
   at the mouth of the tunnel glow, the player the pinpoint

   of this echoing perspective. Clop. The accordion hands groan more beautifully
   to the hard sound of heels on stone. No one else
   has walked these ways for fifteen minutes-- I know.
   I was there as you played to the shadows, I was a shadow as you played to the night.
   Tension builds as the clopping approaches, fingers flying now, notes careening

   toward me with cupped hands outstretched--
   the clopping veers reassuringly, laugh lines crinkle, an empty
   hat finds itself a friend.
   Knees unbend, lifted by finger wings. Thank you.
   No, thank you. And I am blessed.

   It fills me as I descend into the earth, this blessing--
   granting a grateful weariness, lulling me, tuckered
   and tucked, to that sleep that is mostly dreamed of.
   It sounds like an accordion, far away in the night, fading
   to feathery silence. I join the gulls.

Sometimes I really miss my mother tongue.

Sing it, Etta.

In which thespianism reigns.

Tomorrow my social life becomes subject to the slings and arrows of outrageous rehearsal and performance schedules-- a moodily-lit limbo in which it shall reside until the great advent of February. Suddenly seeing our sexy posters in very public places around the city has really revved up my excitement levels. To be revved or not to be revved is not even a question at this point.

One thing that I really love about theater is that I'm sometimes able to try on and live personalities that are so unlike mine it's laughable. That's what happened two years ago when I spent a semester metamorphosing into a crazy Russian drug dealer with fabulous hair, high heels, and an alcohol problem (see here). All I'm going to say this time is that, well, if you've ever wondered what it might be like to see me strut around on stage in heels and leopard-print spandex, you've got eleven whole chances to do so! And then, and then? Never again! The rest of the show is actually a lot more worth seeing than that, however. You can check out our website with info and our promotional photos here!

It's been really wonderful to be part of this special group of theater lovers again, what with being able to spend time with old friends and make new ones. Particularly new ones that read this blog from time to time. Love you, Giggles!

Looking across my room at the bookshelf, I have a perfect view of eleven delicious holiday cards that came from far and wide to stick themselves in my postbox. Thanks for those.

I'll leave you with my favorite mistranslations of the day:

3. With [cruise company] relaxation and the enjoyment of nature are always a priority, this is why it abstains from show performances or similar entertainment.

2. In addition also the youngest quests have their own area for playing and tumbling-around.

And finally, the one that sits most smiling on my heart:

1. On all [name] cruise ships there are no standards existing regarding to your clothing. Only in bars and restaurants sports or swimwear is inapplicable and gentlemen are advised to wear long trousers.

In which nothing is rotten in the state of Denmark.

Ha, weeell, I'm pretty sure that's false, as my brain has recently been invaded by a whole lot of Hamlet and (Spoiler Alert!) its multitude of corpses hints otherwise. Not that I allowed ol' Billy Shakespeare to falsely color my initial perceptions of that fine land, of course.

Righto, righto, here we go. Once upon a time, last year, there came upon a midday clear a Special Guest from a faraway land. It just so happened that this Special Guest had Special Relatives in that most Special of Countries known as Denmark. Special Guest's travel lust not yet having been satiated after thousands of miles on the air, it was decided that we would entrust ourselves to further modes of transportation over land and sea, to see what there was to see, and to see Special Relatives. Additional information: The train that takes one from Hamburg to Copenhagen actually trains itself into the belly of a ferry for a 45 minute pleasure cruise across the misty, gray Baltic. Neat, eh?

Along with the added bonus of Special Relatives, København greeted us in a very wintery, that-part-of-the-world kind of way, namely with rapidly darkening skies, rapidly face-licking air, and extremely proficient, high-tech rapid transit.

Our time in this city, however, was spent at a very non-rapid pace. In fact, it was quite leisurely and a delight to simply walk, walk, walk, and practice my simultaneous-umbrella-holding-while-taking-photographs-with-an-expensive-camera balancing act. Here's some fruit salad of those toils:

I think a great story could be written about the characters in this one. Any takers?

Once upon toward the beginning of that time, we stumbled across the changing of the fuzzy-headed guard.

All the monkeys had come out of their tour buses for the show.

It appeared that most of the city had decked its already-colorful walls with boughs of holly for the season. The particularly photo-hogging Nyhavn area looked particularly smashing sporting its holiday best and Christmas market booths and boaths.

Further perusal of the streets unveiled a great abundance of shiny <3 hearts <3, filling the night streets with, uhh, <3 loooove 'n' shyit <3. By which I mean red light. But not in a red-light district sort of fashion. (Well, not everywhere.) Even Danish kroner has <3 hearts <3 on it.

 

 

One evening had us following the rain parade to Tivoli, Kopenhagen's famous realm of family-friendly amusement, which had its best "Russian Christmas" bling on display. (The Blogger spellchecker doesn't yet recognize the word "bling." Snark.) There sure was a lodder purdy lights, ayuh. Additionally, reindeer.

(!!!)

My favorite sight of the evening, however, was this scene found in the window of a lingerie store. The creatures were dancing. With undergarment bling.

And now, a short study of Spotted Blue Baltic.

I watched the storm system above for a while as it slowly tap danced all splitchedy-splotchidy over the wrinkly waters. Standing there reminded me very much of watching storms move across the desert back in the Land of Enchantment, only with more rain and fewer pineapple tamales. (Profound sigh.)

Another stroll along the water later that morning was a perfect breath-provider before training/floating back in a southerly fashion toward the Deutschland.

Now prepare for some great stripes. Ready, set, go!

'Twas a short little jaunt, but a rewarding one to be sure. I was happy visit this exotic land after a year of almost having done so the last time around. As it turns out, the rumors of high expensiveness were true, as were those of high pleasantness. I don't think I really have too much else to say on the matter, except maybe this: <3.