The Search for Paris-Brest

       Last summer, my eldest son spent a week with my cousin and her family in Rennes, which is across France from us, in Brittany. Showing remarkable consideration for our language-aquisition needs, my cousin married a Frenchman. They have a young son. I suggested that perhaps Drew could come for a week and do some babysitting in exchange for being spoken to in French. Not only did Drew improve his French during the week in Brittany, he broadened his culinary experience. He tried salted caramel ice cream, buttery galettes, and Paris-Brest. Paris-Brest is a pastry inspired by the Paris to Brest (and back to Paris) bike race, which was held initially in 1891. It may not be as famous worldwide as the Tour de France, but it was been around longer . . . and I have yet to taste a Tour de France pastry. Anyway, the Paris-Brest is shaped like a bike wheel, which is to say, circular with a hole in the middle. I didn't know this interesting fact -- or anything else about the dessert -- until yesterday morning. When Drew returned from Rennes last August, he mentioned the Paris-Brest and asked if I thought the bakeries around here would sell it. I asked my friend, who used to live in Paris, and she said the French bakeries might. Then I forgot the whole thing.
       Then last week, when we were skiing in France, Drew asked if we could stop at a bakery on the way home to check on the Paris-Brest. We said sure, but he fell asleep in the car and we didn't see any bakeries, so the search was delayed. As this past weekend approached, Drew again asked if we could go to Saint-Julien or another neighboring French town. I began to wonder about this pastry that had so captured by son's imagination, so I looked it up. When I saw the picture, I was immediately onboard with the hunt. I wish I could insert a picture here. Unfortunately, I can't find a site that will let me use a photo for free. While I completely support people's efforts to make a living by photographing pastries (as a matter of principle), I don't feel like purchasing an illustration just now. You'll have to look it up yourself to see what I mean. The pastry is round, with toasted almonds on top, and also filled with praline-flavored cream. I decided that we needed to find one. For Drew, of course. Because I love my son.
       Step one was trying to find a bakery that advertised its products online. I found some, but none with the Paris-Brest on the menu. The next part of the plan involved waiting for Johanna to wake up. I then asked her nicely if she would like to call a bakery and ask. Of course I could have done it, but she needs to practice her French, so as a good mom, I gave her the opportunity. Plus, learning how to make international telephone calls is a Valuable Life Lesson. Johanna connected to the bakery and very sweetly asked if they had Paris-Brest. They told her that they could make one, but she would have to preorder, and it was too late to do it today. Strike one. We could have preordered for the next day, but the pastry scavenger hunt was giving some zest to my day, and I didn't want to give up so easily.
       Eric decided that it would be fun to walk into Geneva and check out some bakeries. Lucas and Johanna opted to stay home (we told them that he who does not walk does not eat, but they didn't care). Drew, Eric, and I marched ourselves the three miles into town, checking a few bakeries on the way and ending up at Martel, which is one of Geneva's largest. No luck. We also tried Globus department store, both the food court and the fancy grocery in the basement, without finding the cagey bicycle wheel. We did find a man selling burritos and churros in the courtyard outside, and, as Mexican food is even more elusive around here than specific pastries, we bought a chicken and bean burrito. Then we boarded the tram and rode home. I told Drew that if he wanted to pre-order a Paris-Brest, we could go pick it up another day, but he was feeling disheartened from lack of sugar, so decided to focus on cleaning his room instead. I certainly wasn't going to stand in the way of that excuse.
       In my earlier quest for knowledge about the Paris-Brest, I had come across several recipes. I decided to become a pastry chef. I made a careful list of ingredients, walked to the store, and was completely unable to find the list, which I had a clear memory of putting in my purse (after I returned home, I discovered it in my back pocket). Anyway, I remembered most of what I had written (clearly, of course). I purchased eggs, almonds, cream, and butter, and searched the aisles fruitlessly for something called praline paste. I would just have to make that, too.
       Today was the Big Day. I started with the praline paste, which is kind of like making peanut brittle (except with almonds and hazelnuts) and then pulverizing it in the blender. It's quite nice, and I could have ended there, spreading the paste on apples and enjoying an afternoon of gastronomy, but I was committed to the project.

This is the praline paste in the blender.

       Then I learned about choux pastry, which is also what eclairs are made of, I think. To make this, one cooks milk, water, and butter, adds flour, and then mixes in eggs. The pastry can then be put into a pastry bag and piped into shapes. For a Paris-Brest, several recipes advised drawing a circle on parchment paper and piping three rows of choux onto it, two underneath and one on top. Not having a pastry bag, I used a plastic freezer bag with the corner cut off. This worked surprisingly well. The pastry is then cooked in the oven with a pan of steaming water under it. Don't ask me why. I just follow the directions.

The choux in the oven.

       The next step was to learn about pastry cream, which is just a prettier way of saying vanilla pudding: Eggs yolks, milk, sugar, and flour on the stove. When it was pudding-y, I added the praline paste.

Again, I really could have eaten this part solo.

     Then comes whipped cream. When all the parts were ready, it was time to assemble the creation. I sliced the choux ring in half, spread praline pastry cream on the bottom half, then whipped cream, then the top layer. I dusted the whole thing with powdered sugar, and . . . voila (as the best French pastry chefs always say).

The finished product. A bit flatter than the ones I had seen in the online photos, but not bad.

     
        Does the homemade Paris-Brest taste like the one in the Rennes patisserie? I certainly hope not, given that there, one is paying for years of expertise and a snooty attitude (I can do the attitude, if not the expertise). All I can say is that it was worth the effort.

Various Peeves

**Warning: This post is all about things that bug me. Therefore, it is kind of grumpy, and basically a downer. You've been warned. **  


     We go to church in France. This sounds much more glamorous than it is. First of all, driving 15 minutes in almost any direction from Geneva will land you in France. Secondly, Ferney-Voltaire, at least the part where Crossroads Church is, is a really dumpy little border town with gas stations, car dealerships, auto washes, and lots of mud and weeds. Its claim to fame is as the hometown of Voltaire, and the author was apparently so good to the residents that they added his name to the name of the town. I spent several months feeling ashamed that I couldn't remember Voltaire's first name. Then I looked it up and learned that Voltaire was actually a pen name. Surely I learned that at some point?
      An interesting part of going to church in another country is driving through the douane, or border crossing. I guess it is because Switzerland is not at EU country that there still is a douane, complete with border guards. And I guess it's because Switzerland is not really a threat that the boarder guards on the French side could absolutely care less. The ones on the Swiss side occasionally stop cars and ask what you were doing in France. If the answer is shopping, you'd better have your receipt, and you'd better not have purchased more than half a kilo of beef, 2 liters of milk, or food exceeding a whole bunch of other limits that I forget. This is because food prices in Switzerland are insane, and so people shop in France. In order to protect the cow farmers and other Swiss producers, people who buy more than the prescribed limit have to pay import taxes. Yes, the authorities will search the car. Not often, but it happens. This is one of the many reasons I don't shop in France.
       If the answer to "What were you doing in France?" is "Going to church," the douaniers will laugh and say something outstandingly clever like, "Pray for me." This is way better than a car search. If the answer is, "Je ne parle pas de français," the understanding douaniers will wave the car on. They care about illegally imported steaks, but not enough to suffer through an excruciating conversation with an anglophone.
       We drive through this particular douane into France at least once a week, often two or three times for youth group, Bible study, or whatnot. Every time, I feel a twinge of irritation. This is because there is a stop sign on the little building in the middle of the road where the guards play Trivial Pursuit. No one ever stops at this stop sign. The border police can be standing right there, right under the stop sign, and no one will stop. The police don't even spare an eye blink as car after car rolls right past the sign. Granted, at this point the cars have slowed to about 20 kph, but driving slowly is not the same thing as stopping. I remember this clearly from driver's ed, where Mr. Pyfrin told us repeatedly, "There is no such thing as a rolling stop."
       If there is one thing that I can't stand, it is a rule that isn't a rule. Either take down the stop sign or make people stop. Unenforced laws are just confusing. Plus, I'm pretty sure they lead to the erosion of civilization as we know it. Plus, they bug me.

      And while we are on the subject of confusing rules, let's talk about kissing. When we lived in the US, we had a few friends who kissed hello. As a firm handshake kind of person (or better yet, a wave from afar), I always felt awkward with the one kiss on the cheek. Little did I realize how good I had it. In much of Europe, two kisses is the norm when greeting an acquaintance. In Geneva, it's three. Three kisses! Not only is this overkill in terms of physical contact with someone to whom I am not related, it also takes a really long time. The problem, however, is compounded by the fact that Geneva is something of a culturally diverse city. We have friends from Spain, England, France, South Africa, Italy, Ghana, the U.S., Sri Lanka, Greece, Madagascar. I love this diversity, but it complicates the whole kissing thing. How many kisses? Do men kiss men? Do you kiss hello AND goodbye? Which cheek first? Should your lips actually touch the other person's face? Do your cheeks touch? Do you just kiss air? The opportunities for social gaffes are abundant and varied. The good news, I guess, is that everyone is pretty relaxed and forgiving. Also, I read that in some cultures, people kiss four times -- or more. I should count my blessings.

       And while we are on the subject of counting blessings, I just need to say that I am very thankful that our blown fuse only provides power to the doorbell, front door light, and several other interior lights and not to something vital, like, say, the refrigerator or the heat. The fuse blew in mid-December. We replaced it, and it immediately blew again. We contacted the regie (property management company) to ask whether it was okay to call an electrician (see post on the washing machine if you wonder why we contacted the regie). The electrician came. He rerouted the current through another fuse. It worked great until he left, at which point it blew again. This is the juncture at which the problem became a "defect in the house" and therefore not our problem (payment-wise, of course; it remains our problem lack-of-power-wise). This being the case, the electrician will return next week. He will look at the fuse box and make an estimate. He will then leave and send the estimate to the regie. The regie will set up another time for him to come and actually fix the power. Maybe. If the estimate is acceptable. It could be spring before we get our power back. To end on a positive note, I will say that I learned some new French: "Le fusible saute," means that the fuse is blown. Every cloud has a silver lining.

The "I Don't Want to Run" Post

        I am sure that no one else ever feels this way, but sometimes -- particularly on dark and chilly mornings -- I don't really want to run. This morning was such a time. In order to convince myself that running was, nevertheless, a fun idea, I told myself that I could play a game. This game has no name, but it involves my iPod, which contains several years' worth of music downloaded by me, my husband, my children, and maybe other people too. The deal is that I have to put the iPod on "shuffle," then listen to whatever songs come up. This is made particularly interesting by the fact that the items which I (and others) have put on my iTunes account include music for enjoyment, but also songs for classes I've taught, theatrical productions mounted by the kids and their friends, and homework assignments various family members have completed.
         This morning the iPod began auspiciously with "Great Is the Lord," by Michael W. Smith. Not only is it an upbeat running song with encouraging words, but I have liked it -- and other music by this musician -- ever since this song came out, in the old days, in 1983, when I was TWELVE. I remember being lost with other members of my junior high youth group on the way to a concert he did with Amy Grant. I had the song then too . . . on a record, of course.
         As I started down the big hill in Parc Navazza, the iPod switched to Carrie Underwood singing "Cowboy Cassanova." The song made me think of driving a vanload of sixth-graders to the annual bonfire at Mr. Persing's house (he's the sixth grade teacher, and as far as I know, still has the bonfires). I think the year I remember, it was Johanna who was in sixth grade. The songs warns someone -- perhaps the singer herself -- against some guy who is "candy-coated misery," which is a pretty creative way to put it. This guy, however, doesn't sound nearly as worrisome as the man in the next song that came up -- Brittany Spears singing "Mama, I'm in Love with a Criminal." Now how did that get on my iPod? We are a family with eclectic musical tastes, but I don't think we have a single Brittany Spears fan in our midst. I didn't even know she was the singer until I got home and looked it up. The words, as one can judge from the title, are not calculated to calm a mother's cockles -- but to be fair, that probably wasn't her intention. Running past a house we looked at -- but weren't able to rent -- I meditated upon the fact that so many songs seem to be about the wrong man.
        Case in point: "Danny Boy," sung by Celtic Woman (clearly Johanna's influence on my iPod) was next up. While the eponymous Danny may have been a great guy, he clearly wasn't sticking around to comfort his love. And she fully expected to be dead by the time he returned. That's hardly a happy ending. Also, as talented as these women may be, most of their music isn't the greatest for spurring on an uninspired jogger. I eagerly awaited a new tune.
         The iPod gave me a break from misbestowed love -- though certainly not a better beat  -- by playing the story of Donatello as read by Jim Weiss. I had attempted to download these stories (Masters of the Renaissance) for our trip to Italy last spring. Like so many other aspects of that trip, the download had not gone exactly as planned, and we'd been unable to listen to any but the initial story. I'd gladly listen to Jim Weiss read the telephone book, and I was interested to hear about Donatello's consuming enthusiasm for sculpture, friendship with Cosimo di Medici, and generosity to other artists. This selection ended with the words, "Donatello was laid to rest in church beside the tomb of Cosimo di Medici." This ending was followed, in a perhaps à propos, yet jarring, juxtaposition by the words: "Down once more to the dungeons of my dark despair . . . ." The iPod had decided to treat me to a full twelve minutes from the final scenes of the Broadway show and movie Phantom of the Opera. Three summers ago Eric and I saw the musical in New York, where it's been running for like a zillion years (maybe even as long as Michael W. Smith's been around). We were every bit as awestruck by the talent and production as we thought we'd be. Later, that same summer, the kids put on their own version of the show with some friends from the neighborhood. Lucas, the only boy they could rope into onstage participation, played both Raoul and the Phantom with as much aplomb as one could expect from a 10-year-old. Johanna was Christine, and Drew did sound. The show, which ran for at least two grandparent-attended performances, was pretty outstanding for something produced, acted, and directed entirely by people under 15 -- on a budget of zero. Gut-wrenchingly beautiful as the music is, however, this is truly the story of the wrong man. He's not just a player, not just a criminal . . . he's evil incarnate. (Okay, he reforms in a way at the end, but still -- what is up with these women?)
         We moved away from men with Alison Krause singing "Down to the River to Pray" from the soundtrack of O Brother, Where Art Thou? Every time I hear the song, I am reminded that I want to see the movie again. It both confused and entranced me, and I'd like to see what 12 years has done to my impressions. I did think fleetingly that the number would have been more appropriate half an hour earlier, when I was trotting along the Aire River, rather than now, when I was running past the Co-op grocery store. Clearly, my program of musical entertainment was being presented without much forethought. The next song, again from Celtic Woman, was about . . . I have no idea. It was in Welsh or something, and I didn't understand a word -- not even enough to figure out, afterwards, what song it was. It was however, chipper and boppy, and I picked up the pace as I imagined the sword dancers picking up their feet.
        Turning into my neighborhood, I ran past our house and to the end of the street so I could listen to the final song in its entirety. It was the men's a capella group Cantus, from a CD given to Eric by my parents but beloved by Drew (whose wide-ranging musical tastes encompass French rap, gospel hymns, pop, folk, and Broadway show tunes -- to enumerate but a few). "E'en So, Lord Jesus, Quickly Come," included words that seemed like a good program for the day:

"Rejoice in heaven, all ye that dwell therein, rejoice on earth ye saints below, for Christ is coming, is coming soon, for Christ is coming soon."

The Scenery Was Beautiful, Though . . .

We have recently returned from the Second Annual Admiraal Family Post-Christmas Trip-to-the-Mountains-Where-Mom-Books-Us-into-a-Really-Crummy-Hotel. Last year, we went to Gstaad, which is a swanky Alpine resort town. We stayed at the youth hostel in Saanen, which was neither swanky nor a resort. The  chattering of other guests, desert-like air in the bedrooms, and smell of the shared bathroom were not compensated for by the free breakfast, which was mediocre. The scenery was magical, though.

Trying to recreate the winter-wonderland experience, I suggested we travel to Interlaken this year. I had learned my lesson with the youth hostel. Sort of. Lured by comparatively low prices (this is, after all, high season in resort towns), I clicked “book now” on a bed-and-breakfast located conveniently near the Interlaken West train station and advertising free breakfast. That last bit should have tipped me off. It was only when looking at the confirmation email that I noticed the ominous words “the shared bathroom is on the same floor.” Lucas asked if the “hotel” would have a pool. I smiled grimly and told him he’d be lucky to get his turn in the shower. But, after all, we were there for the hiking, the majestic mountain scenery, the snow. Strike two on the snow. Switzerland is in a warm spell, and Interlaken was positively balmy. 
       Interlaken has a McDonald's, where the kids begged to eat. I find that the longer I am in Europe, the better I like McDonald's. I'm not sure why, but perhaps it has to do with the predictability of the place. In the middle of a life of surprises, the fries always taste the same. Nevertheless, I don't like McDonald's well enough to agree to eat there while on a real vacation, so we ended up at a place called Bebbi's. This had to be the most aggressively kitchy Swiss place I have ever seen, with servers wearing spotted cow pants, Swiss flags and postcards papering the walls, and perky mountain music blaring. When Lucas ordered milk with his dinner, the waiter flexed his biceps and told Lucas that if he kept drinking milk he'd have muscles like that some day. He also told the next table. The restaurant promised "happiness, food, and fun." I think the waiter was supposed to be the fun. It also advertised free salad with every meal, which was welcome, as most Swiss food involves heavy doses of potatoes, cheese, and pork and is a bit thin in the vegetable department.

We had decided to travel by train because, well, I am a big fan. A train is like a tram . . . only bigger and faster. Also, unfortunately, more expensive. As a partial alleviation of that problem, I have cracked the code to finding “billets degriffés” a.k.a. supersaver tickets. This was not an easy task, and took me most of Christmas Eve morning and also a good part of Christmas day. Fortunately, someone else was cooking those days, so I could devote myself to entering and reentering data into the online ticket counter grid (every time I made a mistake or wanted to check a different route or date, I had to type in everyone’s vital statistics). At a get-together with other expats on Christmas evening, I bragged to a friend that I had figured out how to get cheaper train tickets. She asked me to send her the information via email. I realized while typing out the process that a sane person would probably just pay for the more expensive tickets, as the time and hassle involved in the supersavers cannot be worth it on any kind of reasonable hourly wage. Fortunately, my job does not pay an hourly wage (or any other kind for that matter), so I have no idea what the process cost us. Here is my email:

Go to sbb.ch. Change the language to English or French -- it's usually German when I get on the page. Maybe you like German, though. :-) I change the language to French because I always feel like maybe they’re holding back some deals for people who can speak the national language. I’m afraid that if I change the language to English, they will know that I am an American and refuse to come up with any bargains for me.

Hover over "Travelcards and Tickets," then under "Tickets for Switzerland" choose "billets degriffés" or "supersaver tickets." At the bottom of that page, type in "Versoix" for the station closest to you or "Genève" (not Geneva -- it won't find anything), and the date you'd like to travel, and it will show you all the deals. Keep in mind, however, that the prices will be double unless you have a half-fare card. The half-fare card is good for a year and costs 175 chf per person. We have not bought them, because I think we'd have to travel a lot more by train to make it worth it. I'm thinking about it, though, because we do really enjoy train travel.

You can look for international tickets by clicking on the link "International Tickets" under "Travelcards and Tickets." There's a link for supersaver tickets. The catch is that you can't get a supersaver ticket from Geneva or Versoix  to Germany. What you have to do is get a ticket from Geneva or Versoix to Zurich, then Zurich to Germany. (You also have to spell Zürich HB the German way or you get no deals.) 

Even with my slick mastery of the billets degriffés, traveling by train is more expensive than traveling by car. It is, however, so much more enjoyable -- you can walk around, watch the scenery go by, sleep, read, play euchre, eat. Unlike plane travel, you can arrive five minutes before the train leaves and be in plenty of time. You can also bring large bread knives on board and no one bats an eye. Best of all, with train travel, you are never lost, or if you are, it is probably someone else’s fault.

The train bridge. We climbed up a large hill/small mountain near here.

But only about halfway up. This is the view of the top, where we did not climb.

And this is the view of the valley from midway up the mountain.

We went on a beautiful, if not snowy, hike to a small town near Interlaken, where we bought enormous pieces of freshly baked apple strudel. Then we tried to eat them while walking back, which was a challenge.

Chalets at the base of one of the mountains surrounding Interlaken.

The bliss of rail travel.

Eric and the boys relaxing mid-hike. Johanna isn't in any of the pictures because she was in Spain.

Merry Christmas!

Some of you have already received this Christmas letter. For those who have not, Merry Christmas. For those who have, I give you the gift of the 10 minutes you would have spent reading this. Enjoy a cup of coffee.

If I were a DJ, this is how I would spin the year . . . .

January: “Dooley” by the Dillards (Back Porch Bluegrass). It’s not the words of this song that are meaningful, as it would take someone with much greater depth than I to draw lessons from “Dooley, sittin’ by the holler; Dooley, tryin’ to make a dollar.” Rather, we played the song to remember the fun of Grandma and Grandpa Waggener’s visit, which included watching the Dillards on The Andy Griffith Show. We also celebrated Luc’s 12th birthday this month with a treasure hunt party.

February: “Unafraid” by Amy Grant (Somewhere Down the Road). This is what we tried to be, with varying degrees of success, as we slid down the slopes of the Jura Mountains in nearby France. What the kids like about skiing: Challenge, danger, adrenaline rush. What the parents like about skiing: The peaceful ride up the mountain on the télésiège, the beautiful view from the top of the run, the relief at having reached the bottom of the hill unbroken.

March: “All Things Bright and Beautiful” by Cecil Francis Alexander. We saw the first crocuses and flowering plums of spring in our neighborhood. We also had a fancy-dress mystery dinner party to celebrate the 14th birthday of our own bright and beautiful Johanna.

April: “Wonderful” from the musical Wicked. The title describes not only the show, which we saw in London’s West End during Easter break, but also our whole experience in that city. We saw some friends from Cincinnati, walked through the city’s beautiful gardens, and rode the London Eye. We also enjoyed the opportunity to speak English, and eat Krispy Kreme donuts and Chipotle. Our favorite thing, though, was probably the Sherlock Holmes Museum. It’s not that it’s so impressive; it’s just that we’re such fans!

May: I chose “Shake, Rattle, and Roll” by (take your pick) Big Joe Turner, Bill Haley, or Elvis Presley for the soundtrack to our trip through Northern Italy, which included miles of rolling along the confusing Italian motorways and the rattling and shaking of an earthquake in Padua. Eric (clearly more heavenly minded) chose “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands” (a traditional American spiritual) to remind us who made and upholds all creation: whether it is the earthquake and the sinking of cities or the beauty of the Mediterranean at Venice, the lake at Como, and the mountain as we waited (interminably) to pass through the Mont Blanc Tunnel into Italy

June: “Try to Remember,” from The Fantastiks. Try as we might, we can’t think of a single interesting thing about this month. No vacations. No milestones. No disasters. Even our family member who had a birthday (Eric) turned a ho-hum 41.

July: “Ohio” by Over the Rhine (Ohio). We spent most of July back in the U.S. (Michigan and Indiana, too, but those states don’t have as cool songs). It was great to b If I were a DJ, this is how I would spin the year . . . .

January: “Dooley” by the Dillards (Back Porch Bluegrass). It’s not the words of this song that are meaningful, as it would take someone with much greater depth than I to draw lessons from “Dooley, sittin’ by the holler; Dooley, tryin’ to make a dollar.” Rather, we played the song to remember the fun of Grandma and Grandpa Waggener’s visit, which included watching the Dillards on The Andy Griffith Show. We also celebrated Luc’s 12th birthday this month with a treasure hunt party.

February: “Unafraid” by Amy Grant (Somewhere Down the Road). This is what we tried to be, with varying degrees of success, as we slid down the slopes of the Jura Mountains in nearby France. What the kids like about skiing: Challenge, danger, adrenaline rush. What the parents like about skiing: The peaceful ride up the mountain on the télésiège, the beautiful view from the top of the run, the relief at having reached the bottom of the hill unbroken.

March: “All Things Bright and Beautiful” by Cecil Francis Alexander. We saw the first crocuses and flowering plums of spring in our neighborhood. We also had a fancy-dress mystery dinner party to celebrate the 14th birthday of our own bright and beautiful Johanna.

April: “Wonderful” from the musical Wicked. The title describes not only the show, which we saw in London’s West End during Easter break, but also our whole experience in that city. We saw some friends from Cincinnati, walked through the city’s beautiful gardens, and rode the London Eye. We also enjoyed the opportunity to speak English, and eat Krispy Kreme donuts and Chipotle. Our favorite thing, though, was probably the Sherlock Holmes Museum. It’s not that it’s so impressive; it’s just that we’re such fans!

May: I chose “Shake, Rattle, and Roll” by (take your pick) Big Joe Turner, Bill Haley, or Elvis Presley for the soundtrack to our trip through Northern Italy, which included miles of rolling along the confusing Italian motorways and the rattling and shaking of an earthquake in Padua. Eric (clearly more heavenly minded) chose “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands” (a traditional American spiritual) to remind us who made and upholds all creation: whether it is the earthquake and the sinking of cities or the beauty of the Mediterranean at Venice, the lake at Como, and the mountain as we waited (interminably) to pass through the Mont Blanc Tunnel into Italy

June: “Try to Remember,” from The Fantastiks. Try as we might, we can’t think of a single interesting thing about this month. No vacations. No milestones. No disasters. Even our family member who had a birthday (Eric) turned a ho-hum 41.

July: “Ohio” by Over the Rhine (Ohio). We spent most of July back in the U.S. (Michigan and Indiana, too, but those states don’t have as cool songs). It was great to be back at our home church, to spend time with beloved friends, and to see our dear families. Okay, going to Costco was pretty outstanding as well. 

August: “Celebrate” by Mika (Origin of Love). From the decadent fun of spending hours on the couch watching the London Olympics to visits from several friends and relatives, to finally getting to know our Swiss neighbors, to basketball camp, soccer coaching, and cooking classes, August was a month filled with energy and joy. 

September: “(What a) Wonderful World” by Art Garfunkel (The Singer). The song that begins “Don’t know much about history, don’t know much biology . . .” aptly sums up our dive into homeschooling in Switzerland. It’s not so much the academics about which we felt so ignorant, but rather the Swiss system, which is, predictably, rule-driven and inflexible, but ultimately, full of quite pleasant and helpful people. Drew remains at IIL, where his knowledge is his own. This month also brought his 16th birthday, celebrated with a “Mom, can I have a few friends over” get-together that turned into a 25-guest fiesta. Good thing his friends are polite and like to help clean up!

October: “Barnatro” by Ejnar Westling, popularized in the 1930s by Swedish folk singer Lapp Lisa. We visited the frozen North (the southernmost section, at least) this month. We loved seeing the country and reconnecting with relatives, including some of Lapp Lisa’s great-grandchildren. The Swedes are friendly, coffee-and-sweets-loving, and almost completely anglophone. Good thing, as our Swedish standbys of “tack” and “hej” will only get you so far.

November: “Run On” by Cantus (That Eternal Day). Yes, we do realize that the song has nothing to do with our early morning jogs or competitive race efforts. Nonetheless, it’s a great song to listen to while running, and this month was full of that. The Trans’Onesienne was the 17th and the Escalade on Dec. 1. It makes it into November, though, because of the Cours du Duc. This run began on Nov. 30, in France, and followed the route that the Duke of Savoy took in 1602 when he came to attack Geneva. He was repelled with a pot of hot soup, and the Genevois have celebrated the event ever since.

December: “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” by Thomas O. Chisholm. The past year brought literal (and figurative) mountaintop experiences, some thorny valleys, and quite a bit of monotonous trudging along familiar paths. We’re thankful to God -- in every situation -- for his unwavering faithfulness.

May he bless your Christmas and New Year with his unending love. e back at our home church, to spend time with beloved friends, and to see our dear families. Okay, going to Costco was pretty outstanding as well. 

August: “Celebrate” by Mika (Origin of Love). From the decadent fun of spending hours on the couch watching the London Olympics to visits from several friends and relatives, to finally getting to know our Swiss neighbors, to basketball camp, soccer coaching, and cooking classes, August was a month filled with energy and joy. 

September: “(What a) Wonderful World” by Art Garfunkel (The Singer). The song that begins “Don’t know much about history, don’t know much biology . . .” aptly sums up our dive into homeschooling in Switzerland. It’s not so much the academics about which we felt so ignorant, but rather the Swiss system, which is, predictably, rule-driven and inflexible, but ultimately, full of quite pleasant and helpful people. Drew remains at IIL, where his knowledge is his own. This month also brought his 16th birthday, celebrated with a “Mom, can I have a few friends over” get-together that turned into a 25-guest fiesta. Good thing his friends are polite and like to help clean up!

October: “Barnatro” by Ejnar Westling, popularized in the 1930s by Swedish folk singer Lapp Lisa. We visited the frozen North (the southernmost section, at least) this month. We loved seeing the country and reconnecting with relatives, including some of Lapp Lisa’s great-grandchildren. The Swedes are friendly, coffee-and-sweets-loving, and almost completely anglophone. Good thing, as our Swedish standbys of “tack” and “hej” will only get you so far.

November: “Run On” by Cantus (That Eternal Day). Yes, we do realize that the song has nothing to do with our early morning jogs or competitive race efforts. Nonetheless, it’s a great song to listen to while running, and this month was full of that. The Trans’Onesienne was the 17th and the Escalade on Dec. 1. It makes it into November, though, because of the Cours du Duc. This run began on Nov. 30, in France, and followed the route that the Duke of Savoy took in 1602 when he came to attack Geneva. He was repelled with a pot of hot soup, and the Genevois have celebrated the event ever since.

December: “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” by Thomas O. Chisholm. The past year brought literal (and figurative) mountaintop experiences, some thorny valleys, and quite a bit of monotonous trudging along familiar paths. We’re thankful to God -- in every situation -- for his unwavering faithfulness.

May he bless your Christmas and New Year with his unending love.

The -- Somewhat Tardy -- Report From the Duke's Race

      As those who have read this blog for the past year will doubtless remember, it was in December of 1602 that the Duke of Savoy staged an attack on Geneva. The attack was, in legend, anyway, repelled with the aid of a pot of hot vegetable soup tossed out the window onto the attacking soldiers by a woman known as Mère Royaume. Four hundred and ten years later found me lined up with a couple thousand other slightly loopy runners to reenact the voyage that the duke took as he came from Savoy to attack the city. When I signed up for the race in October, it seemed like such a fun idea. Eric and I were going to run the 17k together. We would take the bus to Reignier, France, in the evening for the race, which would begin at 9:30 p.m. The night run, crossing from France to Switzerland, the novelty . . . it all seemed unique, adventuresome, and far in the future. Then a work trip to London made it impossible to Eric to join me, and the adventure started to take on a darker tone. Running 10 miles in the dark by myself started to seem a little silly. Not to mention scary. Silly, nevertheless, has yet to stop me (though scary sometimes does). So, after a half-hour bus ride to Reinier  during which I sat next to a Portugese man who explained his running exploits in a mixture of English, French, and Spanish, and after sitting in a drafty gym for two hours waiting for the race to start and trying to decipher the conversations around me, there I was. As I stood, shivering, with all the other runners, I had to ask myself one question: Why had the Duke thought it was such a good idea to attack in December, of all months?

      

My view as I waited for the race to start. Everyone was given headlamps, which made for an amazing view of  a chain of lights snaking up the hills. It was an amazing view for those of us in the back, anyway.

      A cannon shot started the race. We were in blocks, and I think the organizers arranged the blocks so that the fastest runners went first, followed by the slowest, then the middle. At first, I passed person after person. Then, as each faster block behind me caught up, I found myself passed by waves of runners. Not very inspiring, but since one was not allowed to enter the race without being able to finish in under two hours, I had known from the beginning that I would be among the slow. I had been worried that I would be running all alone in the dark. The opposite was true. I'm not sure how many people were out there with me, but it was difficult to even find a place where I could move my arms without whacking someone.We passed a drum corps dressed in what I can only assume was traditional Savoyard costume. People around me were singing, "Nous sommes les Savoyards!" 

      As we ran on and I warmed up, the cold became less of an issue, and my question about the December attack was replaced with another: Why had the Duke chosen such a hilly route? We weren't exactly going over the Salève mountain -- but we weren't quite going around it either. Thanks to the early morning hill repeats that Johanna makes me do, however, I managed the hills with something close to aplomb. And just a short hour and 40 minutes later, I was coming into downtown Geneva  seeing the lights, the cheering crowds, and -- best of all -- the finish line. I was delighted that, while we had followed the duke's course, we had escaped the duke's boiling vegetable greeting.

      Another Escalade tradition is the Marmite Run, which took place the next night. I don't know how wearing costumes and parading around the city ties into the history of the Escalade, but I think almost any excuse to dress up is a good one. Johanna participated with a friend from the U.S. and one from Germany (a very international crowd). They dressed up as the Butcher, the Baker, and the Candlestick Maker. Eric and I took them downtown, but there were so many people in the parade that we didn't see them once from beginning to end. Typically, even though it was a costume event, lots of people ran it. These Swiss people are just not kidding.

The costumes were Grandma's idea -- a great one, I think. The only problem was that
Jo's bloody cleaver and apron scared people who didn't know the nursery rhyme.

It was difficult to take good pictures of the moving marchers in the dark. This is a gigantic dragon.

Here are some Marie Antoinettes followed by frogs.

One of my favorites -- Christmas windows.

Snowballs wearing Santa hats.

In Which the Elder Aliens Party in Berlin

In front of a map of divided Berlin that was part of an outdoor exhibition on the wall.
The hats were our first Berlin purchase. That city is cold in December.

      Lo these many years ago, we celebrated Anniversary #10 in Las Vegas. While that city is probably worth seeing for it's unique nature, it made me think of what Hell must be like -- hot, loud, and full of vice. Little did we know that a decade later, we'd be celebrating our 20th anniversary in Berlin . . . or that Berlin would be a lot closer to home than Las Vegas. If Las Vegas is Hell, then Berlin must be Heaven -- it's cold, full of beauty, and they drink their coffee in mugs almost as large as the steins they use for beer (although I understand that actually, "In Heaven There Is No Beer," which is fine with me).

      Despite these positive qualities, Berlin may seem like something of an odd anniversary destination -- one might ask, why not Paris, Venice, Antibes, or something more traditionally romantic. We chose, in our patented practical style, by pulling up the Easy Jet website, typing in the weekend we wanted to go, and selecting from among the deals offered. Upon further reflection, however, Berlin actually is an  appropriate place to celebrate a marriage. Through it's history, the city has been assailed by trials from within and without. Berlin can't have always been an easy place to live. Yet it is a place of great beauty and depth, and a place that is continuing to build and grow. What more can a marriage ask for than a history like that? 

       After four days in Germany's capital, it has definitely become one of our favorite destinations, one to which we hope to return. What's so great about Berlin?

#1. History. Berlin's stormy history makes the city a fascinating place to visit. We spent hours learning about the abuses of the Third Reich in Topographie des Terrors, a museum built on the site of the SS and Reich Security headquarters. Outside of the building stands one of the longest remaining sections of the Berlin Wall. 

The Berlin Wall outside the Topographie des Terrors. The holes are from treasure hunters
 who wanted to take a piece of history away with them.

Memorial to the Jews killed in World War II.

      We visited Checkpoint Charlie. The sign is the original one, I think, but the checkpoint itself is a reconstruction.

The sandbags and plaque commemorate the standoff between American and Soviet tanks in 1961.

      We spent more hours in the German History Museum learning about the years from the end of World War 1 through the present. We also visited the display on the Reformation. We could have learned about ancient history to the 1900s as well, but didn't feel able to digest any more information that day.

I never realized that Cranach painted Luther's wife as well. The pictures were meant to
be an argument in favor of marriage by the clergy.

2. Architecture. Despite the destruction of war, Berlin in chock-full of amazing buildings. 

The Berliner Dom

The Reichstag

The Brandenburg Gate. I found it very interesting that Napoleon took it to Paris for a few years.
I wonder who he got to do that job.

Charlottenburg Castle (a Christmas market was assembling in front
of the castle, but nothing was open yet, unfortunately).

3. Food. Probably it is because our heritage is more German than French, but we loved the food in Berlin. Big breakfasts. Sausage and sauerkraut. Delicious baked goods. None of these ridiculous beautiful, tiny portions intended to please the eyes more than the stomach. The Germans like food. They don't put up with exorbitant prices, either. We did have one funny dining experience. We were sitting at a table in a crowded restaurant when an older woman came up and motioned toward one of our two empty chairs. I assumed that she wanted to take the chair to another table, and so I nodded and smiled. She and her husband promptly joined us at our table. Their English was limited. Our German more so. Nevertheless, Eric managed to carry on a conversation. I wish we could have talked more to them, as we learned they had grown up and lived in East Berlin. I'm sure they could have added to our historical perspective. As it was, the situation was somewhat awkward. My parents, who lived in Germany for a year before I was born, assured me that table sharing is perfectly normal. That kind of efficient use of resources is probably why the country is doing comparatively well economically.

Eric in our favorite restaurant, right around the corner from the hotel. No one joined us at the table here.

   

4. The Christmas Spirit. Berlin is full of Christmas decorations, Christmas music, and Christmas markets. The lights and festivity make the water darkness not only bearable, but kind of cozy. We heard a wonderful Christmas choir concert in the Franzosischer Dom, which the city built for the Huguenot Christians fleeing France after the Edict of Nantes was revoked. I'm sure the Huguenots  would have loved the ancient and modern hymns. I know we did.

The Christmas market outside the Franzosischer Dom. We found wooden molds
for springerlies -- one of our favorite Christmas cookies.