Every morning I walk to work and pass four or five of these enclosures containing Christmas trees ready to be netted and sold. I speak so often of trust and these trees are another marker: placed, there, waiting patiently, open to the skies. Also, there is something lovely about the scent of pine that fills the surrounding sidewalks.
When I reach my office, I make myself a cup of Yunnan tea to drink by the window while I gather my thoughts for the day: such are the pleasures of routine. When Paper and Tea asked if they might send me a box of tea treats, I said of course. The texture of the furled, crinkly tea leaves in the packet of Savanna Gold delighted me. The surprise of its smoky, precise flavor made me notice what I was drinking for the first time in a while: the pleasure of a break in routine.
A French-British trio invited us along for cassoulet, and I brought a friend. The lamp above our heads was gilt and gave off the warmest light. Antoine played the guitar; a tow-headed toddler demolished the tiny sausages set out in bowls. I came away with a glow, reminded of the joy of gathering with strangers and friends around a table at home.
I came away with a recommendation too. A guest at the dinner table told me of a children's book his wife had produced, created in 1945 by the German Dadaist Hannah Höch. She went to visit the nephew and took away this priceless copy of her manuscript, now it's a book and I've bought it from S.
When I took out these three cookies (handmade Zimtsterne) to take their photograph by the window, a spicy cinnamon scent wafted up to me from the windowsill. They are definedly nutty beneath the brittle layer of fleeting sweetness. I suggest, if at all possible, that you take yourself to Das süße Leben and buy yourself a packet before Christmas.
And here's wishing you moments of quiet delight in the days to come.
My friends, oh, how life bustles on: a belated happy first Advent to you. An Italian mother spent a morning with S's class building up this lovely nativity scene and we lit the first candle on our wreath at suppertime yesterday. Meanwhile, quite unexpectedly, we may just have stumbled onto the flat that we have dreamed of finding for years now: one we can sink into, that feels like home. It's a lovely thrilling thing that has dashed our plans for a sleepy, peaceful Christmas season. On that, stay tuned.
But today I wanted to pop back into this space to congratulation the talented Sabrina Sundermann on the fifth anniversary of her letterpress studio Small Caps. I remember my delight when I discovered her work, at a time when the renaissance of beautiful handmade paper goods was just beginning in Berlin. She's gone from strength to strength, adding workshops and albums to her offerings, as well as this delightful Berlin guide, which supplies suggestions on places to visit while leaving space for the user to add her own impressions.
To win a copy of the guide plus a 'Hello Berlin' card, just drop an email to hello[at]berlinreified[dot]com with the subject line 'Small Caps'. We'll choose someone on Saint Nikolaus day (this Saturday).
Short days and the early dark is back. Are you filling your kitchen with good scents too?
We got talking about Thanksgiving some weeks back. What is the best pumpkin to use for pie? Who's cooking up a Thanksgiving meal this year? In a fit of industry, a few friends and I have updated my old Thanksgiving post for 2014. And reviving the spirit of scientific inquiry, we baked up a storm, making not one but three pies to test which German pumpkin yields the best puree for pumpkin pie. Details below.
Off the night train from Berlin to Vienna and straight on to Cafe Sperl for crisp rolls slathered with apricot jam and steaming plates of ham and eggs. (Baffled and delighted that that's what they're called, rather than Schinken und Eier.)
An exhibition devoted to a single color is my sort of exhibition. I trailed up the concrete stairs in time to Kind of Blue.
The weather was miserable which meant we were happy to linger in all the obvious places. These included Café Prückel, Café Hawelka, and Die Halle. One blessed day we escaped to Langenlois where we lapped up soup dark with pumpkin seed oil and sipped the prettily named Sturm (an Austrian Federweißer) while Loisium guests plashed about in the outdoor pool.
We came home laden with jars of apricot jam from Wachau and the prettiest bags of sugar I have ever seen.
Rixdorf is magical enough, but stepping into the souterrain dining rooms of Cafe Botanico, past the upright piano and the leg of Parma, and onto the pocket-sized terrace was almost more than I could believe. "Enzo!" the older chef shouted regularly as a younger Italian man darted from the tables to the open kitchen, gathering handfuls of salad greens, dispensing Neapolitan coffee makers, and upending a dariole onto a plate to reveal a perfect chestnut semifreddo.
David's vegetarian breakfast plate was heaped high with braised cavolo nero, sheep's cheeses, al dente legumes, and a half-dozen different herbs; S had a pungent platter of sharp salami and creamy Parma ham. My lunch was the least photogenic and the most thrilling: a spicy stew of chickpeas grounded by broth-plumped fregola and salted with a grating of bottarga. It was a dish that inspired a meditative calm.
Much of the menu is cooked from the back garden, and the Sunday tour was just beginning when we had to leave. I was so pleased, then, when my friend Lily was able to join Martin Höfft a few weeks later. Here is her report. (Those whose interest is piqued might take advantage of the unseasonably wonderful weather and join today's tour.)
When I met Martin, he was standing next to a six-foot tall cabbage while a group of kids played around him. The tour of Cafe Botanico’s permaculture garden wasn’t so much a walkabout—it’s quite small—as a look into Berlin’s permaculture community. Germany has a long history of allotment gardens (Schrebergärten), a tradition which is still vital today, judging from the bubbling laughter spilling onto the street from the small garden cottages. But Martin’s garden, I soon learned, is doing something a bit different: it’s a certified organic, self-sustaining permaculture garden. (Do you know of other places growing food this way in Berlin?)
As Martin explained, gesturing to this giant stalk, their gardening philosophy differs from the plant-seeds-and-harvest model. “We eat what’s edible and let the plant grow,” explained Martin, as he gestured towards harvesting the bottom two Markstammkohl (marrow-stem kale) leaves while letting the top leaves continue to nourish the plant. It requires less working of the soil—hence the organic designation—and less work for the gardener. Ideally, we learned, this garden lasts for generations.
“Eating what’s edible” led Martin to feed us dried fennel seeds cracked out of a pod (delicious, as you might expect), not-so-dried fennel seeds and the green tendrils of fennel growing out of the ground. All delicious. I soon learned that permaculture means a somewhat staggering range of biodiversity. What looked at first like a tiny plot contains over 200 different types of plants, including some fascinating ones like the Ur-Kohl, the brassica that broccoli, kohlrabi, and cabbage originated from. Martin lets the seeds fall in the rich compost formed by decaying old plants. What grows back looks like a mess, but viewed through Martin’s trained eyes we see both what might be edible—quinoa, green onions, kale, pears, cherries—and the important function of the thick floor of weeds beneath our feet.
I learned a new word on the tour, Unkraut, because most of what Martin passed around were technically weeds. In a salad, though, who would guess? These wild herbs are bracing, full-bodied, and unusual. Having an undisturbed soil bed, composted with decaying plants and strengthened by so many interconnected roots, allows the garden to grow Unkräuter used in the cafe year round. Good news for us November visitors: the wild arugula in late October was mustardy and sharp.
Martin’s passionate and curious stewardship of the land is contagious—by the end of the tour, I was less focused on the tiramisu and inspired to take the long view. A stunning facade looks over Cafe Botanico’s garden, and Martin explained that the land where the garden stood used to be the main road in Alt-Rixdorf, leading up to the church. What is now Richardstrasse were simply the back courtyards. This mental reversal—this hidden oasis was once the main road, now brought back to nature—was a bit dizzying. At once, I noticed the way the old trees curved around the former road, imagining this place several hundred years ago. And then again, back to the present, munching on fennel fronds, imagining a delicious and sustainable future. — by Lily Kelting