Edinburgh's German Market and other adventures

It's the solstice, and what better way to spend it but with a trip to the German Market. The best time to visit the market is at night, when the steam from the Glühwein creates a scented cloud, like the breath of a drunken god. But night is when it is also busiest, with clutches of people gathered around the small tables and wolfing down their crepes or Bratkartoffeln, clinking their ceramic mugs or nudging forward in the queue to pay for their logs of stollen.

I wait all year for this market to begin, which it does each 24 November. And all too soon it is gone again, leaving me to yearn after good quality landjäger and giant bars of chocolate-covered nuget/marzipan creations.

My family is German. December is the only month my mother makes large amounts of cookies. Germans are cake people, you see. But at Christmas there is this supposed need among German women to bake small, spiced biscuits, often with a tender sting of cinnamon and nutmeg. There are stacks of such things at this market, along with the kind of chocolate that tastes so familiar, because it is the same kind our extended family would mail over for us each December.

While most of the wee wooden huts contain traditional crafts, including wooden nutcrackers and hand-painted Christmas tree baubles, my favourite stalls are the food-based ones. I love the sight of a giant vat of frying potatoes - who doesn’t? There is comfort and pleasure in such things.

And alright, so crepes aren’t known as a German food (I know you’re thinking it, Craig), but I am not going to argue with a woman standing just a knife's reach away from countless jars of Nutella. Crepes are good. Nutella is good. Let us not disturb the goodness. Besides, the person making the crepes is German, and that has to count for something.
But my number one food experience recommendation is a visit to the steak-in-a-roll shed. For me, it is because these taste just like the ones my dad barbecues in the summer. More than this however I love to watch how men often amble helplessly toward the smell and sight of grilling meat. Suddenly they want nothing more than to possess a pork steak served with a great pile of sauerkraut, a dollop of herb or garlic sauce and, if they really want a treat, a sliced, tart pickle. They can hold the giant, messy catch in their hands and feel as if they had killed it themselves. For it is both barbaric and beautiful.

The guys running the place also never seem to succumb to the long days of cold and often wet weather. As the market draws to a close on Christmas Eve, you can see that many of the vendors are counting the days. But these guys are chipper and genuinely seem to be having a good time, which makes them stand out.

Just next door to the German market is the Scottish Christmas market. Alas, the Stoats Porridge folks have not returned for another run. Last year was their first go at the Christmas market (they are year-round regulars at Edinburgh’s Farmer’s Market), and it seems the experience was not worth repeating. Sad, as a tub o’ white chocolate and toasted hazelnut porridge would have gone down a treat today. I did see one familiar face from the farmer’s market, being the cheddar cheese lady. But she had such a group gathered around her that I didn’t stand a chance for a photo. Such is the power of good cheese. There are plenty of crafts here as well, with the traditional Scottish knitted hat dominating many a product spinner. But I didn’t need a hat, so I moved on.
Past the Scottish market begin the rides. They start with the tea cups and the carousel (strangely enough, it is the very carousel that helped inspire my pleasure dome ramble). Then they get more serious, such as the giant Ferris wheel and the ride I like to call CHAIR-O-PLANE OF DOOM! This is the ride you take if your greatest desire is to be hurled repeatedly through the air toward the sombre gothic stones of the Walter Scott Monument. Never, ever, EVER again.
My travels today took me down Prince’s Street, through the market and then over Waverly Bridge, where I met Ronnie, a driver for one of the hop-on, hop-off bus companies. Ronnie looked set to wear that smile pasted on his face all day, as he combined his regular duties with raising money for the local children’s hospice charity.

Then it was up Cockburn Street (pronounced Coburn; what a missed opportunity), up the Royal Mile, over George IV Bridge for a visit to Hilary‘s Bazaar, followed by a jaunt round the graveyard at Greyfriar’s Kirk (mmm…gothic…more on this some other time). Then down Candlemaker Row to Grassmarket to pop into Armstrong’s before trekking up Victoria Street in order to get back to the Mile.

And here is where I end, on a very sad note indeed. Khushi’s, one of Edinburgh’s best known Indian restaurants (started by Khushi Mohammed in 1947), was gutted by a fire that broke out Friday night. Many of the shops on Victoria Street were still without power today as fire crews continued the cleanup and secured what is left of the building, which also houses The Liquid Rooms, a popular concert venue.

Poor Khushi’s. I am thinking of all the staff who are now heading into the New Year without work (Britain’s job market is quite dire at the moment). And of course the Mohammed family, who have seen so much of 60 years of hard work and love of good food go up in smoke.

Excuse me while I go and make some curd

The cake. It seems to be going all wrong. The first one turned out quite flat but still looks edible. And the second one is better but still too flat to be a proper cake. So I'm going to stack them up. Slice the belly of the taller one and stack up the three layers of lemon sponge. And hope that it isn't horrible.

The bread is laying on its side, cooling. The chicken soup kicks ass.

All this cooking is for tomorrow, when "Sophia's Soup Kitchen" shall reign again at work. Once a week I bring in a lunch big enough to feed at least a dozen people, and take donations for Walk The Walk. In June I'm walking 26 miles with thousands of other women through Edinburgh, overnight, in our bras. As well as being extremely silly, we are raising money for breast cancer reasearch.

I had set myself a target of raising about £200, and that's to so many wonderful people who are pitching in to lend me their support (including work folk who are brave enough to eat my food and then give me money), I shall have no trouble reaching my goal.

I've got a wee fundraising site if anyone would like to follow along:
http://www.justgiving.com/sophiawalking

Since it is late and I need to make lemon curd, I won't begin discussing the growing terror I am feeling about this daunting marathon. My brother put it into perspective for me a few months ago: "That's like walking from our old house, into town." Oh, crap.

Right. The curd. What a terrible word. Curd. Sounds like swearing. Oh, Curd.

Stay dry, Replenish your Spirits

I’ve made a wonderful soup with bacon, leeks, pasta and fresh, finely chopped rosemary. All stewing in chicken stock. It is the kind of soup that can thaw people out, relax them. It speaks into the mouth that is eating it, “you see, you’re feeling better already. I knew you would.” Listen to the soup; it knows what’s good for you.

I’ve got the start of a new story but I don’t know where it goes:
She was one of those women whose features had been steadily massaged by years of grief, her eyes and cheeks drooping like pallid dough. When she looked in the mirror she half expected her chin to swell and drop off like batter from a spoon. Her flesh belonged in a lava lamp, searching for buoyancy.
****************************************************************************
We have reached March, and once again I am desperate for spring. The wind has been relentless, the rain just an added attempt to make us all assume that we will never experience comfort again. Today the sky reminded me of a resentful teenager who is keen to witness the agony of others. If I’m to be miserable, then so will you. I threw away another umbrella this afternoon. I left its soggy corpse on top of the rubbish bin outside the Sainsbury’s, it’s spider web joints weakened by the constant battering. Over and over it had been turned inside out, until all it took was one tiny puff and it would flip again, and I would have to begin the dance of trying to turn into the ever changing wind so that my flimsy colourful protector could set itself right again.

I resist taking out the giant golf umbrella, which I borrowed from work and have yet to return. I’ve been keeping it in the corner near the door, but every time I think of using it, I get an immediate image of myself being lifted off the pavement and into the sky. I’m no Mary Poppins; I know I would just be swept high enough to fly over the nearby bridge in time for the train to hurtle past. Splat! Like one of those terrible Garfield dolls for cars, the kind with the suction feet that stick to the window. I never imagine any blood - my body becomes rubbery like a flattened Toon from Roger the Rabbit. The only thing missing is for the driver to lean out the window and bash me over the head with an enormous hammer that springs out of his cufflinks, causing me to peel off and float down to traffic below, swaying like a feather to my doom.

It is also unlikely that I will invest in the newest invention for wet climates: the hands-free nubrella (see above image). You strap it on like you would a backpack, enclosing yourself in a sheer, half bubble of tough plastic. The ads show a cyclist wearing one as he hurtles down the street, and a woman in a power suit on her way to the office. It’s all very George Jetson, and I don’t think it will catch on any time soon. Although I already sense that Kryce will want one. At least we could all count on him to come up with some exciting new designs. I would want to tint mine, so I could see out but no one could see me. That would be cool.

Living in Edinburgh I am not as close to the small signs of spring that were everywhere in Linlithgow. I miss watching the buds swelling on the branches. The city just seems to amplify the unyielding greyness of things. Across the street there is a small park where some small flowers are growing. My mother could probably tell you the Latin name for them, but I only know they are purple and yellow and that when the sun does peek out, their petals take on the sheen of wet satin.

In other news, I’ve been writing. Yesterday I managed to finish a story. It took more than four hours but I was happy that I didn’t let myself quit, which is what I usually do. In just over two weeks I will be starting my “Creative Web site design for Beginners” course. This is something I feel I need to do, to increase my practical skills. It can only serve my creativity, is what I tell myself.

Finally, I wish I could give Mikara a bowl of soup. Just take her away for ten minutes and let her taste it. There is relief built into this soup, a kind of grounding energy that replenishes stores of faith and humour. I miss you, Moe. Thinking of you.
So-

Five Pound Chocolate Bar

My nephew Ashton recently won a 5 lb chocolate bar. My brother sent an email around, calling for applications to help them eat it. Applicants were asked to give reasons why they felt they were the best candidate for the job. The following is my contribution.

Greetings to you, oh grand posessors of the 5-lb chocolate bar,

I humbly put forward my application to be part of this magical eating process you speak of. As I understand it, others may have already sent in their applications, claiming they are best suited for the consumption of said delicacy of sweetness.

However, there can be no one better suited for this task than me.

When I was just a toddler, waddling precariously through the world, I saw fit to ignore my Christmas presents and give my sole attention to a plate of chocolate, thereby beginning my life-long dedication to chocolately goodness.

Years later I spent hours of awe wandering the hallowed halls of the chocolate museum in Köln, Germany, where I did sup from the giant, flowing fountain of chocolate. It was at the Schokoladenmuseum that I learned that the life of any chocolate bar begins with the cocoa bean, which grows on the low braches of the "Theobroma Cacoa," or cocoa tree. After growing in the humid, rainforest heat, the tiny cocoa pods (each pod can contain up to 40 beans!) are harvested and the beans ground before being mixed with those magical ingredients, sugar and milk.

The zenith of my chocolate experience occured in a small cafe on the Royal Mile in Edinburgh. It was at Plasir du Chocolate that I discovered the layered, beautiful monstrosity of the French chocolate gateaux. Three layers of sponge, weighed down by four hearty layers of chocolate ganache, so thick and gooey it was like cooled, chocolate lava. Combined with a generous smear of rasberry flesh, it was simply the best thing I have ever eaten in my life.

I understand that the distance of my application may be a hindrance to me. If it should be the case that my application is unsuccessful due to the girth of the Atlantic and the smudge of eight hours time difference, I humbly ask to be sent photos of others as they enjoy tearing into that block of teeth-rotting splendor.

Yours humbly,

Sophia von RitterSportAlpineMilch

Dedicated to spiced chocolate

Spent a day out in Stirling, mostly lost inside the Thistle Shopping Centre. I find shopping malls so surreal - the white lighting, the smell of disinfectant, the clash of music flowing out of the entrances to the stores, and the sheer volume of stuff.
By the time I left the mall, I had forgotten where I was and had to walk into the old town for awhile to remind myself that I was Stirling. Then proceeded to Beanscene where I drank a beautifully bitter mocha, followed by a “spiced chocolate,” all the while staring across at a black and white photo of Mr. Cohen holding a shot glass of some promising potion. Bless Nif for sending me Book Of Longing so I didn't have to wait for months it to be published over here. (I shall take this opportunity to announce to the world that Nif is now 31, and juicier and more fabulous than ever)
Every night it gets darker a little sooner, and we have experienced a few serious bouts of Scottish rain – huge, cold drops that fall by the millions and are accompanied by an overall dim gothic glow. The stones glisten; the moss turns to velvet, and the last squeeze of lilac scent is battered from the drooping husks of the flowers.
I have finally found somewhere to buy local veggies and meat. The grocery stores here are so dismal – they fly over organic apples from New Zealand and the USA, when the UK produces some of the most beautiful organic apples in the world. This wee place is just a 30-minute walk away and they are open each Saturday for four hours. The best spinach I have tasted for years. Can’t quite get into kale, but I’ll work on it. And a lovely, plump spaghetti squash. Cooking apples, and also some advice on where to find the best blackberries. My latest dessert discovery is fruit cobbler – so much better than fruit crumble.
The other news is that we have purchased a keyboard, for Andrew is now taking piano lessons. I have learned how to do the warm up for the right hand, which is the first few bars of Beethoven’s 9th. This glorious machine can make more than 500 sounds, including footsteps, helicopter, laughter, and Andrew’s favourite, church organ.
Finally, my parents will be here in just over a week. We plan to tour them around old buildings and feed them haggis and neeps.
Blah, blah, blah. Every time I mean to sit down and write, I have no words. It’s not that I have ceased to be fascinated by the world, because I haven’t. I just don’t know how to put it. Hopefully my senses will shake up soon.
Byeee.

The point she is trying to make

Three cheers for new digital cameras. Unfortunately, earlier in the day, the old batteries were dead and I was unable to capture a photo of the man wrapped in cling film and jumping about the Mile.
The festival grinds to an end, and two days after the Tattoo has finished, I have succumbed to a cold. It feels like someone wearing sandpaper skates has been spinning doughnuts at the back of my throat. It also feels strange be to home before 9 pm. The last month was terrible and hilarious and wild and exhausting, but I would do it again. And now every heat wave seems to have departed for other shores and each gust of wind is a plume of cold - the feel of autumn is everywhere. I am well into a book about the spice race - giant ships dashed against the coral reefs of distant islands, islands that they could smell before they sighted land. Such is the power of nutmeg. The shortening days and cooler air is causing me to instinctually load up on butternut squash and beets and corn. Baked apple season will start in just a few short weeks.
I've decided this harvest season's kitchen music will be Nick Drake. Time to turn the oven on.

Kitchen witch

Today I created the following:

Rhubarb muffins
chicken noodle soup
spinach, garlic and parsley soup (smashed smooth with my blender stick)
gluten free squash bread
Extremely yummy chocolate muffins

The squash bread was terrible - turned out like a giant orange paper weight. The chocolate muffins are the best but they are like a heart attack in a pleasant paper wrapper (Think 18 oz of bittersweet chocolate, combined with loads of butter, combined with loads of sugar). The spianch soup is very good with fresh parmesan cheese grated on top. Overall, today it was Afro Celt (#3) in the kitchen, followed by jazz in the kitchen. And damn I'm a good cook.