“Hey”, I say. “Well…hello…” “Sorry”, I mumble. “I WAS beginning to wonder,” comes the reply. “Everything ok?” “Well….” I venture, “not really. I haven’t been to a grocery store in more than 4 months. I’m beginning to look like a reject from the Humane Society, given no haircut since March 5th. Had to cancel my daughter’s May wedding, reschedule it for late October and am now on the verge of cancelling again. Above all, you and I were supposed to be sailing across the Atlantic right now, on the heels of a bucket list trip to Bulgaria, Thessaloniki, Macedonia, Paris and Vienna.” “Oh.” “But don’t worry,” I soothe my loyal friend. “We WILL get back out there together. The world is just a bit broken and out of sorts right now. We’re not used to having our plans disrupted by anyone or anything – least of all an invisible germ.”…

Hello Red Clog Readers, I’ve been thinking an awful lot about you – you who share in my adventures both around the world and in my home kitchen. I hope everyone is staying healthy and finding the silver lining in this imposed down time. I’m listening to the birds, looking at the flowers, organizing years of scattered recipe clippings and cooking up a storm. For quite some time, I’ve been wanting to tell you about a cherry blossom trip to Japan that took place exactly one year ago this week. I will do it, very soon. But for today, I find it easier to reflect briefly on a more recent trip and to spend my remaining energy in the kitchen. As many of you are aware, Bruce and I spent January 2020 circumnavigating the globe. 32,000 miles, 18 flights, 8 countries, 14 cities. We dodged Coronavirus in Vietnam – not…

After four visits to Berlin, three over the past seven years and one when the city was famously divided into East and West, I’m still no expert on the city. I haven’t “done” many of the famous attractions which you probably know – the Bundestag, Museum Island, even a boat ride on the Spree. Perhaps if my relationship with Berlin were different, I would be regaling you with stories about those places today. But I’ve come to know Berlin through the eyes of my father, a native.  This provides a wonderful and very different vantage point from which to embrace the city. Things feel, well, personal. It starts with where we settle in. Not the Marriott or Steigenberger, a German hotel chain, but a simple rental apartment in the neighborhood known as Wilmersdorf. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, eat-in kitchen and living room. The kitchen is stocked with just a few…

I have a list of favorite German words. Some, like “Sauerstoff,” “Pfifferling”, “Aschenbecher,” “Schmetterling,” and “Schornsteinfeger”…well, I just like the sound of them. (They mean oxygen, a type of chanterelle, ashtray, butterfly and chimney sweep.) “Punschkrapferl” is a winner too. (Try saying that several times without giggling, especially after an extended night at a Heurige, an Austrian wine tavern.) Aside from the outstanding name, Punschkrapferl just happen to be the most divine, rum-doused Viennese pastry cloaked in pink fondant icing. Other words make the list because they have the perfect meaning. Handschuh? Shoes for the hands. Aka gloves. Stachelschwein? A pig with spikes, e.g., a porcupine. Be careful if you go swimming in Africa, you might encounter a massive River Horse or Fluss (river) Pferd (horse) – hippopotamus. The German language excels in lopping together a bunch of existing words to form new ones. I particularly love “selbstverständlich.” A rough…

I know, I know. You assumed that the next time you heard from the Red Clogger, she would regale you with interesting tidbits about the month and a half she spent in Europe recently: 6 weeks, 7 countries, a veritable tapestry of sublime experiences and succulent tastes. You’re absolutely right to assume such a thing. And we will get to that. But I’m just back from Texas and it’s high time to settle a score from 32 years ago. Let me come clean right off the bat. I’ve never much liked Texas. My first foray was on a family (mom, dad, me) cross-country trip in the back seat of a rental car. I was 13 — an age that really doesn’t go smoothly for anyone involved. What were my impressions of Texas? Well, we very nearly ran out of gas as we traversed the panhandle around Amarillo. We racked…