I am not a good cook. And I am even convinced most of you reading this blog already understood so.
But when I cook, I do my best. There is a -limited- number of recipes in my head. And ... well, that can be eaten.
Off course, I need the right ingredients. The ingredients I am used to. Cause every time the package looks different, I am not so sure anymore if it is the right stuff. And if dinner will be eatable.
And that's where the problem lies. Moving to Germany, no supermarket looks like home. They sell sauerkraut in ready-to-go packages (aiaiaiai). They have a whole rack of ketchup for bratwurst. And only two different kinds of mayonaise.
Two. The supermarket at home counts -at least- fifty different kinds of mayonaise.
Dear own German, you cook. I moved.
Off course, I need the right ingredients. The ingredients I am used to. Cause every time the package looks different, I am not so sure anymore if it is the right stuff. And if dinner will be eatable.
And that's where the problem lies. Moving to Germany, no supermarket looks like home. They sell sauerkraut in ready-to-go packages (aiaiaiai). They have a whole rack of ketchup for bratwurst. And only two different kinds of mayonaise.
Two. The supermarket at home counts -at least- fifty different kinds of mayonaise.
Dear own German, you cook. I moved.
1 comment:
Amen. Let him bake cake.
The only problem with this approach: German law does not include language for a separation agreement requiring German man to keep Foreign woman fed in the manner to which he has accustomed her. I used to be a good cook. When I moved out of my former German's household, I had to learn to cook all over again. Worse, he had turned me on to culinary delights which I'd never learned to make.
Ah, well. I can now make real-deal Flammekuechen.
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