Tag Archives: Bavaria

Helloooo from … the east coast of the United States? Yeah, that sounds about right. It’s presently 6:40 am in Boston, is where I woke up this morning. Which means it’s afternoon in the country that we just left yesterday, and it’s not quite 4am at home. A brief equation:

[3:40 am - (5 hours of sleep) / (I really need a cookie) ] + (where did I put my clean underwear?) = I DON’T KNOW WHERE I LIVE ANYMORE.

I really shouldn’t be on the internet right now because I’m way, waaay too zonked, but I’ve gotten a few emails from people asking when I was going to post again, and I’m feeling massively guilty about that (you can take the girl out of Catholicism but you can’t take Catholicism out of the girl, you know?)

Am I rambling? I probably am. Dear god, I need a cookie. But before I do that (SEE HOW I SUFFER?) here is a preview of the Germany portion of our trip. 10 photos, courtesy of my husband’s cell phone (which means that there are actually pictures of me amongst them, in a slightly more awake state than I am now. Which, to be fair, isn’t hard to do).

I was going to make it 12 photos of Bavaria but you guys, MY COOKIE LEVEL IS TOO LOW.

I’ll be back on Wednesday with some proper posts. In the meantime, here’s a little sneak peak at what we got up to.



  2. Hanging out at Neuschwanstein Castle (which is the model for Cinderella’s castle at Disney).


I’m … um … crap. Honestly, I don’t know where I will be when this post goes up. I’m currently writing it on a sunny afternoon in Seattle, but given the way the next few weeks are going, I might be in Ashland, or New York, or Portland when this finally goes live.

But these pictures? They were taken in Bavaria – there is absolutely no doubt about that. Nowhere else in my travels have I found such blue skies, snow-capped mountains, piles of freshly-baked pretzels, and the most entitled pug to have ever existed outside of a royal court.

Here are 10 photos from our last trip there. It feels like it was just last week, but apparently it was three months ago. If you need me, I’ll be out on the street (in whatever city I find myself in) asking people where summer went.

  1. Anton, who manages to look like he’s suffering, despite being constantly spoiled.

    Do NOT fall for the puppy eyes.

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Many months ago, I wrote a post about the wonders of Bavarian food. I didn’t spend a lot of time fixating on dessert, which shows you just how darn good the sausages and breaded meat and dumplings of Southern Germany are (parenthetically, all of those dishes sound like euphemisms). A few folks told me that next time I found myself in that part of the world, I needed to try a dessert called kaiserschmarrn.

This intrigued me for several reasons:

  1. Kaiserschmarrn sounds like a term describing a sort of obnoxious, egotistical king. “Ugh, Henry VIII went through wives like a kindergardener does goldfish. He was such a kaiserschmarrn.” (In fact, the name literally translates to “the emperor’s mishmash”.)
  2. It is rare that I encounter a dessert I’ve never heard of before. It’s like when biologists discover a new species of animal in the rain forest. On the one hand, it was bound to happen, but on the other? It’s crazy shocking that something this big escaped my notice. I AM AN EXPERT, PEOPLE. I should know about these things.


Murnau, home of the weirdness.


I’ve heard that everything we do is a reaction to our parents. They go left, so we insist on going right. They use coupons and buy generic from the big chain supermarket, so we spend waaay too much at the organic independent co-op on the corner (and every time we go grocery shopping, we leave with the distinct feeling that we need tattoos and more piercings).

They wear mini-skirts, date younger men, and constantly eat gelato, so we don’t. Except for the gelato bit, because psychology and childhood rebellion have their limits.

In my case, it means that I am skeptic of the highest degree. This is because my mother is, often against her better judgement, a believer.


Sometimes I will grab my husband, usually by the head, mash up his cheeks in my hands and say,

“Your face. Your STUPID face. I LOVE YOUR FACE. I’m … I’m gonna eat your face because I LOVE IT SO MUCH.”

I assume that all couples who have been together for more than a decade behave this way, expressing their affection through threats of cannibalism.

The thing is, though, I really do adore his face, every (tiny) crease and freckle and even the errant chicken pox scar on his forehead (that is almost, but not quite, a mirror reflection of one I have). To quote one of my favorite movies, “It’s … it’s a good face.”


My father lives in a rural part of Bavaria, surrounded by farmland. The air is rich with the smell of cows and manure, and traffic jams are caused by tractors. Should you think I am being hyperbolic on that last point:

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I’d like to deviate for a moment from my pastry tour of France to discuss my dalliance with an ambiguous piece of Bavarian taxidermy.

Bavaria! Not pictured: ambiguous taxidermy.


I should clarify (though I remain incredibly proud of that opening sentence):  when I say Bavarian, I don’t mean that the actual taxidermical practices were ones that I’d distinctly associate with southern Germany. The animal in question was not wearing lederhosen, nor was it holding a pretzel and a tiny little stein of beer (Even though that would have been absolutely amazing. And what if it had one of those little German hats? Oh, god, YES. Please let this be a thing, immediately). I simply mean that we were in Bavaria, and I’m pretty sure that this was local handiwork.

Nor do I mean to suggest that  the taxidermy itself was ambiguous. It wasn’t like … half stuffed or something. There was definite taxidermying happening. I mean, if you saw this thing, there would be no doubts: taxidermence had transpired.

No. The ambiguous part was this: we all disagreed on what the animal in question was.


The walkway to Linderhof Palace, Bavaria.


Do you ever get the feeling that you’ve forgotten something?

It’s a sensation I absolutely hate, and I think that’s part of the reason why I’m always doomed to feel that way. I can’t leave the house without being convinced that I forgot to put something important in my purse (like my wallet or my phone or the emergency granola bar that I keep eating and needing to replace). Or that I left my straightening iron plugged in, or the iron on, or I somehow managed to set the kitchen on fire and it’s now engulfed in flames that I failed to notice as I waltzed out the front door.