Cheese Fit for a Poet

Editor's Note: There have been some technical difficulties over at Justin's food blog, but while our vacation is still fresh, I'd like to offer the food posts from my "Austrian Correspondence" series. Later, I'll re-post them on the food blog and include pictures.

It's all about dairy, my friends. The Alps, to use a messy example from the good ol' USA, are, as if the state of Wisconsin was dropped into the Rockies. Amazing mountains with a culture of hiking, climbing and all the other mountain sports, combined with the best dairy products I’ve ever tasted. I tasted some good food, here, but it's the dairy that's worth writing home (and blogging) about, starting with cheese.

"Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.” G.K. Chesterton

You can always count on Chesterton for the good one-liners; I found the above quote while looking for a different one in a different context. But he has a point. Cheese is a wonderfully tasty and complex food, and the process of making good cheese is a journey of work and aging, not unlike that poetic beverage - wine. But Cheese gets such a bad rap that I really couldn’t imagine a poem about cheese that didn’t sound just silly. Cheese has so many connotations, from the farm all the way to the kitchen, that are more quaint than poetic. Smelling like cheese is not a compliment, and cheesy humor is associated with kitsch, cheapness and vulgarity.

Here in the Alps, just like other cheese-producing places, much of the culture is kitschy (or cheesy, if you’d like). Oompa music, lederhosen, quaint farmhouses and roaming cows with bells around their neck – I love it, but high culture doesn’t come to mind. But the cheese produced here is worthy of song and sonnet.

To my left, I have two cheeses, fresh from the farm. The first is called Komperdell “Village Cheese,” produced right here in Tirol. The texture is comfortable – moist and delightfully smooth. It has many tastes and would work well with a multifaceted wine, and wine is one of the flavors that jumps out when it touches my tongue. It’s a white cheese, and has many of the properties we Americans associate with good Swiss cheese, but much more savory.

The second sample could accurately be called Swiss Cheese, because we crossed the border and, aside from indulging in some duty-free shopping, visited “Sennerei Samnaun,” where the cheese is produced. The taste is both milder and deeper, as if it has more to say to you the more you eat it. The texture is much more firm to the bite and dry but in a pleasant way.

Both cheese sure beat the heck out of anything I’ve eaten from a supermarket. Naturally, they’re more expensive too, but they'd be even more expensive if we were not so close to the farm. If you’re not in the Alps, it’s worth the effort to take a weekend and visit the closest Dairy Farm, so you can eat this wonderfully complicated and delightful food. Who knows? It may even inspire poetry.

Bowmore Islay Single Malt Scotch Whisky “Surf”

The Swiss side of the border. Boasting some of the Alps highest mountains, and presumably some of the best skiing, it also has entire villages that act as airport gift shops. It’d duty free shopping, between Swiss hotels and bubbling mountain streams, you can buy kitschy or profane T-shirts, liquor, jewelry and perfume without being hassled by the taxman. Other than gasoline, which was a good 30 cents per Liter cheaper than what we get in Deutschland, the prices weren’t so outrageously good that we were tempted to max out our credit cards (though other tourists, it seemed, did not share our opinion), but I did take advantage of the to buy some single malt whisky and a small cigar from a certain island country that my home country doesn’t get along with.

Yesterday, the afternoon rains had temporarily cleansed the land of the goopy yellow pollen that had been devouring my body from within. A clear evening beckoned. I took the cigar, the scotch and a my bag of books to the Ferienwohnung’s backyard. Therein, among the impeccable grass and beautiful flowers stands a wonderful building. It’s a combination shed (filled with the necessary equipment for backyard games like badminton) and a kitchen. A lovely stone porch nestles two sides of the building, and I sat down on the side that faced the mountains.

The cigar was mild and modest, a small Romeo and Julia, but delicious nonetheless. The whisky fit perfectly. I developed a taste for Scotch when we lived in a Scottish-American household, but I’m still a novice. My decision at the store was based on no research whatsoever, but was more of that special combination of price and marketing, which influences most of my purchasing decisions. I went with a Bowmore Islay Single Malt Scotch Whisky called “Surf.” Surf is the cheapest Bowmore whisky available on the Austrian-Swiss border. Surf offers your palate “warm smoke, oak and honey, balanced with a hint of zesty lime.” Maybe it was the cigar, but I missed the zest lime, but the rest was true. The smoke flavor was strong and came tantalizingly close to the border of overwhelming, but that’s what made it interesting and, let me say, delicious. It also made it go well with the cigar. With smoke in my mouth, I looked to the mountains. The sun weakened, the Alsp turned purple, to the peace and praise of our Creator. Be thankful for his bounty: evening, mountains, cigars and scotch.

Philippians in the Alps

A comfortable vacation in the Alps feels like the wrong setting to think about the Paul’s letter to the Philippians. I’ve heard it said that the Philippians were among the poorest churches, and Paul himself wrote to the Philippians from his final imprisonment. Suffering is a primary theme. And yet, you’d be forgiven if you didn’t notice this at first glance. This is because the other theme, running side by side throughout the whole letter, is joy.

Paul is in prison, and he is very aware that he faces the death penalty. Yet over and over again, Paul commands the Philippians to rejoice. He can’t help himself but to repeat it again throughout the letter, between other instruction, admonition and explanation. It's as if he's a little girl who just learned the word.

It’s a beautiful letter. Even the instruction, usually the part of Paul's letters where I'm tempting to stop paying attention and fantasize about the Cubs winning the World Series, blooms into song. Consider this passage, which starts with admonishment. “Do nothing out of rivalry or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus [at this word, Paul forgets himself; you can almost hear the John Williams-led orchestra start to play music here], who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Therefore, God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.”

Why be humble? Why serve? Why should I forget my natural inclination to look only for my interests, to consider my desires, my interests, myself more significant that others? Because of Jesus, about whom Paul doesn’t just preach, he sings. He continues the theme later on when preaching against any sort of religious superiority (in this case, those who claim following Christ requires circumcision), by saying Paul considers his own religious superiority rubbish compared to “knowing Jesus Christ my Lord,” and, knowingly tying it back to the are of suffering, that in deed, he was sharing in Christ’s suffering.

In spite of what I said earlier, there is a sense that it is appropriate to read Philippians on vacation. My family is here seeking peace. We’re here to settle our souls after what felt like an unending season of transition. It’s marvelous, and as I’ve mention before, the surrounding mountains remind me of my Creator. They help me to do what I should do in all circumstances, to do what Paul famously instructs the Philippians to do, if they truly want peace. “Rejoice in the Lord always: again I will say, rejoice! Let your reasonableness be known to everyone. The Lord is at hand; do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. What you have learned and received and heard and seen in me-practice these things, and the God of peace will be with you.”

Amen.

The Goody Bag Strategy

A surprising thing for a parent, at least for this one, is all the little plans and contingencies you have to make and consider when going about normal human life. Even more surprising, particularly as one who takes little joy in having things planned out, is that I often make these plans instinctively.

A few weeks before going on vacation, my daughter started to walk. Immediately, her world expanded. She was a late bloomer, as I’ve said before, and I think what really got her going is that she finally realized crawling would only get her so far. On feet, she could explore the world, or at least her grandparents’ backyard. And their house. And our apartment. And try to sneak off and run down the street like a freed hamster when we’re not looking. Whenever she gets bored, she comes to me, grabs at my hand, and, in a voice so precious that you don’t quite realize it’s a command, says, “walk.” It’s what I get for repeating the word over and over again when actually teaching her the deed. We walk, hand in hand, down the street or to the raspberry bushes (she’s going to be disappointed when we get back to see how they’re out of season) or to visit the goats that live behind the retirement home. It happens often, which means my daughter gets bored often. She gets bored, now that she knows there is a vast world to explore on two legs.

So, when packing, the thought struck my wife and I that we need to ease boredom in our Ferienwohnung, which, with one bedroom, is smaller than our apartment and much smaller than Oma and Opa’s house. That’s where I came up with the goody bag strategy.

The goody bag strategy is to fill up a small duffle bag with (based on my observation) her favorite toys and books. I won’t allow her to know that the bag contains all of the treasures. Rather, on each day throughout our vacation, I reintroduce her to one of her prized possessions. It’s worked fairly well. She squeals with recognition when it’s a toy she particularly likes. For example, she has a teddy bear with a tag that says “Charly” but whom she simply refers to as “Bear” (note to toymaker: please don’t name your toys. It’s more satisfying when children come up with their own names, even at 18 months). Showing her Bear, after a few days’ absence, was a delight for both of us. “Bear!” she cried and embraced her old friend. Now, my wife and I can steal a few moments of vacation reading (or writing) while she puts Bear “night night” (by stuffing him through the bars of the crib) or has Bear eat “nyum nyums” (by seating him in her high chair).

Books are effective too, though not always for buying us a break. I’m trying to raise my daughter to love books, and I’ve made a point to read to her well before comprehension (which is what all the parenting books say to do, anyway). It worked, but now she’s old enough to try to dictate when she gets read to, which cuts into those wonderful moments I refer to as "me time." I will be there, sitting on the sofa, in view of the Alps out my window, newspaper or one of my three vacation books before me. My daughter will pick one of her own books and, with an expression of sweet expectation, look at me and say, “book.” Once again, it’s a command, not a request. To break it would risk tears, tantrums and a pitiful look of unadulterated heartbreak that could melt granite. Hey, what are vacations for, other than catching up on my Dr. Seuss or Richard Scarry?

The Mountains Declare

If you ever hike the Alps, don’t be surprised if you see, perched between hay fields and pine forests, small alters to the Crucified Savior. There seems to be one for every grassy field that creeps around the feet of these mountains. They’re like large bird houses, except the front is open and has a small painted statue of Jesus on the cross. Sometimes he is alone; sometimes he’s flanked by Mary and John. At his feet are pieces of grain, flowers or candles, small offerings and prayers.

It’s as kitschy as a Hallmark Card and probably stained by superstition, but in some ways, you can’t blame them. In central Europe, religion is for two people, children and country folk. Children, to get a little culture and values training before they have to take on the real world, and country folk, because, bless them, what do they know about reality?

But, really, you can’t blame them. I know I can’t, because today I hiked the Alps. I hiked, with my wife beside me and my daughter strapped to my back, little creatures on a country path surrounded by a congregation of mountains. The Alps are a congregation, that’s the best way to describe them. These ancient giants stand in a position of wizened and lively worship, and they beckon all who crawl on them, however lost and diminished, to join in.

Worship. Worship beckoned me, hiking the Alps. The Alps are glorious, jagged in a way that comes across as both random and purposeful. They stand as proud equals to the clouds, some bald, some defying July to wear patches of glistening snow. Unending pine trees grow bravely upwards until the point that the mountains are too high and they can no longer grow. They form an evergreen skirt around each mighty hill, a quilt of needle and bark to measure the years. The congregation sings, joys and sorrow, celebrating the summer sun until evening winds cool the daylight passions into meditations of wisdom.

Worship beckoned me. “Heaven is a place that everybody here believes in. Why we have every reason,” wrote American folk singer Pierce Pettis about a town of country folk in Alabama. Hiking the Alps, I could relate to the country folks. I wanted to build an alter or at least find two decent sticks to make a pine cross. I wanted to lift my hands and sing the words of an anointed shepherd. I recognized the handiwork of a Creator, and I knew enough about myself that I knew I needed the Creator to be a Redeemer. I knew that the woman walking next to me, the girl strapped to my back and the passing strangers in hiking boots were his handiwork too, and in the presence of the mountains, my loves for them deepened in their various paths, like the streams of melting snow that carves the wrinkly face of an ancient hill.

Has busyness, disenchantment, noise, pollution or just plain pride left you disconnected from God? Are you hurting from hope, weary of faith and unable to love? Are you doing just fine, convinced that you’ve mastered your life with no pressing need to look up. Hike the Alps. Or the Appalachians. Or the Rockies. Catch a ride to the closest mountain range. Find a path that graciously allows you to climb something much larger than you, something that has been around much longer than you or your family or your city. Hike with your eyes open. How, then, could you not join the congregation? How could you ignore beckoning worship? How could you not relate to the country folk? How could you not become a psalmist, singing, “The heavens declare the glory of the Lord,” “What is man, that you are mindful of him” and “O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name above the Earth!”

A Few Words About Our Ferienwohnung

1. Ferienwohnung literally means holiday apartment, but the German word sounds so much better, I will continue to use it.
2. Ferienwohnung is pronounced “FAIR-ee-in-VOH-nung.”
3. The Ferienwohnung belongs to an elderly couple, whose pleasantness and helpfulness are so genuine that I never had the feeling it was a professional customer service. There are several Ferienwohnungen in their house, here in Serfaus, Austria – a resort town in the Alps. Every day, our hosts work to keep the back yard pristine.
4. The back yard includes a well-behaved lawn, a vegetable garden, a flower garden and a small goldfish pond.
5. My daughter loves the little goldfish pond, and we visit it every morning. There’s also a statue of a little boy holding his hands out. My daughter feeds the little boy by putting clovers in his hands and refers to him as “Boob.” Please be advised that “Boob” is southern German slang for “little boy.” If you are the parent of a little boy, I apologize in advance if my daughter calls him Boob.
6. Our Ferienwohnung house is one of many, all over town and up and down our particular street. Each of them are in good condition and, presumably, making money, and there are cranes here building more. I detect no sense of bitterness or competition between the house-owners. Indeed, while visiting Boob, my daughter and I got to know the man who owns the house next door. He invited us to use there swing, and we took him up on it. Every morning, after we visit Boob, my daughter and I hop the wooden fence to use the neighbor’s swing.
7. Our Ferienwohung itself is on the bottom floor of the house, but that doesn’t matter, because it’s easy for us to get to the garden (to visit Boob), and all of our windows face the valley to give us a majestic view of the Alps.
8. Speaking of windows, the one downside to our Ferienwohnung is that this is the first German house I’ve been to without Rolladen (or roller blinds, but the German word is better), or at least very dark curtains. Our curtains are sufficient for modesty but useless against the summer sun, and useless for a napping 1 and a half year old. The solution? We put her pack’n’play inside the bathroom and hung our picnic blanket over the window, the only window small enough for our picnic blanket. She’s sleeping peacefully as I write this. Thankfully, the toilet is in a different room.
9. The Ferienwohnung has a dishwasher. Hallelujah.
10. The Ferienwohnung has a flat screen TV with digital cable, so we are not missing the Women’s World Cup.
11. The digital cable package includes two embarrassing Evangelical channels, a German one and an American one. The American one showed a prosperity gospel preacher in the morning, and in the evening showed a concert featuring Michael Tait, formerly of DC Talk (where’s he been?). I did not watch much of either. The German evangelical channel is much more subdued and features elderly people talking about spiritual matters, as well as nature scenes and piano muzak in the background.
12. There are also several channels that primarily feature German folk music. Think lederhosen, oompa bands and liter biers. I think elderly people in Germany watch these channels the same way my grandmother would always watch Lawrence Welk reruns.
13. Other channels produce "Schlager" Music. Schlager music is the music of choice for German beer halls since the 70s. Schlager combines German folk music, disco and Tom Jones for a sound that makes you want to drink more. I saw a schlager singer with the combined powers of Luke Skywalker's hair Clark Gable's mustache.
    
14. We’re saving money by not using the Internet. This is a forced fast, and not only do I feel very uninformed, but my hands are beginning to shake.
15. The furniture, from bed to wardrobe, is firm, comfortable and of excellent quality.
16. All in all, this is a comfortable place to return and reflect. Beauty and nature mean processing. I do this better when I turn off the television and sit where I can look one direction to see my wife and another direction to look out the window for an awe-inspiring view of the Alps. Why look elsewhere?
    

Packing - It Helps You Enjoy Your Vacation Without Guilt

There’s something about America’s puritan work ethic that makes me feel guilty about vacation. Be it beach, mountains, Disney, Vegas, whatever, there's a little devil that sits on our shoulders telling us that we don’t deserve to relax, that the only people who deserve to relax are the handsome old people in the investment bank commercials who have clearly earned their lavish retirement on a Yacht in the Caribbean.

Fortunately, for those of us currently on vacation Austria, there’s an exercise that relieves the guilt. It’s called packing. Packing for a family makes daggum sure you earned your stay in the mountains. This is especially true if it's your first time taking baby on a vacation, and you’re aren’t exactly sure what you need. For example, we had to ask ourselves, “Will their crib be sufficient or should we bring the pack’n’play?” We brought the Pack’n’Play, happily, which we can shove in the darkest room in our holiday apartment.

When it comes to packing, my wife is management and I am labor. She thinks of every possible contingency and packs accordingly (which helps avoid my usual contingency: "How late is Target open? Is there a Target in Tirol?"), and I carry everything to the car like Atlas, except that I wear clothes, I don't have that much beard and none of our luggage is spherical, though that would be cool. Wisely, we have clothes and shoes for all sorts of weather, plenty of food, and lots of books (we’re both bookworms, and I’m a moody reader who needs options). Basically, we had just enough room in our Ford Focus for our necessities (yes, I said necessities) plus a family of three, squeezing our persons between briefcases, books and bananas (our daughter loves bananas).

Of course, it was the Ford that worked hardest out of all of us. Our car braved the twisty roads through the Alps weighed down like a Camel on which you shouldn’t throw a piece of straw. It handled like we had a full grown African rhinoceros seated next to our daughter. But the Focus truly was the little car that could, bless her, and she handled her duty with distinction.

But when we got their and unloaded, we, family and automobile, could rest in the mountains, as deserving as the retirees in the investment banking commercials.

Back from Austria

The first thing we noticed is that the hills surrounding Plochingen were smaller. They looked more like bumps, actually (though, I have to admit, they felt like mountains again when I tried to run up one during my jog this morning). That's what they looked like yesterday, when we arrived back from our two-week vacation in Serfaus, Austria, a resort town located in the mighty Alps. For any Americans reading this, the Alps are the mountains in The Sound of Music, and yes, the hills were alive. For any Austrians reading this, I'm sorry. I know that movie is a stench to your nostrils, and I won't mention it again.

Of course, mountainous is relative. My home town of Orlando is so flat that you can climb a palm tree and see Cocoa Beach on a clear day. When I went to college, Tallahassee's modest hills seemed mountainous by comparison. Plochingen's small green mountains, not unlike the Appalachians, are another beauty all together, but it was a wonderful thing to hike the Alps (more on that later).

Our holiday apartment did not have internet access, save an inconsistent shared computer in the hallway, which was good only for short emails, light Facebook stalking and reading post-match Women's World Cup reports. Nonetheless, I made it my habit to write as often as I could (all most every day! *patting myself on the back*) about what I saw, felt and experienced in Austria. In the next couple of weeks, I will edit and post my better musings on this blog with the label "Austrian Correspondence" (though I don't rule out that I'll post other things as well). I will also comment on some of the Alps' delectable dairy products on Justin's food blog.

I'll start tomorrow, but in the meantime, let me say adieu to you and you and you. (sorry)