Watercolor by Werner Krumsiek, used with permission of artist
By Rudolf Trossen The sun recedes, the summer wanes,the ripe grapes long since gifted.A chill arrives under the guise of evening wind,Long shadows stretch heavy like leadacross golden vineyards’ last light. Alone on the slope,I watch in silence. But in old caskschurns young wine,roaring with the summer’s solar might,lust and longing into the night,cheering, laughing, singing bright. I bow beforethe deity’s vigor. November 1994 From the collection Was die Reben Sagen Translated September 2021…
There is no fish soup in the Pfalz. Sad, but true. Like most of Germany’s winegrowing regions, the Pfalz is simply too far removed from the sea for fish to feature prominently in its traditional cuisine. By extension, Pfalz fish soup is practically a culinary contradiction. A delicious deception. A seafood swindle. A Pfalz cookbook is a celebration of rustic comfort: Leberknödel (liver dumplings), Kartoffelsuppe mit Speck (potato soup with bacon, often in unlikely combination with plum cake), and, of course, Saumagen (stuffed pig’s stomach). Arguably the region’s culinary signature dish, this is a hearty, sausage-y mix of pork, potato,…...
As I peer out the window of a train from Hamburg, I understand why Sylt, sometimes referred to as “the Hamptons of Germany,” is such a popular destination for German vacationers. I can feel the tension of travel slipping away with the mainland as the tracks cross the shallow waters of the Wadden Sea and approach the sweeping, sandy landscape of this North Frisian island. Nils Lackner, a charismatic sommelier, tour guide, and regional expert based here, picks me up at the station, wondering how Sylt ended up on my radar since so few Americans are aware of it. I…...
Her child, she thinks, is a Riesling. Of all the varieties in the world, she inevitably returns to this one. There is something in the grape’s singular ability to convey fragility and strength, ephemera and eternity, that mirrors motherhood and frames the child in her mind’s eye. The child could have reflected a multiple of varieties, a blend perhaps, or a different hue. She remembers a strawberry-scented evening of pink Cinsault in a South African game lodge, bottomless glasses as sundowners, followed by a queasy morning-after, and a realization that the child — then little more than a flicker —…...
I felt lonely on the Internet the day I started researching the origins of Wurstsalat. I looked in far-flung corners of the web for sausage scholars who might have dedicated time to writing about the rules and methods of this intriguing dish. When I hit a wall, I did what any well-trained millennial would do and typed #wurstsalat into Instagram’s search bar. The things I saw there were either appetite-inducing or frightening, sometimes both at once. Lying in the cascade of pictures amidst German cowboys, balsamic glaze swirls, wedding celebrations, crinkle-cut fries, and loads of curly parsley was a possible answer: Wurstsalat is…...
