The following dialogue is not make-believe. It is real. The ensuing anecdote is also real and has not been fabricated in any way.
“This is my culture … not yours!” Door slams. Man enters room moments later.
“It’s not the end of the world, I’ll cook the meat … it’s just gonna take a little longer.”
“I wanted us to have a nice dinner just like we do every Sunday. You don’t think to prepare any meals on Sundays because I’m always the one doing it. Now we can’t have meat for dinner because it’s friggin’ frozen!”
“It’ll still be fine. The quality’s not going to suffer just cuz it’s frozen.”
“I don’t wannit anymore!”
Things had been challenging on the dinner front. For lack of a better term, I’d become the “frozen meat bastard.” I did not want this title, but it attached itself to me through my ignorant ways. Let me explain.
Every Sunday, a meat (or fish) dinner of sorts was carefully prepared by the German Dinner Queen. The meat would be thawed in the refrigerator the preceding day, which was standard protocol for the “Queen’s” cultural custom of a family Sunday dinner. I say dinner on Sunday because Das Mittagessen (lunch) is usually the main meal of the day for most people in Germany. At some point in the day beforehand, the “frozen meat bastard” would throw a monkey wrench into the entire experience.
One time, it was the botched grilling episode. I tried, tried, and tried—with the aid of a small hairdryer—to breathe life into a struggling flame on a flimsy, prehistoric twenty-euro grill, but the frying skillet won by popular vote after the flame crapped out. And another time, it was a collectively bad choice to have dinner at a restaurant that we already knew was well below our taste bud standards.
This time was no exception, either.
We had all the elements ready for our Sunday sit-down: sauces, spices, potatoes, vegetables, and of course, meat. While shopping for these items at the supermarket the day before, I noticed an American food section consisting of about four large boxes of pretzels, a couple of jars of mayonnaise, some muffin batter, and some packets of salad dressing. This not-so-clever marketing strategy employed by a German food manufacturer fooled nobody, except Kathleen, who exclaimed, “Ooh, look!” She sometimes tries to placate me with enthusiastic calls to action—e.g., “Hey, look at these yummy [dried] bread sticks”—but I rarely fall for that baloney. Right after her futile food exclamation, I grabbed one of the cheap looking bottles of mayo and turned it on its side to reveal the German manufacturer's location and uncanny resemblance to a German bottle of mayonnaise. Next.
After shopping on a Saturday, it was usually made clear to me that the meat needed to go in the refrigerator for the following day’s meal. The unspoken rule was that frozen meat on Sunday meal day is equivalent to the apocalypse. Now, due to my exceptional listening skills and the fact that I detest unspoken rules, I went ahead and threw the meat in the freezer where it belonged. Fast forward to early afternoon the next day and it was still there.
By this time, we were out for a walk and had accidentally stumbled upon a typical German beer garden tucked away in a remote section of the city. Interested in what all the fuss was about, I asked Kathleen if she wanted to check it out.
“Okay, babe, but only for a little bit. I wanna get home later so I can start preparing dinner.”
Wish granted. Ordering a lowly regional drink instead of a manly German beer at the new-found establishment proved to be a lamentable decision, as my mood was drastically altered on the first sip.
“Yeah, I’m a little tired too,” Kathleen said after I irascibly suggested we vamoose.
“I think I need a nap when we get back,” I later mumbled.
Sure, I was tired all right, especially after all the walking, but being bamboozled by the state beverage Apfelwein was probably the real reason I had such low energy. Nevertheless, when we got back to our apartment, I was on our beloved couch and fast asleep in no time, with drool evidently pouring out of my mouth at record levels. My slobbery nap would come to an abrupt halt, however, since the German Dinner Queen had some words for me. And it wasn’t a sweet whisper in my ear, either, if that’s what you’re thinking. That’s right. She found the frozen meat. And there was gonna to be hell to pay.
All I can remember is lying on my side, still half-groggy, and getting a full range of negative emotions hurled in my direction as I tried to deflect them like a goalie in a female hormones game. Nothing I said seemed to work. Of course I even reached for my always-stellar situational logic and rationale:
“The quality’s the same between thawed meats and frozen meats ... when cooked by the same method.” Whatever. I was having a ridiculous frozen meat discussion with a woman. There was no way I could win.
When the dust from the verbal attack finally cleared, an enormous sense of guilt came over me. If only there was something I could do to make things better. Why not surprise her and cook the meat was what my warm-hearted side was saying. The poor thing was in the bedroom sulking. It’s the least I could to do to remedy the situation. So I popped right up off the couch, tiptoed over to the freezer, and took out the meat, quietly placing it on the counter. But when I looked down at it—basking in front of me in all its glory—my Widerwille (unwillingness) suddenly kicked in.
“She knew I had done the same thing two weeks prior. Besides, she didn’t even check to see if the meat was in the refrigerator in the first place,” I rationalized.
Clack! Right back in the freezer it went.
After all, what else would you expect from “the frozen meat bastard”?
“This is my culture … not yours!” Door slams. Man enters room moments later.
“It’s not the end of the world, I’ll cook the meat … it’s just gonna take a little longer.”
“I wanted us to have a nice dinner just like we do every Sunday. You don’t think to prepare any meals on Sundays because I’m always the one doing it. Now we can’t have meat for dinner because it’s friggin’ frozen!”
“It’ll still be fine. The quality’s not going to suffer just cuz it’s frozen.”
“I don’t wannit anymore!”
Things had been challenging on the dinner front. For lack of a better term, I’d become the “frozen meat bastard.” I did not want this title, but it attached itself to me through my ignorant ways. Let me explain.
Every Sunday, a meat (or fish) dinner of sorts was carefully prepared by the German Dinner Queen. The meat would be thawed in the refrigerator the preceding day, which was standard protocol for the “Queen’s” cultural custom of a family Sunday dinner. I say dinner on Sunday because Das Mittagessen (lunch) is usually the main meal of the day for most people in Germany. At some point in the day beforehand, the “frozen meat bastard” would throw a monkey wrench into the entire experience.
One time, it was the botched grilling episode. I tried, tried, and tried—with the aid of a small hairdryer—to breathe life into a struggling flame on a flimsy, prehistoric twenty-euro grill, but the frying skillet won by popular vote after the flame crapped out. And another time, it was a collectively bad choice to have dinner at a restaurant that we already knew was well below our taste bud standards.
This time was no exception, either.
We had all the elements ready for our Sunday sit-down: sauces, spices, potatoes, vegetables, and of course, meat. While shopping for these items at the supermarket the day before, I noticed an American food section consisting of about four large boxes of pretzels, a couple of jars of mayonnaise, some muffin batter, and some packets of salad dressing. This not-so-clever marketing strategy employed by a German food manufacturer fooled nobody, except Kathleen, who exclaimed, “Ooh, look!” She sometimes tries to placate me with enthusiastic calls to action—e.g., “Hey, look at these yummy [dried] bread sticks”—but I rarely fall for that baloney. Right after her futile food exclamation, I grabbed one of the cheap looking bottles of mayo and turned it on its side to reveal the German manufacturer's location and uncanny resemblance to a German bottle of mayonnaise. Next.
After shopping on a Saturday, it was usually made clear to me that the meat needed to go in the refrigerator for the following day’s meal. The unspoken rule was that frozen meat on Sunday meal day is equivalent to the apocalypse. Now, due to my exceptional listening skills and the fact that I detest unspoken rules, I went ahead and threw the meat in the freezer where it belonged. Fast forward to early afternoon the next day and it was still there.
By this time, we were out for a walk and had accidentally stumbled upon a typical German beer garden tucked away in a remote section of the city. Interested in what all the fuss was about, I asked Kathleen if she wanted to check it out.
“Okay, babe, but only for a little bit. I wanna get home later so I can start preparing dinner.”
Wish granted. Ordering a lowly regional drink instead of a manly German beer at the new-found establishment proved to be a lamentable decision, as my mood was drastically altered on the first sip.
“Yeah, I’m a little tired too,” Kathleen said after I irascibly suggested we vamoose.
“I think I need a nap when we get back,” I later mumbled.
Sure, I was tired all right, especially after all the walking, but being bamboozled by the state beverage Apfelwein was probably the real reason I had such low energy. Nevertheless, when we got back to our apartment, I was on our beloved couch and fast asleep in no time, with drool evidently pouring out of my mouth at record levels. My slobbery nap would come to an abrupt halt, however, since the German Dinner Queen had some words for me. And it wasn’t a sweet whisper in my ear, either, if that’s what you’re thinking. That’s right. She found the frozen meat. And there was gonna to be hell to pay.
All I can remember is lying on my side, still half-groggy, and getting a full range of negative emotions hurled in my direction as I tried to deflect them like a goalie in a female hormones game. Nothing I said seemed to work. Of course I even reached for my always-stellar situational logic and rationale:
“The quality’s the same between thawed meats and frozen meats ... when cooked by the same method.” Whatever. I was having a ridiculous frozen meat discussion with a woman. There was no way I could win.
When the dust from the verbal attack finally cleared, an enormous sense of guilt came over me. If only there was something I could do to make things better. Why not surprise her and cook the meat was what my warm-hearted side was saying. The poor thing was in the bedroom sulking. It’s the least I could to do to remedy the situation. So I popped right up off the couch, tiptoed over to the freezer, and took out the meat, quietly placing it on the counter. But when I looked down at it—basking in front of me in all its glory—my Widerwille (unwillingness) suddenly kicked in.
“She knew I had done the same thing two weeks prior. Besides, she didn’t even check to see if the meat was in the refrigerator in the first place,” I rationalized.
Clack! Right back in the freezer it went.
After all, what else would you expect from “the frozen meat bastard”?
