TRANSLATING GERMAN

“One minute. Eines moment. Une moment site plait.” My broken German failed me as I attempted to explain melting cheese o nto a casserole to my twelve year old cousin, Jakob. Between the two of us and three languages we shared less than a dozen words. “Chocolat Chaud! Chocolat Chaud!” My other helper, ten year old Florien knew no English but was quite willing to utilize his limited French for the promise of a hot chocolate. This is the Fischer’s kitchen, December 29, 2006. Through the ham, eggs, cheese and onion scented haze, I saw the patron of this frenzied dinner, my father Andreas. Before Christmas, I hadn’t seen him for a decade. Now I was in Baden Baden for Christmas, meeting my biological family and residing in the country that shared the first years of my life with Durham and Chapel Hill, North Carolina. I left my mother, brother and step-dad in Burlington, Vermont to throw myself into the lifestyles and cultures of my family in Baden Baden. Throughout the excursion, my father and I reminisced upon those years which I only vaguely remembered. Struggling to remain alert and absorb as much as I could required constant vigilance on my part because of the sleepless nights, the discothèque, and a bumpy. At five thirty on the final day, however, I faced a crisis in the toughest assignment I’d ever received. In the morning I went to Heidelberg and saw the castle, my dad’s fraternity, and, of course, the McDonalds. “You know, Paul, I know you are baptized and if you desire, Heidelberg would be an excellent accommodation as my fraternity would give board to catholic relatives of alumni.” It soon became clear to me that he was lobbying for a German higher education. Unfortunately, I explained to him, while I hope to come in the summer to work with the Baden Baden tourist department, I’m not sure I could learn German to the extent required for a college education. As my father and I sped down the Autobahn, we got a call from Doretta, my grandmother, the controlling heart of the Fischer family. If she had a motto, it would be “The buck stops here”. She called to let us know the family would be gathering to wish me farewell and Andreas and myself would be expected to cook for the family. “The family” consisted of seventeen Germans, well equipped for the rigors of consuming fantastic amounts of food. Andreas called up Elka, my aunt, and enlisted the help of my two small cousins. Having sufficient manpower it became necessary to acquire the ingredients. Andreas admitted that he was not a cook, and he had to “repose” or sleep. This left me in charge of preparing a meal for seventeen Germans with the veritable assistance of my preteen cousins. We went to the Aldi’s, a sort of general store that sold primarily food but also everything from clothes to electronics. I was still shocked that the responsibility of cooking had fallen upon me, as I had little experience in the matter. In the Aldi’s, language barriers with my cousins were terribly detrimental; forty-five minutes were wasted finding pasta, eggs, meat (of course), ice cream, whipping cream, butter, vegetables, and over a dozen bars of excellent chocolate. Back in the kitchen, I asked Jakob to melt some chocolate, and sipping this we began to plot out the next two hours of pure frenzy. “Jakob und Fleurian, du ben choppen der, um, onions, carrots, und tommaten.” I desperately attempt to convey my message with hand motions until Jakob exclaims,” Ahah!” And with quick, sharp German he instructs Fleurian and I begin to prepare dinner. The only food I know how to prepare is the omelet, from the weekends when my brother and I sleep in and I have to cook breakfast. “Vrrrrrrmm… kaTUNG, kaTUNG, zzzzzwwwweeeeeee….” The meat cutter, knives chopping the vegetables and the egg beater begin, like a chorus just one, then another joins in and just as the third one commences, the first finishes, breaks, and begins again. Once the food is prepared I pour the chopped bits and sauté all of it, from the meat to the carrots and onions. The sizzling of the skillet only is now the center of the frenzy, adding a constant background to the collection of sounds that have now resumed lacking Fleurian. Too much chocolate and he departed, to sleep it off, leaving Jakob and myself to finish the job. One, two, three omelets. Cooked to perfection and the third omelet I almost entirely entrusted to Jakob, he was such a quick learner and we were able to communicate adequately in French. The haze created by cooking good food smelled almost as good as the food tasted and the aroma of a home made meal filled the air. Sweeter than rose gardens the meal cooked by our own hand smelled, and the drifting of the smell to the fourth floor is certainly what prompted Andreas’ awakening. “Ohlalala!” The glee on his face fairly radiated as he tasted our work. ”Goodness! We must have this recipe. This is very good but how in the world do you serve omelets for dinner?” Yes, indeed, here he had a good point but I was ready for this and I told him of our plan to make a casserole. Now Andreas’ face clouded, “How am I to feed seventeen people with one casserole?” He inquired. And I have no idea,” The situation is under control, we have an hour, we will have enough food.” He insisted again we wouldn’t have enough food and went back to bed. I was afraid he may be right and solemnly instructed Jakob to prepare the last resort, every cooks final attempt to salvage a meal, even at the risk of contemptuous remarks like: ”Spaghetti, that’s, uh, easy.” With the crisis averted, albeit unsatisfactorily to myself, guests began to arrive and my desire to make homemade ice cream for desert also took a second rate replacement. The guests would eat in fifteen minutes, dessert in less than an hour. Without enough time to make ice cream, I turn to Jakob and ask where the ice cream is. “Je ne sais pas. Ahhh… Fleurian perhaps?” Of course, Fleurian the little sugar demon knew exactly where it was (he even knew ice cream in English). Now I will invoke, as a last resort, the cook’s artificial recipe for fake homemade ice cream. I quickly checked to assure that the chocolate had survived Fleurian and began to melt it. When I was in Arkansas I learned to melt Hershey bars and use them mixed with vanilla ice cream to create a semblance of real homemade ice cream. I did this now, and mixed with the whipped cream that Andreas whipped for us (he was now awake), I created a spectacular dessert. I think that in a time of crisis, a person’s true character comes out and it is beautiful to observe the transformation from ordinary, mundane to the hero, the leader. As Jakob learned the Basic English words and gained confidence, there was immense gratification for me as he vested his ego into the project and finally became able to undertake the most intricate of procedures. Of course there was no unwillingness on my part to allow Jakob to take over, instead I experienced the inspiration of trying something for the first time and receiving not just praise, but the highest praise: my German family not only found that I was eager to learn their tradition but also to offer them culture of my own.