Schnitzel

In the effort to write something in this God-forsaken space, the forgotten room in a wing of my brain that has been boarded off for some time and left in my back pocket, I write something. Cue music.

It is a boring subject, I can assure you, that has been an on-going theme in my life (and will be until this body’s last breath.) In spite of this, though, I do have to occasionally put the best foot forward in order to “keep it real” from one homeboy to another, as I dare not disappoint my fizz-nizzle homeslices, whom I like to call my ‘gangsta devotées’. Ach Gott, to be cool takes such concerted effort…


I love food. I love to eat; I love to cook; I love to read about food, smell food, taste all kinds of food, to be comforted by food, to obsess about food, to watch cooking shows, to browse cooking books, to visit all manner of restaurants. I love food and just about everything that has to do with food. The one section of any larger store that you may have a hard time prodding me out of is the gastronomy section, and, consequently, the kitchen in our home is one of the better-prepared rooms, laden with all sorts of utensils: those completely utilitarian and necessary and those bought for their innate prettiness in spite of their often deplorable uselessness. C. and I love to cook, to experiment with food, and, above all, to eat the fruits of our labors. As Julia Childs so wisely once said, “You have to love to eat in order to cook well.” I attribute this principle to my savoir faire in the ‘heart of the home’.

But love, imbibed with enough passion can cross the Styx into obsession, a realm that, somewhat like the perfume, reeks of helplessness and compulsion. This version of love for food is one that I am in the midst of changing, what I like to call my ‘next greatest challenge’, duly implying the very heroic nature of the effort, implying that one of us, food or me, may not come out alive.

The third party in the quest to obsession’s liberation is my counselor, Frau Dr. B., who appears in this medieval vision as the Tree Nymph, sitting on a branch just above me, able to advise in her other-worldly fashion, having heard all these stories of mine before, unflinched by my needs, able to always find an obvious answer to my, unbeknownst to me, completely benign questions.

Frau Dr. B. (such a non-nymph-like name) seems to have awakened me to the possibilities of change, change in my behavior, in my ways of thinking, in my outlook. Funny how simple it all is in the end, really, especially when I am a big fan of self-importance, arrogance, stubbornness, and the innate complexity of the universe. ‘Just change things slightly, a little at a time’, she said. ‘Harrumph’ was the response she got, I believe. But now I would totally write a song, something to the words “now I’m a believer”, had it not been done before me.

No, I am not thin now. No, I can’t go on Oprah gloating at the successes of losing the equivalent of a small compact after being cut out of my house and rescued by Richard Simmons. The world has not moved, and, all in all, I am still the same bearish, well-fed overly-grown cherub. But my mind has changed, my will is different, and, although I still love food bordering on impassioned obsession, I have crossed back from the other side, back to the living where people eat with joy in their eyes, not wolfish, shocking looks of ravenous need, with eyes that could burn a laserbeam hole through that delightful piece of fresh, genuine Wienerschnitzel so often taunting me in my dreams.

If only I WERE a Superfriend and had those kind of powers. Now that’s an idea: Schnitzel Man, he’ll flatten you with his powerful fists and then finish you off to a crusty finish as hot grease shoots out of his fingertips. Dedicated to the betterment of the world through understanding, he volunteers on the side, working toward better German/American friendship and understanding.

Mmmm, Schnitzel. That sounds good about now.