Yesterday evening was cold, and dark, and it was raining hard. I finally caved and ducked inside a shop on the street and bought a cheap umbrella. It is purple, and I am firmly convinced that it was an excellent decision.
I trudged through the puddles along the promenade, slightly less soaked that I might have been, and shivering. It was a twenty minute walk to Kathy’s apartment. I was later than I’d meant to be, and a little anxious/angry at myself, for that.
But I made it. I hadn’t walked down her street since I’d gotten back, and it felt so familiar. It felt like coming home.
I’d lost my keys, somewhere along the way. I reached the top of the many flights of stairs, rang the doorbell. Left my shoes outside the door, went upstairs, and took a shower. I felt like I recognized every little detail in that apartment – the creak of the staircase, the ceramic soap dish shaped like a hand, the tarnished key in the bathroom door, the light switches, the light and the smell of the kitchen.
Kathrin was already cooking.
She set me to work preparing the Brussels sprouts, and I turned on a John Denver & the Muppets Christmas album that is an almost tangible part of my childhood. She loved it.
There was a goose simmering in the oven, and creamy sußkartofflen on the stove, and she’d already dried bread for stuffing.
Kathrin had brought Thanksgiving to Germany years ago. It makes perfect sense – she’s passionate about food, about researching recipes, trying creative new combinations. She has a gift. And her father – my uncle – is an American; she was born in the states, spent the first few years of her life there. She misses it, and dreams of going back, one day.
So she brought the tradition of an American holiday focused on food to her community in Germany. And everybody loves it. In previous years, she’s cooked enough food to share with friends and anyone from apartment complex who happened to drop by.
This year, it wasn’t actually on Thanksgiving because I’d been told I needed to be home with my parents and little sister by then, but I’d asked if we could share that thing together anyway. And it was only a small gathering. No boys allowed. She’d invited an old roommate and a good friend that I’d met once before, and one of her flatmates was home at the right time to sit down with us.
We all of us were willing to help, in small ways, but she did most of it herself. It’s like watching someone dance, when she cooks. It’s almost a science. All the right things at the right time for a specific outcome. It’ll occur to her to try something, and she’ll think for a moment, and then decide, and go with it.
She’d never made or eaten stuffing before, but I told her about it and on her first attempt she created something from that picture in her head that was as wonderful as the dish I’ve been eating at home for years. But it wasn’t exactly the same. She added two kinds of mushrooms, based on a hunch, and it worked perfectly.
We stood by the stove and ate Brussels sprouts out of the pan with our fingers. They were so good.
We sat together and shared the food, and we were together and happy and complete, and she was smiling. I kept the music from my phone playing quietly through the speakers. There was Amaretto and sweet tea. Her best friend had a smoke in the next room, afterwards. Other roommates came home and were greeted with hugs and leftovers on the stove.
Before I left, she told me she wanted to go with me to the airport to see me off. Either way would have been fine with me, but I’m happy inside.
We hugged goodnight, and I walked back to my hostel in the dark, feeling as full of joy leaving as I’d felt nervous and embarrassed and cranky on the way. I was still playing music on my phone, and it had stopped raining, and I knew exactly how to get to where I was going.
In that moment, all was right with the world.