My favorite seasonal ingredient is pumpkin or winter squash.  In Chinese all winter squashes are called pumpkins so I am going to take the liberty of generalizing.  Pumpkin in particular can lead to come a rather amazing pumpkin roll, a recipe hailing from Castine, Maine, where pumpkin is duly revered. But once you have created a pumpkin pie you have the luxury of making a sweet potato pie and the associations roll on.  Why be limited to one ingredient?

Desert by the Sea

I came home to the desert by the sea only to find how harsh that can be. The sun makes things grow but plays hard ball with the man-made world. Just three meters from my back door the earth forms an abrupt slope, not exactly a cliff, but steep enough you would rather not have to pull weeds there. So, after a year of sun-filled independence, the slope was covered by ubiquitous baby pepper trees and a few other unwelcome green visitors. The ultimate goal here would be to cover the slope with drought-resistant ice plant or red apple, both of which have colorful blossoms at least once a year, but these hardy succulent ground covers don't always take off in the direction you might wish. So men had to be hired to chop, rip-up and transplant. On the day of the transformation, I came home to just one young man, left behind by the boss, a young man who wanted to know if I could please speak Spanish with him. So between my hand and body language and broken Spanish I found out he wanted to know if I wanted the bamboo trimmed and indicated he didn't need a ladder since he had a long-handled, expandable pruning tool which would do the trick. The sun had baked and actually over-cooked the patio furniture protective cover it seemed I had just bought just yesterday. It definitely went directly into the trash. The wooden table and chairs were burnished and warped. The black soaker-hoses were fully useless, having become brittle due to the elements. One soaker-hose had become lodged permanently under a morass of over-achieving ice plant. I pulled and pulled only to tear off a bit of a disintegrating hose. The rest will compost under organic matter. Once the slope had been freed of the vast jungle of undesirables, the "Naked Ladies" appeared. These surprising and delightful little bulbs activate quick-growing stalks which become lovely pink ladies. I cannot keep track of when they routinely bloom because it is not clear what triggers their ascent. You might think bulbs have a fixed time to bloom. In some climates it is a simple matter to know that "lilies of the valley" for example bloom in May and tulips and daffodils are to be expected around Easter time. But these naked ladies dance to their own drummer. They are a welcome sight now adding color to a somewhat bleak slope-scape. Only the bright deep pink bouganvilla high on the slope competes with them for your attention. The hibiscus in the front planter forms a symbolic connection for the inhabitant of this Casita Way house. She also beautified the balcony on Piusallee in Nordrheinwestfalen, wintered in the living room, and then was reborn in yellow on the balcony as summer approached. She did serious battle in the fall of 2007 with an army of small black pests which covered every leaf and every petal. After futile attempts to discourage the little buggers with soap and detergent, every bit of green had to be cut off before the journey into the shelter of the living room for the winter. Warmer and longer days brought out a few healthy blossoms in April. But a premature move outdoors did her in. She had to be replaced with a new yellow plant purchased at the outdoor market on the cathedral square. Fortunately Mary was there and having woven her magic, the new hibiscus flourished. There was no thought of smuggling her back to the States and she remained a pleasant memory until Costco had hibiscus plants on sale. The new plant came home in a pot and sat in the center of the backyard to welcome the grillfest guests but subsequently she desired a permanent plot so she joined the roses in the front planter. She is vivid pink and she greets me everyday upon my return home. She drinks from a new soaker-hose occasionally.

Passing for German

Just keep your mouth shut. They'll never know you're not German, you don' t belong. The facial features, the haircut, the nondescript, dark-colored clothing don't really give you away. There really isn't much need to speak to anyone anyway. You park your bike, walk past the kneeling beggar, ease through the side portal, grab a red hymnal and slip into a pew. There are no greeters, there's no one to shake your hand or give you a worship book. If there is a folded program it may be generic and therefore you still may need to refer to one of the wall displays to see which page numbers are assigned on that Sunday. It's easy enough to moderate your singing voice to the degree that people around you will never actually notice your pronunciation is a bit off. You can fudge it. As for liturgy, just modulate or moderate which ever suits your fancy. The tricky part is the unread, the rote part which you don't actually know yet and may have to search for in the worship book. It took a while to figure out that the "Lord's Prayer" and the Apostolic Creed are right inside the back cover of the book. But having to follow along on the printed page doesn't necessarily pinpoint you as a non-German. You could be a child for example who isn't brought to church very often or an adult who appears at worship once every ten years and has lost touch with some of the ritual. And don't worry, no one is going to ask you to turn to your neighbor in the pew and "pass the peace". That simply is not done at the Apostelkirche. But the money-changers have entered the church and set up their wares on a table in the back. You can buy fair-trade goods and in particular you can buy red wine from other parts of the globe. What would the folks back home say to that?! There is one tricky moment when you pass by to shake the preacher's hand and say: "Auf wiedersehen", they may realize you are not German. You may lose your cover. But I have never actually had anyone say any more than that to me at church. So I figure I may have "passed" for German. Au contraire: on the other side of town there is a place where there is not a chance in hell I could pass for German. Everyone in the building knows who I am even if I don't have a clue who they are. Just the other day at school I found myself accosted by a lovely little grade seven girl, a girl I don't recall ever having spoken to previously, who wanted to know why I had been sent out of the classroom. Had I gone out voluntarily? Class was just beginning and it just didn't seem right to her. She was eagerly awaiting her Latin teacher and knew that I was the one teaching French in the grade 7 classroom next door. I gently explained to her that the pupils were planning a surprise for Mme Stout and therefore they had asked me to exit for a few precious minutes. But what amazed me most was as we continued our little chat and I ended up admitting I was looking forward to reuniting soon with my cats she said to me, "They are called Love and Light, aren't they?" Wow, how the word does get around and stay around! At some point during the year I had probably had that girl during "class coverage" and told her class a bit about my life in America and apparently, it had stuck. Over the course of the year I had visited various classes speaking on requested topics such as immigration, ethnic diversity in California, and taking part in study abroad programs. So, taken together with the multiple class coverage experiences, there must be a lot of kids who know me that I don't know at all. So at Paulinum it would be hard to be invisible. There is that one brief moment in the Teachers' Room though when a new face walks in and before I open my mouth, they might think I am German.

Hells-Angels versus Bandidos

What to do when over 1000 Harley-riding, leather-clad rough-necks ride into town right under the windows of the school and park in front of the court house nearby?! It may be June, but it's too soon to close the school down altogether. Summer break is still two weeks away. Today was the day when the verdict would be announced as to whether two Bandidos had actually killed the Hells Angel. Both sides were to be well-represented to see that the decision went their way. Although the school has a small group of carefully-trained peer mediators, it was decided to leave the big decisions up to the big guys in the court house down the street and school was moved to "Freibad Stapelskotten", a large outdoor swimming pool/recreation area on the Werse River, many safe kilometers away. Excluding the grade 13 graduating class of about 70 and the grade 11 classes which are spending the week doing internships, roughly 650 children had to be accommodated. The coordination and planning flowed seamlessly. The local Harley-Davidson distributor donated enough ice cream for everyone and the city provided the park as well as the buses for those who didn't want to come by bicycle. Personally bicycle is the only way I would have considering getting there. I wanted to see the lay of the land. The p.e. teachers had gathered together equipment and ideas so that there was something for everyone to do. But the weather was the most important player in this game of chance and most of the children had their frolic in the water and many teachers, especially the class teachers of the younger children were coaxed into the pool. Class teachers had the typical duties of parents but not: they had to take roll, designate a gathering area for their class and basically be there for their kids. Other teachers were assigned to various activities such as ultimate frisbee, table tennis, beach volleyball, basketball, dodge ball, soccer, hula-hoops and jump rope. High lights would have to have been the fellows with the guitars picking out a few familiar songs and the representatives of the local press who interviewed staff and pupils. What kid wouldn't be content on a day like today?! Three of us colleagues rode our bicycles together through the city, detouring around a large construction site only to be joined along the way by various of our children on their way to the park. Going home we took a more countrified route through fields and woods, crossing the canal on several bridges. I would like you to try and describe a more perfect school day! There are rumors that it may have all been for naught. They say that a last-minute witness has appeared on the scene and that the verdict may not come down today after all.

Wire Donkey

To be more accurate: the "Drahtesel", is the life blood of Münster. It makes up both the red and the white cells which circulate on the Promenade, the tree-lined, bicycle highway which circles the Old City, the Altstadt. Just what can you see while perched on a wire donkey? Most obviously you see lots of other wire donkeys, although sometimes on long lonely stretches of the "Ring" where cars speed around the heart of the city you find yourself alone, inhaling the exhaust of automobiles and wondering where all the riders went. But on most days on most bicycle paths this is a bit of what else you see from the saddle: riders of all possible dimensions, ages, and attire, folks in business suits, sweethearts holding hands between bicycles, mothers with a baby up front and another small child perched behind, a sort of tricycle with a crutch mounted behind, a large plastic crate mounted up front with Fido tried in, very small children on a small bike attached to mom's bike, what looked like a wheel chair with a bicycle up front and hand pedals, parents pulling a baby-chariot (sometimes carrying things other than babies), Dutch-style bicycles where the rider sits quite erect, racing-style bikes where you hunch over in your skin-tight suit and most-likely wear a helmet and reclining bikes where the feet are clearly way out in front. Just what do people do with themselves while they are riding? They definitely smoke, talk on the phone, eat, stick the bud in for a bit of i-Pod, carry on important discussions, and enjoy the breeze rushing against the face. Yes, it does rain, but most folks just carry on. There are those balancing along with an umbrella in full array, others fully enveloped in the cocoon of a rain poncho with just a bit of face showing, but once the summer rains hit, most cyclists don't seem to mind getting wet. It's really only in Southern California that people stay home when it rains. There have been extremely windy days when you felt like you were standing still although you were peddling for all you are worth. Is there danger? It's easy to see myself smeared all over the highway because I feel that there is a long way to fall when I am riding along but nothing has ever happened. Once I did see the aftermath of a colleague's demise. She was on her bike just in front of the school when an 86-year old auto driver "didn't notice her". No real damage, but a couple of really upset people. Every day I read in the paper about bad things that do in fact happen to riders of the wire donkey: head-on collision of two cyclists, drunken biker ends up in hospital, drunken driver hits bicycle. Most often bicyclists under 14 are seen in helmets. Where do wire donkeys spend the night? The school has a huge bicycle cellar, with even a separate locked room for the teachers' bikes. My apartment building has a bicycle room in the cellar as well. But I prefer the great outdoors and my bike does to. Bike racks are almost everywhere in the city, but where there aren't any or enough of them the "bike police" arrive and line them up properly. These guys in neon yellow vests spend their days re-parking and re-arranging bicycles. What a cool job! They are especially busy around the university cafeteria buildings. It seems that university students have things other than orderly bicycle parking on their minds.

My affair with a Passat

You could hardly blame her for reacting in such a violent and remarkable way to a long period of neglect! She even brought me here on July 31, my conveyance to Münster. We parked her behind the apartment building on a spot set aside just for her. It had a little flaw however. It was on a slopey slant and we soon learned that slopey slants are not good for the brakes. We also learned that hand brakes don't like to be tense for so long and therefore prefer a position of rest. So she found her way out onto the street called Piusallee and there she waited until the day the city began tearing up the street and sidewalk. On that day I had exactly 10 minutes to race up the flights, fetch the key to her heart, drive her around the not-so-square block and find a new spot for her. The street worker admonished me that she would soon have been towed. Not too long later she went out on the town and got herself ticketed for parking illegally. With great relief I realized that this occurred while she was in someone else's hands and therefore someone else had to pay. Passat is actually on a very meager diet and hasn't consumed much this year at all. Just once, after she had been in the hands of agreed-to others, she got her fill for the very memorable price of $90. Since then she has had very few outings, just out to the airport at Greven a couple of times and such. That last trip out to the airport however was under very severe conditions. Vision was very poor almost o%. The poor girl was almost fully encased in bird droppings. Those lovely tall trees on Piusallee afford much shade but also are home to more than a few feathered friends. Getting the windshield clear took some doing. The windshield wipers and the cleaning fluid helped a bit. Then I descended upon the old girl with paper towels and more window cleaning fluid in hand. A sticky substance, perhaps also from the trees had fully sealed the car as well as the droppings. With much effort and more scraping, the old girl began to shine. By then it was time to visit the motor car inspection station just up the road. They were kind and efficient enough to inform me that the old girl needed work before she could go on stage again. Her performance would have to wait. At the Pit Stop they wanted my money and Passat was invited to spend the weekend while replacements for her private parts were procured. The really fun part was opening her trunk and slipping the bicycle in so that once there I could have conveyance on to school. Lifting and tugging and shoving we got the bike in, but I was trapped within the handle bars and only with great contortion was I able to free myself from the situation. Bungee cords held the trunk cover in place and we were set to roll. Fortunately the mechanic takes VISA and he even managed to tack on the fee for the final inspection so a further visit to the TÜV people would be unnecessary. As I picked the old girl up I found myself putting the bicycle into the trunk once again. There were two men, one on each side of me, and just for a brief moment I imagined one of them offering to help me juggle the bike into place, but no, no one said a word and well, I guess gentlemanly graciousness is dead. So sad. In any case, we got home and now we avoid that nasty Piusallee parking spot. We are on the side road, with the two left wheels up on the curb. Here that is perfectly legal, at least it appears to be since so many cars spend their nights that way. As a matter of fact you can be facing any which way on that side of the street as long as two of your wheels are up on the curb. Well, we know that we have at least one more outing ahead of us and that will be the full service car wash but we are waiting for a warm dry July day for that special spa visit. There is a lesson to be learned in all of this. Had the Passat been taken out more frequently and regularly she might not have had rusty brakes and then she might have passed inspection without a trip to the mechanic. One would have to have calculated carefully knowing the price of gas per liter is €1,48 to know how much driving would have kept the brakes oiled and happy and not to have spent more than the €558 which the brake job cost. In any case there is no way I would have given up my bicycle year in Münster.

Shaky knees in front of grade 8

It seems that everyone was nervous except the authorities. There I was standing on the stage, high above 94 assembled grade 8 pupils reading the test-taking instructions to the state-mandated "Lernstandserhebung" in German. The title of the test is untranslatable and therefore even German educators living in other states have no idea what it means. Once you leave Nordrhein Westfalen, it becomes an unknown. Basically it is a proficiency assessment which changes forms like a chameleon each year. So why were my knees shaking? It felt like a Saturday but it wasn't. It was a school holiday, where only the grade 13, graduating pupils were there for their orals. By chance the grade 8 test had been scheduled on this date state-wide and therefore all of the grade 8 pupils had to appear in the auditorium at 9am that day as well. Since most teachers had significant duties associated with the grade 13 orals and I teach two out of the three grade 8 English classes, the untranslatable test fell to my shoulders. We had been told it was a good idea to prepare the children so I went out of my way to order a preparation booklet, including a CD (out of my own pocket naturally). Here in Germany the teachers all provide their own teacher materials. There are no personal teacher editions of books provided for example. A couple of months ago I plunged into the preparations head-on with carefully orchestrated listening comprehension exercises, etc. only to discover from my colleague that this year the test would only consist of two written essays, nothing else. The topics would be everyday routines and an additional issue for which they would need to argue pro and con and take a stand. So, when I was scheduled to be out of town for a few lessons, they were assigned to write essays about the typical stuff folks like to argue about: "Life would be better without TV", "Computer games cause violence in real life", "School uniforms should be required". They did good work and I had the time to correct their written work and have them learn from their mistakes. So when the big day came I wasn't worried for them. I was more worried for me. Would I follow the procedures properly, etc.? We had had to write their names and their assigned code-numbers on each test booklet in advance in pencil. (Why in pencil? No one knew the answer to that one.) Several factors led to my stress as I prepared the room for the testing. How do grade 8 pupils behave in such a setting? Grade 9 pupils are the youngest available to me on a regular basis at Patrick Henry High School, therefore grade 8 children are still somewhat of a mystery to me. In particular, I was worried about the one-third of the group which belonged to another teacher. It turned out they did have a few smart-ass comments to make(probably just letting off their own nerves). As I read aloud to them the first page of the test booklet, I felt my German pronunciation slipping away. With each long complicated bit of testing jargon, I anticipated a chuckle or a jeer. None came. It seems they were focused on their task at hand. Although I had written an admonishment to stick to the requested number of words for each essay and told them repeatedly, most of them far overshot the 100 or 120 word goal. It seems stating what needs to be stated in a minimal manner is harder than it looks. Even when writing in a foreign language, English in this case, kids would rather keep writing than put a lid on it. Normally I don't speak German with my English classes, therefore having to do it doesn't feel quite right. Having to read aloud some particularly challenging paragraphs is especially stressful. My self-confidence was at an all time low. Fortunately that lasted about 30 seconds after I quit reading and then the horses were off and running. I have since corrected all 60 of my pupils' tests and am trying to figure out how to enter the website where I must input 32 pieces of response data for each of those pupils. Certainly there could be an easier way to assess these pupils and collect the data. Ultimately it reflects back on the school, more than it does on the individual pupils, somewhat like standardized testing does in the State of California, where schools are rated based on test scores.