We are winding down one of the most relaxing vacations in memory, staying at a farm outside of my husband’s native
village of Ravensburg, where we are surrounded by orchards, fields and woods full of wildflowers. Good friends and their friends came to visit, and the whole culminated in a rich Easter fest.
Melding traditions, the kids wove construction paper Easter baskets, and set them outside the door for the Bunny. In the morning, they came downstairs to a table set for a king: a huge Zopfbrot (a buttery braided loaf with raisins and nuts), delivered on an egg-bedecked tray on Easter eve, was the centerpiece, surrounded by a passel of chocolate chicks. I had started a sponge for hot cross buns the night before and was finishing that up when I opened the fridge to get an egg for the wash. I gasped in surprise and the kids came running; the fridge was piled high with colored eggs. The rainbow-filled bowl went onto the table as well. Honey from my father-in-law’s bees, elderberry jam filched from my mother-in-law’s larder and a huge pat of butter were spread on the bread, all washed down with coffee, tea and cocoa.
Our jet-lagged visitors thought they were a bit overwhelmed by breakfast, but then we started in on the midday meal. We had spent Saturday morning trolling the market for the best the season and region had to offer while our spouses herded kidlets through the town’s Easter programs (balloons, sausage stands, playgrounds, street musicians, etc.). We picked up a freshly slaughtered lamb-leg and ribs, tender green asparagus, zucchini and green beans, three heads of lettuce, a kilo of mâche, and five pounds of potatoes for German potato salad, along with a myriad of little extras: fresh olive oil, wild boar salami, white icicle radishes, fresh butter and local free range eggs.
I laid in the potato salad the night before (it soaked more than a quart of oily broth), and we spiked the leg of lamb with garlic and rosemary and popped it in a slow oven. The ribs received the same treatment, and the veggies were subjected to an olive oil marinade in preparation for grilling over the fire pit (down past the swing set, across from the duck pond). Curls of butter adorned the red and white radishes, with another pat added to the lightly steamed beans. We pushed back from the table after an hour or so, with just a few token rib bones left on our plates.
A German saying dictates that we must either rest or take 1,000 steps after a big meal: my mother-in-law held down the fort (cobbler in the oven), while we went for a long walk through the woods over to an interesting building we could see over the fields. The forest floor was covered in Bärlauch, a mild, garlicky plant featured in many early spring dishes, together with oodles of delicate wildflowers. Strategically placed benches punctuated our sun-drenched promenade, and the thought of the traditional Kaffeekuchen helped motivate both weary and short legs to return home.
Preparation consisted of boiling water for tea and whipping a full liter of thick cream with vanilla sugar. Four cakes graced the table: A Käsekremkuchen (quark thickened with cornstarch, studded with raisins), a gedeckter Apfelkuchen (a deep-dish covered apple pie with delicate rum-flavored raisins), a chocolate-marzipan cream cake, and a still-warm-from-the-oven Belle Hélène cobbler. The first two were well-loved favorites from my mother-in-law’s kitchen, the last two my modest contributions, if only to insure chocolate was on the table.
The rest of the afternoon passed in slow-motion, bathed in warm sunlight: A foursome of adults hopped into the car to spend an hour poking around the medieval town with the native guide (Darling Husband), while two of us remained to quasi-watch children. An expedition into the forest was led, ostensibly to gather more wood to revive the fire. Number One Son used his two-match allotment and managed to coax new flames, with the help of the light breeze (my pyromaniac friend has taught him how to set a fire, a skill every child needs). Then the farmer’s wife appeared with a gentle old pony and led the kids on a lovely evening ride up the hill, where we could see all the way to the castle we had visited earlier in the week. Once the adults returned, we threw some skinny white sausages on the grill, steamed some thick carrots, boiled some gnocchi and made a salad. A bit of pesto and butter on the table helped it all slide down. As the chairs groaned under our growing weight, Little One filled a lull in the conversation, saying, “I wish every day could be Easter!” Laughter all around, but inside we were all wishing the same thing.
It was late as we all tumbled into bed, happy and tired. I turned my pillow around so I could see the stars through the skylight, but admit to only seeing a few before my eyes dimmed as well.
