Strudel, Noodles and Dumplings: The New Taste of German Cooking. Anja Dunk
and I were born to a German mother and a Welsh father, and it is Wales that I call home, but the food we grew up with is very much rooted miles away in Germany, for it was German food that we ate at our kitchen table every day.
I often wonder if what came out of the kitchen during my childhood wasn’t solely to quash the feelings of longing that had taken hold in Mum while living away from her motherland. Taste, after all, is one of the most transportative senses. Feelings of belonging are also heightened when on foreign soil, and so is sense of identity, which in Mum’s case made itself apparent through the German food she produced – consequently, as a child I felt far more German than anything else.
The first ten years of my life were pretty nomadic, with time split living between Wales, Africa and Asia – most holidays were spent with our grandparents in Germany. The only constant in daily life, as well as immediate family, was the food that came out of the kitchen. It is little wonder really that cooking has become my chosen career path, as right from the word go it has been one of the most significant elements to each day. Nothing excites me more than delving into another culture by means of cooking, but since having young children of my own, the way I cook at home has shifted back to food that brings me the sense of family, love, security, and confidence – a subconscious impulse to instil the same association between food and home in my children. To me this means food in which Germany is very much at the heart of it all.
My maternal grandparents – Omi and Opa – would arrive in Wales from Germany in a car fully laden with salami, pâtés, pickles, bread, biscuits, sweets, jams, meat, sauerkraut, butter – you name it and I’m pretty sure they had it packed in. ‘You’ve brought everything but the cellar steps,’ Mum would screech. ‘We do have food in Wales, you know.’ But despite her seemingly cranky reception, I know that she was just as gleeful as I was to receive these visitors with their gifts.
The contents of this car were the deepest expression of love, and to this day I still vividly remember each time they arrived, for these moments moved me and struck a chord. A well-stocked cellar was to Omi the essence of a home; it stood for security – knowing that no matter what or for whatever occasion there was always food in the house.
Everything in the car was carefully wrapped in newspaper so that it stayed cool, or frozen even in some cases, for the long journey across several countries and over the Channel. We made a human chain and passed the bundles to each other along the driveway to the kitchen table, until the car was empty and we could all finally sit down to eat. Opa would carefully unwrap the rye bread and slice it thinly, Omi would spread the sweet unsalted butter, then we would all help ourselves to pâté and mustard, possibly gherkins. That first bite into the dense, nutty bread tasted of home, said Omi, which when all is said and done is all that you wish to feel when you have been on the road for two days and travelled hundreds of miles.
It isn’t what we ate each year on their arrival that I recall, so much as the feeling of affection expressed through the journey this food had travelled. It goes without saying that eating is a human necessity, but cooking, and consequently the act of giving and sharing food, is a wholly gratifying experience both for the cook and the recipient, and it is one of the most natural things we can do to show each other how we feel.
Food and cooking are at the centre of our kitchen table but in actual fact they are only part of the bigger picture, which is the importance of everyone crowding around together and chatting – sharing snippets from events of the day. Of course sometimes reality doesn’t allow the calm eating experience I hope for, but it doesn’t stop me aiming for it each night. The scene in our house is usually far from perfect. There are daily squabbles, and generally it’s messy, but family table time is full of laughter and fun too, and I love it, chaos and all.
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Over the last five years we have moved around and lived in five different places (four different countries) with a growing family of three boys. My priority as a mother has been to make this experience fun and stable despite the turmoil that comes with each move. There is a wonderful German word, gemütlich, which when translated into English loosely means ‘cosy’, although in actual fact it means much more but is hard to put into words – to me it really means feeling at home. So, wherever we are in the world, I try to make it gemütlich – and the best way I know to do this is through cooking.
Most of what I cook are recipes with German roots, some of them old family favourites, others dishes and flavours that we simply enjoy. German food, like the food of every European country, has evolved and taken on flavours from much further afield. During the 1950s and 60s, guest workers arrived in post-war Germany to fill the demand for labour in the newly thriving economy, with Italy, Greece and Turkey being among the first countries to sign up for this programme. I don’t think anyone realised at the time how much this movement of people and shift in demographics would also influence the cuisine and tastes of the nation. Along with their labour and skills, these workers brought with them new flavours and ways of cooking, which have filtered into the national cuisine, leaving an everlasting impression.
Home-cooked German food is gently spiced, smoky and buttery, yet sweet and sour. It is warm and hearty and vinegar-laced. The alluring smell of something baking in the oven is ever-present – cakes (and coffee), of course, playing an important role in every day. Beyond the kitchen and down the stairs, cellar shelves are fully laden with jars of preserved goods. From greengages and marbled cake, to Strudel fillings and potted pâtés, to gherkins and plum compote, the list is endless.
The German kitchen is mouth-watering. This way of cooking is vibrant, honest and deeply intertwined with the seasons and weather. I’ve never known anything quite like the excitement felt when the first few spears of white asparagus start to appear at market stalls in the springtime – it ripples across the whole country and is a feeling which resonates quietly throughout the year with the arrival of each new seasonal ingredient.
Until recent years I think both the UK and Germany have been quite outward-looking in terms of food, seduced by the sun of Italy, the Mediterranean and the Middle East, but there seems to be a growing appreciation of colder-climate cooking and ingredients today, probably partly due to the revival and interest in Scandinavian food. There is also a renaissance in German restaurant cooking, similar to what is going on in the UK culinary scene, where many classic dishes are undergoing rejuvenation.
This book is about Germany’s varied culinary heritage seen through the recipes from our family table. It is simple home cooking, inspired by the seasons and by my children, who have brought new life and ideas to many classic recipes.
HOW I COOK
The kitchen is the place where we come to find comfort. Wrapped in the blanket of security that presents itself in familiar smells from the oven or stovetop, we feel safe. Of all the rooms in a house, the kitchen is the one I like the best. A kitchen sees the bad hair most of us wear in the morning; the licked fingers that we dip back into the pot to test the sauce; the sink full of dirty dishes that highlights exactly what we have cooked and eaten that day; and then there is kitchen talk, so comfortable here that it flows freely, touching on all that matters in life from the profound to the mundane. The kitchen sees and hears it all.
Omi’s Bavarian kitchen, which plays a huge role in the writing of this book, is one I look back on with fondness. It wasn’t big, it wasn’t glitzy; in fact it was nothing special at all. It was functional – utilitarian by design – actually very German. She lived, cooked and ate with gusto and a great deal of common sense. There was an air of no nonsense about her, mind, and rarely did she ever seem harried or flustered. She tasted everything religiously as she cooked – from behind it looked like she was conducting an orchestra, with her arms reaching right for salt, left for this and that, then up and down as she added to the pot or lifted the spoon to her lips. She always kept her ear close to the