Last week, I handed in the manuscript for my next cookbook, Classic German Cooking. As it stands right now, it’s about 60,000 words long and contains about 110 recipes. It took me 18 months to complete and I’m chagrined that it’s not even really finished - I have a few outstanding recipes that I’m still testing and fiddling with and I’m waiting for my editor to get back to me with her edits. But the end is here and the real end, the last time I ever touch any of the recipes, is in sight. This is both a relief and a terror.
To celebrate, kind of, and take a minute for myself, I’ve gone to the Baltic Sea with my dear friend. We have booked hotel rooms right next to each other. There is a pool in the basement of our hotel and several different saunas and the beach is right out in front. There are jellyfish in the sea and it’s not quite warm enough, for me at least, to do anything but take barefoot walks in the sand. The weather is beautiful, the sun is shining and we can have lunch outside and this afternoon, while my friend was on a work call, I went out on the balcony and talked on the phone a little and then did nothing but just sit there and look around.
The town we’re in is called Heringsdorf, or herring village. I’ve been here before, 13 years ago, after Max and I spontaneously left Berlin during a heat wave when the temperature inside our apartment climbed to 40°C. We stayed in the only hotel room we could find, which had two single beds and a toilet down the hall, and walked on the boardwalk all the way to Poland and ate smoked fish sandwiches for lunch. Last night, my friend and I had dinner at the same restaurant Max and I ate in all those years ago and a waiter, an emigre from Kent, told us that the restaurant is the only one up and down the boardwalk that still gets their herring from the owner who goes out on a boat and fishes them himself. (We had not ordered the herring, which in that moment seemed like a mistake.)
Heringsdorf and Ahlbeck, the neighboring village, were turn-of-the-century spa towns and both are still filled with the pretty cottages, elegant villas and stately mansions that were built here at the time. Many of the grandest homes, once belonging to a single rich family, are hotels now or youth hostels, and as you walk down the boardwalk, which is serene and lined with pine trees, past retirees in sensible clothing, there is something melancholy in the air.
Or maybe it’s just the season, the feeling of summer having ended and the bustle of the final weeks of the summer holidays a distant memory. The hotels are half empty, most of the guests are older, taking advantage of the off-season prices and vibe. The only children we see are tiny babies who are on vacation with their tired-looking parents. It’s just as well. We’ve come here to get away from all of that. To read and sleep and talk and walk and just revel in the quiet.
Right now, the door to my balcony is open. It’s nearly 7:00 pm. The sun is setting and the underside of the clouds are golden against the blue sky and the pine trees are silhouetted against the sky, their needles waving gently. I remember a nighttime beach walk that Max and I took that July long ago. It was early in the month and at nearly midnight, out on the beach, we could still see a thin line of red sunlight glowing on the horizon. We tried to take a photo of it, but it looked like nothing on the camera and so I just stared at it for a while, hoping to remember it forever. 13 years later, it’s still with me.
Last night, I went to bed without a sleeping pill. It’s been a while. The last time I tried doing that recently, it didn’t go well and then the thing happened that you’re not supposed to let happen: I’d gotten scared of bedtime. Every night, I’d think about not taking a pill and then I’d remember that horrible night and my stomach would drop. But yesterday, we were here. It was quiet and I was tired and alone and I felt brave. There was no one to wake me up, no children to hustle, no breakfast to make. It didn’t matter if I slept or not. I went to bed and I hugged myself and I told myself everything would be okay. And it was.
This was very evocative and beautiful. What a lovely jaunt during the changing of the seasons. Congratulations on submitting the manuscript!! I know there's still a long way to go, but this is so exciting. And as a longtime insomniac, I'm so happy that you slept.
This reads like something out of the novels that you recommend. Thank you for taking us with you, Louisa. I felt like I was there. Thank you especially for baring your soul to us. That's probably a big reason why I enjoy your writing so much. I am amazed that you somehow managed to complete another cookbook! A huge congratulations and I look forward to it very much. Keep up the excellent work and I hope this lovely serene time will stay with you for many weeks to come.