Eating One-Eyed Pete...My First Experience Cooking a German Recipe

Let me begin by saying, for those of you who are big softies and animal-lovers like me, One-Eyed Pete is/was not a barnyard pet or furry, adorable critter of any kind. He...or she...was a fish to whom I've given this comical nickname in an effort to humor and cajole myself through an otherwise "iffy" situation.

Maybe I should offer a little background history. I'm an animal- and nature-lover. Whenever Mario and I are going to watch a movie with animals in it (the real kind, not animated), I always jokingly remind him that I only like movies where the animals shake hands, make friends, then merrily skip off into the sunset. To which he normally offers up the typically manly answer of: "It's just nature." In my personal bubble, that sort of "nature" doesn't exist.

There is some hypocrisy involved, in that, I am not a vegetarian. Meat passes my lips two or three times per week, but even there I have my limits. I won't eat anything that involves having some googly eye stare up at me from my plate. At least not until today.



Damfnudel, similar to dumplings.

 Seven months have come and gone since I first arrived in Germany to come live with Mario. Fortunately for both of us, we're healthy eaters and, because of this, have steered clear of standard German fare. Cream-laden sauces and soups, sausage and meaty dishes, and doughie noodle and dumpling type side dishes are abstained from in favor of pan-seered chicken, baked fish, lots of veggies and occasional pasta. We're both fine with this because neither of us wants to be shaped like a dampfnudel.

A few months ago, while in Munich for a short holiday, we picked up two Bavarian cookbooks. As we poured through the pages together, Mario ooh-ed and aah-ed over the recipes exclaiming that this one was "really delicious" and we "had to try that one" while I perused the pictures, pointing out what recipes I wanted to try. Then the books sat in the livingroom for a few months as coffee table books, before being relegated to the book pile alongside a chair.

Last week, I proclaimed that I might like to try a recipe from one of the Bavarian cookbooks to feature in my food blog.  Mario and I leafed through the books together, in search of something healthy, and came upon a fish recipe. I love fish, as does my sweetheart, so this was a win-win situation. The only problem was that the fish pictured in the recipe was whole...as in bones still in, skin still on, and googly eye peering up from the page.

Now, to my credit, in the past few months I've made some progress in this area. One Sunday afternoon, we stopped at at fresh fish stand at a nearby flea market and enjoyed cooked, mixed fresh fish tossed in oil and vinegar. This sounds harmless, I know, until you find yourself staring down at a cooked whole squid in your container, with head and suction cups on legs still intact. My approach as someone new in the country is to "do as the Romans do" when feasible, so I ate the squid...head, little suctions cups, and all...and it was really good.

During the Christmas holiday I was asked by Mario and his family to cook a whole turkey for Christmas Eve dinner, which is the special dinner for the holiday.  Since there'd been no Thanksgiving dinner here and no one really understood, until it was too late, the importance the holiday and its feast preparations held for me, the family felt that having me cook a turkey would be a good way to make up for my missed holiday. I thought this was very gracious and kind, since goose is the normal fare at Christmastime, and none of them had ever had a whole turkey.

I asked Mario where we would buy a whole turkey and he replied that he would order it at the local grocery store's butcher department. Then he explained to me that he would pick it up the morning of Christmas Eve so I could cook it that day. When I inquired as to why we couldn't pick it up earlier, to my horror, he explained that the turkey would still be running around the day before. My imagination immediately conjured up visions of this proud tom turkey chasing the female turkeys around the yard and having a grand old time, completely oblivious to his impending demise. The next day, the turkey arrived. It had been cleaned really well and looked like a great bird except for the feather quills sticking out of parts of the wings. I tried earnestly to pull them out but they wouldn't budge. Not knowing how a German Frau (woman or wife) would handle the situation, I hoped the feather particles would singe off while they baked but the fact of the matter is, when that golden-brown, juicy turkey was set on the platter, it still had the remnants of about one dozen feather quills sticking out of each wing. Oh well. Let me tell you, that was probably the most delicious turkey I've ever had because it was so fresh and the entire family loved it. But the thought of feathers sticking out of the skin still gives me a minor case of the heebie-jeebies.

Note the feather quills sticking out of the edge of the wing.

So, with a couple similar uncomfortable food situations already under my belt, I decided to go ahead and give the Bavarian fish recipe a go. Since Mario does the bulk of the grocery shopping I half-hoped maybe he'd come home with skinless, boneless fish but that didn't end up being the case. He came home and proudly displayed for me the three fresh trout he'd gotten at the fish counter, for the recipe we were going to prepare together. I glanced over at the fish only to have my gaze met by the Three Amigos and their three pairs of googly eyes. "Eck! The eyes are still in!" I exclaimed. My comment went unanswered.

At 1:00pm we both paused from our separate activities and headed into the kitchen to prepare the fish. The recipe was written in German but was an easy-to-make recipe. To prepare myself for the endeavor, I'd translated the instructions on the computer so I could read over them in English and know what I was doing, rather than have to rely on Mario to translate for me.

"Man up!" I muttered to myself, as he unwrapped the fish. Working as a team, he held the fish open (thank goodness the insides were already cleaned out) as I placed the butter, salt and pepper, tarragon, parsley and fresh basil inside the fish. Then we wrapped them in butter-greased foil and baked them in the oven for 25 minutes. When Mario lifted the first fish from the foil, onto a plate, I could swear I saw the mouth slowly open as if the fish was uttering it's last words: "Look what ya did to One-Eyed Pete!" After a quiet and covert shudder, I walked my plate to the table while planning how I was going to eat the fish without getting any skin or bones into my mouth.

As it turns out, no plan was necessary. The fish was so fork-tender the skin peeled back effortlessly and the fish practically fell off the bones, leaving the entire bone structure in one piece when I was done. If the fish had smelled or tasted unpleasant, I don't know if I could have done it. But in my time here I have quickly learned that some concessions are worth making when eating food that is so inexplicably fresh and flavorful.

Today, I ate One-Eyed Pete and cooked my first real German recipe, all in one fell swoop. Both of which turned out to be pretty good experiences, thanks to the man who is patient with my idiosyncrasies, yet loves me enough to push me a little bit outside my comfort zone. Who knows what the next new experience is awaiting me around the corner! The only thing that's certain is it's coming.