I grew up in Southern Germany, raised “schwäbisch,” in other words thrifty with a terrible accent, growing up on my mom’s homemade berry jam and the admonition to work hard and not impose on others. At sixteen I spent a year in the deep deep American South, having had the incredible good fortune of being accepted into the most wonderful family, and trading my Southern German accent for an equally broad and misunderstood American one. In my early twenties, together with Noisette – the other incredible good fortune of my life – I left the land of my fathers for good and set out for the New World, so to speak, but one I already knew from my high school exploits. Almost twenty years later, we are now citizens of that adopted country of ours, together with our four beautiful children, but in a twist of irony that is typical for our family we actually don’t live there anymore, having been deposited on these murderous – if you believe the opinions spewing forth on the internet – shores of South Africa. And we carry around a little bit of Asia in us from our brief interlude in Singapore, from where we retain, at the very least, our fondness for spicy food and leaving our shoes at the doorstep.
So it’s a bit complicated to reflect on my heritage, but I’m raising my glass to all the great places we’ve had the privilege to travel to and call our home, and especially the wonderful people we’ve met along the way.