BYOB: German City Reaches Out To Local Drunks
Drinking in public has always been a vital part of Germany's culture: beer gardens, parks, campuses, and even subway trains are popular hang-outs for beer, wine and champagne lovers of any age or social class, and at nearly any time of day. But while there may be only few things better than a beer-happy cook-out at the park, getting harassed by the drunk at the bus stop on the way home might dampen some of that joy.
Now, one German city has launched a revolutionary program to keep drunks off the streets. By promoting inclusion instead of exclusion, Kiel's 'drinking room' promises to be a humane and effective way of dealing with alcoholism (http://www.spiegel.de/international/germany/0,1518,689975,00.html).
Funded by taxpayer money and by the Hempels social club, which also publishes a street newspaper, the bar “Sofa” offers alcoholics a cozy environment away from the public eye. Unlike regular corner pubs, this one serves only soft drinks and coffee, and guests are welcome to bring their own booze.
For many years, German cities have tried to battle public alcoholism and related harassment in their downtown areas. Attempts to ban offenders from city centers – either by physically removing them, or by blasting classical music from loudspeakers – resulted only in a relocation of the problem, but didn't solve anything. According to Christoph Schneider of the Kiel housing office, the city's unconventional approach has already proven successful: most of the 'public alcoholics' known to officials have migrated to the Sofa, and conflict has been extremely low. While the bar is rarely frequented by the homeless, it features a wide range of ages: alcoholics anywhere between 18 and 70 come to the bar for company and comfort.
But what's really great is that the Sofa is more than just a safe drinking haven: its organizers also provide addicts with advice on how to quit drinking, which has found broad appeal. Most of the Sofa's patrons seek help, and some have already managed to put down the bottle. Aside from providing information on recovery programs, the social workers at the Sofa help people resolve issues with their landlords, utility companies, or government offices. The bar even offers low-paying jobs in the bar itself, in the attached soup kitchen, or with the street newspaper to its unemployed guests, some of whom have been deemed impossible to place by Germany's employment office.
Other German cities have already expressed interest in Kiel's idea, and some, like Freiburg and Hamburg, have even visited the bar to see for themselves how exactly the Sofa operates. And it seems to do extremely well. Dortmund is planning to open a similar venue in its unemployment-stricken Nordstadt.
But as with any new government program, there are critics, too. Reinhard Boettcher, who manages the Sofa, told Der Spiegel that some people believe that the bar facilitates long-term unemployment, that it's merely a “place to park alcoholic Hartz IV benefits recipients and young people without a high-school diploma or a future.”
Such fears, however, are largely unfounded, given that Germany's recently implemented long-term unemployment benefit program barely pays enough to ensure decent living circumstances. At 359 Euros per month per person (not including rent), Hartz IV certainly won't make anyone too comfortable to look for work.
And the Sofa's success speaks for itself : the fact that some of the alcoholics have managed to quit drinking and are now holding small jobs proves that there is a will to improvement, and that the Sofa may be just what they need to initiate such positive changes. According to Boettcher, the bar makes it easier for social workers to approach the city's drinkers: its welcoming environment stands in contrast to the alienation many alcoholics experience on the street, including the distrust they feel toward people that offer help. The sense of community they encounter at the Sofa helps to start conversations and build trust between the social outcasts and their community. Another aspect that makes the Sofa so appealing is its no-pressure approach. Boettcher and his colleagues offer help when they're asked for it, but avoid pushing initiatives on their 'patients.' Alcoholics looking for company don't have to commit to anything, and it might be precisely this lack of commitment that 'lures' them in eventually.
Kiel's humane approach is effective not only because it's helping alcoholics, but also because it benefits the city's image: the drunks are off the street, and Kiel's non-alcoholics can enjoy themselves without being harassed. In the end, both sides win.
It will be interesting to see if other European countries (most of which also allow public drinking) adopt Germany's idea. In fact, it's rather surprising that Scandinavian countries or the Netherlands haven't already launched similar programs; especially because they're so progressive in other social areas. But then again, maybe they already exist? Given its lax weed laws, drinking rooms in Holland probably wouldn't be as news-worthy as they are in Germany. Either way, the Sofa is a great model for the rest of Europe, where drinking freedoms may have turned into drinking troubles, too.
The US, however, is a different case. Because alcohol can only be consumed in designated areas, and usually never outside of bars or private homes, alcoholics with a residence are more likely to drink at home anyway. While this circumstance might prevent trouble, it also makes the problem of alcoholism less visible to the public eye. After all, Kiel's program isn't just about keeping its streets clean, it's also about helping drunks to get clean. Allowing alcohol in public provides an open and potentially more successful approach to solving the dilemma of alcohol abuse.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
Revised Column for Workshop
Parenting Problems of a Math Geek Mom
I think my five-year-old has some kind of mathematical disorder. It's like his brain never, ever, ever shuts down. He falls asleep singing numbers (“three-six-nine-twelve-fifteen-eighteeeen...”), and every morning at breakfast, before he's even fully awake, he's solving math questions that he poses to himself.
Like today. It's 7:30. I have a hard time doing anything that requires brain activity this early in the morning. What I need is coffee, and food. And silence.
“Mama, what's 48 times 2?”
Oh, gosh. But I do want him to figure it out on his own.
“What's 40 plus 40?” I reply, smiling encouragingly.
“Oh yeah, 80.”
“So what's 8 plus 8?”
“Oh yeah...so that's 96!” Fynn's super excited. I can see numbers running across the computer screen in his head.
Before I can take another sip of my coffee, he's already found a new problem that needs solving.
“Mama...”
I sigh.
Don't get me wrong, it's great that he's so smart, and I'm extremely proud of him. I don't ever have to help him with any homework, which is nice, because I'm busy doing my own. But when he's jumping on our bed at 8 on a Sunday morning, yelling numbers into our dreams, we do get a little stressed out.
“FYNN! Why don't you go watch some TV?” snaps one of us, or, “Where's your Gameboy?”
That's bad, I know. But any parent will probably agree with me that there are moments when mind-numbing, “electrical nannies,” as my mom calls them, can save your life.
I really don't have a clue where he gets his Einsteinian genius. Not from me, that's for sure. I was happy to secure a painfully earned C- in my math finals in high school. Since then, I've tried to block out most of it. Simple eighth-grade algebra in my geography lab makes me sweat. My husband's mathematical skills are equally limited. He's already worried that we won't be able to help Fynn in math one day, but I'm thinking: help? He's already figured out what division is. By the time he gets to middle school, he'll probably know everything there is to know about algebra. I just wish they'd stick him in first- or second-grade math. In kindergarten, he's still anxiously awaiting the day that they will learn what 1 plus 1 is. And of course that's fine for most kids.
Really, I don't think kindergarten should be as academic as it is. When I was 5, I was in preschool coloring. In Germany, everything before first grade is called preschool, and usually you don't learn your ABC's or numbers until you're 6 or 7 years old. But I would probably go crazy with Fynn if it was like that here. His teacher keeps a chess game for him to play as a reward for doing his journal writing each morning, but I'm not sure if that's enough. He's obviously bored if he comes home wanting to do math, and prefers getting a new math book at Given's to a nice, colorful story book. But I don't know if I'm helping or sabotaging him when I give in to his curiosity for multiplication books. I want to challenge him, but what if that creates an even bigger gap to the stuff he's doing in kindergarten? Will he be even more bored because I support his ambition?
But what's maybe worse is that Fynn expects so much of himself. When he doesn't understand a question right away, he gets extremely frustrated, sometimes smacking himself. One day, while I was taking him to school, he was playing the usual counting-in-threes, posing-math-questions-to-himself game. Although he got everything except for one question right, that one wrong answer made him feel like a complete failure.
“I'm just not good with numbers,” he grumbled.
I couldn't believe that he would be so hard on himself. I assured him that he was absolutely amazing and great with math, but even after I had convinced him in every way possible that he was smart, he cautiously asked: “Do you really mean that, Mama?” (Of course he knows that I'm proud of pretty much anything he does, so he had to make sure.)
Sometimes, he refuses to let us help him with a problem, and it happens frequently that he breaks out in hysterical sobbing because something doesn't turn out as perfect as he thought. I find myself praising him more than one would deem healthy, just to make him feel half-way confident about his incredible skills. I try to tell him that nobody expects him to know any of the things he's eagerly learning, but Fynn has his own expectations, and there doesn't seem to be much I can do. Occasionally, though, I catch myself wishing he was a completely average five-year-old excited about kindergarten, and happier playing outside than solving math questions.
It's 7:58. I tell Fynn that he really needs to stop doing math and get ready for school. With a slightly panicked glance at the digital clock on our stove, Fynn replies: “Oh no, has it already been 180 seconds?!”
I think my five-year-old has some kind of mathematical disorder. It's like his brain never, ever, ever shuts down. He falls asleep singing numbers (“three-six-nine-twelve-fifteen-eighteeeen...”), and every morning at breakfast, before he's even fully awake, he's solving math questions that he poses to himself.
Like today. It's 7:30. I have a hard time doing anything that requires brain activity this early in the morning. What I need is coffee, and food. And silence.
“Mama, what's 48 times 2?”
Oh, gosh. But I do want him to figure it out on his own.
“What's 40 plus 40?” I reply, smiling encouragingly.
“Oh yeah, 80.”
“So what's 8 plus 8?”
“Oh yeah...so that's 96!” Fynn's super excited. I can see numbers running across the computer screen in his head.
Before I can take another sip of my coffee, he's already found a new problem that needs solving.
“Mama...”
I sigh.
Don't get me wrong, it's great that he's so smart, and I'm extremely proud of him. I don't ever have to help him with any homework, which is nice, because I'm busy doing my own. But when he's jumping on our bed at 8 on a Sunday morning, yelling numbers into our dreams, we do get a little stressed out.
“FYNN! Why don't you go watch some TV?” snaps one of us, or, “Where's your Gameboy?”
That's bad, I know. But any parent will probably agree with me that there are moments when mind-numbing, “electrical nannies,” as my mom calls them, can save your life.
I really don't have a clue where he gets his Einsteinian genius. Not from me, that's for sure. I was happy to secure a painfully earned C- in my math finals in high school. Since then, I've tried to block out most of it. Simple eighth-grade algebra in my geography lab makes me sweat. My husband's mathematical skills are equally limited. He's already worried that we won't be able to help Fynn in math one day, but I'm thinking: help? He's already figured out what division is. By the time he gets to middle school, he'll probably know everything there is to know about algebra. I just wish they'd stick him in first- or second-grade math. In kindergarten, he's still anxiously awaiting the day that they will learn what 1 plus 1 is. And of course that's fine for most kids.
Really, I don't think kindergarten should be as academic as it is. When I was 5, I was in preschool coloring. In Germany, everything before first grade is called preschool, and usually you don't learn your ABC's or numbers until you're 6 or 7 years old. But I would probably go crazy with Fynn if it was like that here. His teacher keeps a chess game for him to play as a reward for doing his journal writing each morning, but I'm not sure if that's enough. He's obviously bored if he comes home wanting to do math, and prefers getting a new math book at Given's to a nice, colorful story book. But I don't know if I'm helping or sabotaging him when I give in to his curiosity for multiplication books. I want to challenge him, but what if that creates an even bigger gap to the stuff he's doing in kindergarten? Will he be even more bored because I support his ambition?
But what's maybe worse is that Fynn expects so much of himself. When he doesn't understand a question right away, he gets extremely frustrated, sometimes smacking himself. One day, while I was taking him to school, he was playing the usual counting-in-threes, posing-math-questions-to-himself game. Although he got everything except for one question right, that one wrong answer made him feel like a complete failure.
“I'm just not good with numbers,” he grumbled.
I couldn't believe that he would be so hard on himself. I assured him that he was absolutely amazing and great with math, but even after I had convinced him in every way possible that he was smart, he cautiously asked: “Do you really mean that, Mama?” (Of course he knows that I'm proud of pretty much anything he does, so he had to make sure.)
Sometimes, he refuses to let us help him with a problem, and it happens frequently that he breaks out in hysterical sobbing because something doesn't turn out as perfect as he thought. I find myself praising him more than one would deem healthy, just to make him feel half-way confident about his incredible skills. I try to tell him that nobody expects him to know any of the things he's eagerly learning, but Fynn has his own expectations, and there doesn't seem to be much I can do. Occasionally, though, I catch myself wishing he was a completely average five-year-old excited about kindergarten, and happier playing outside than solving math questions.
It's 7:58. I tell Fynn that he really needs to stop doing math and get ready for school. With a slightly panicked glance at the digital clock on our stove, Fynn replies: “Oh no, has it already been 180 seconds?!”
Revised Review for Workshop
Experimenting With Thai Kitchen Red Curry 10-minute Simmer Sauce
Although I should know better by now, I occasionally fool myself into thinking that I can create my own Thai food. I'm not a bad cook. I can make decent Indian-ish food with pre-made authentic curry sauces from Kroger. Just add the meat and the veggies, and you're good to go.
Not so much with Thai food. The first time I tried to make my own with a chili-paste mix I had bought at an Asian food store in Berlin was a complete disaster. To put it bluntly, it tasted kind of like feet. Not at all like the Panang Curry I had grown to obsess over and devour at every Thai restaurant I've ever been to. I swore to myself that I would never try to make my own Thai food again. Ever.
The other day at Kroger, I was seized by a sudden craving for creamy coconut milk and lemon grass, accompanied by a brief but fateful attack of amnesia. No problem, I thought, I can make my own! Enthusiastically, I grabbed the $ 3.29 Thai Kitchen Red Curry 10-minute Simmer Sauce in a glass (they didn't have Panang). The carefully designed picture on the jar showed a classy white bowl containing basil-garnished chicken pieces in a temptingly glowing, orangey sauce: just like the stuff you get at a restaurant. But this one was much cheaper, and I could pretend it was all home-cooked. – Really, how hard can it be.
Back at home, everything started out great. After throwing some frozen chicken breast in the pan, I added a mix of frozen bell peppers that I got for 88 cents, painstakingly avoiding the chopped onions that came with it. (Real bell peppers cost a fortune and are purchased only for special occasions.) Last, I dumped the curry sauce over my deliciously sizzling dish. I could smell the freshness of the lemon grass amidst the subtle scents of coconut cream and ginger. But it didn't seem spicy enough, so I added a little of my husband's favorite garlic-chili, and grabbed some chili powder from above the stove to enhance the flavor. In a small pot, I was also preparing some Jasmine rice.
Everything smelled amazing, and it tasted fantastic, too. As I was stirring and tasting and admiring my work, I felt a sense of pride wallow up in my self-conscious chest. Maybe I could make Thai food, after all!
Within 15 minutes, the meal was done, and my husband and I each poured a heaping spoon of exotic goodness over the freshly steamed rice in our bowls. 'Success!', I thought to myself as I grabbed my chopsticks to take a first bite.
And then I tasted it.
Hmmm…something wasn't right. What had smelled and tasted so appealing just a few seconds ago was suddenly transformed into something entirely unexpected. My husband gave me a few careful glances, but finally couldn't hold back. “It kind of tastes like Chicken and Dumplings,” he said, smiling apologetically.
It was true. Somehow, the rice and the curry chicken dish had merged into a strange union of Southern food. I didn't understand. What had happened to the chili and curry and ginger and lemon grass? And didn't Thai Kitchen claim that its products were authentic? The picture on the 11.9-ounce jar sure looked like it would be nothing short of a gourmet experience.
We finished our Red Curry Chicken and Dumplings quietly. I felt utterly defeated, and a little betrayed by Thai Kitchen and its promise of quality – tempting me, and then metamorphosing cruelly into a generic dish of fake Southern food.
Next time, I'm getting take-out.
Although I should know better by now, I occasionally fool myself into thinking that I can create my own Thai food. I'm not a bad cook. I can make decent Indian-ish food with pre-made authentic curry sauces from Kroger. Just add the meat and the veggies, and you're good to go.
Not so much with Thai food. The first time I tried to make my own with a chili-paste mix I had bought at an Asian food store in Berlin was a complete disaster. To put it bluntly, it tasted kind of like feet. Not at all like the Panang Curry I had grown to obsess over and devour at every Thai restaurant I've ever been to. I swore to myself that I would never try to make my own Thai food again. Ever.
The other day at Kroger, I was seized by a sudden craving for creamy coconut milk and lemon grass, accompanied by a brief but fateful attack of amnesia. No problem, I thought, I can make my own! Enthusiastically, I grabbed the $ 3.29 Thai Kitchen Red Curry 10-minute Simmer Sauce in a glass (they didn't have Panang). The carefully designed picture on the jar showed a classy white bowl containing basil-garnished chicken pieces in a temptingly glowing, orangey sauce: just like the stuff you get at a restaurant. But this one was much cheaper, and I could pretend it was all home-cooked. – Really, how hard can it be.
Back at home, everything started out great. After throwing some frozen chicken breast in the pan, I added a mix of frozen bell peppers that I got for 88 cents, painstakingly avoiding the chopped onions that came with it. (Real bell peppers cost a fortune and are purchased only for special occasions.) Last, I dumped the curry sauce over my deliciously sizzling dish. I could smell the freshness of the lemon grass amidst the subtle scents of coconut cream and ginger. But it didn't seem spicy enough, so I added a little of my husband's favorite garlic-chili, and grabbed some chili powder from above the stove to enhance the flavor. In a small pot, I was also preparing some Jasmine rice.
Everything smelled amazing, and it tasted fantastic, too. As I was stirring and tasting and admiring my work, I felt a sense of pride wallow up in my self-conscious chest. Maybe I could make Thai food, after all!
Within 15 minutes, the meal was done, and my husband and I each poured a heaping spoon of exotic goodness over the freshly steamed rice in our bowls. 'Success!', I thought to myself as I grabbed my chopsticks to take a first bite.
And then I tasted it.
Hmmm…something wasn't right. What had smelled and tasted so appealing just a few seconds ago was suddenly transformed into something entirely unexpected. My husband gave me a few careful glances, but finally couldn't hold back. “It kind of tastes like Chicken and Dumplings,” he said, smiling apologetically.
It was true. Somehow, the rice and the curry chicken dish had merged into a strange union of Southern food. I didn't understand. What had happened to the chili and curry and ginger and lemon grass? And didn't Thai Kitchen claim that its products were authentic? The picture on the 11.9-ounce jar sure looked like it would be nothing short of a gourmet experience.
We finished our Red Curry Chicken and Dumplings quietly. I felt utterly defeated, and a little betrayed by Thai Kitchen and its promise of quality – tempting me, and then metamorphosing cruelly into a generic dish of fake Southern food.
Next time, I'm getting take-out.
Monday, April 5, 2010
A great review featuring a terrible band...really, I had no idea they were still together!
http://www.esdmusic.com/2010/04/05/scorpions-sting-in-the-tail/
Review #2
Experimenting With Thai Kitchen Red Curry 10-minute Simmer Sauce
Although I should know better by now, I occasionally fool myself into thinking that I can create my own Thai food. I'm not a bad cook. I can make decent Indian-ish food with pre-made authentic curry sauces from Kroger. Just add the meat and the veggies, and you're good to go.
Not so much with Thai food. The first time I tried to make my own with a chili-paste mix I had bought at an Asian food store in Berlin was a complete disaster. To put it bluntly, it tasted kind of like feet. Not at all like the Panang Curry I had grown to obsess over and devour at every Thai restaurant I've ever been to. I swore to myself that I would never try to make my own Thai food again. Ever.
The other day at Kroger, I was seized by a sudden craving for creamy coconut milk and lemon grass, accompanied by a brief but fateful attack of amnesia. No problem, I thought, I can make my own! Enthusiastically, I grabbed the $ 3.29 Thai Kitchen Red Curry 10-minute Simmer Sauce in a glass (they didn't have Panang). Really, how hard can it be.
Back at home, everything started out great. After throwing some frozen chicken breast in the pan, I added a mix of frozen bell peppers that I got for 88 cents, painstakingly avoiding the chopped onions that came with it. (Real bell peppers cost a fortune and are purchased only for special occasions.) Last, I dumped the curry sauce over my deliciously sizzling dish. A little garlic-chili and chili powder to enhance the flavor, and let it simmer. In a small pot, I was also preparing some Jasmine rice.
Everything smelled amazing, and it tasted fantastic, too. As I was stirring and tasting and admiring my work, I felt a sense of pride wallow up in my self-conscious chest. Maybe I could make Thai food, after all!
Within 15 minutes, the meal was done, and my husband and I each poured a heaping spoon of exotic goodness over the freshly steamed rice in our bowls. 'Success!', I thought to myself as I grabbed my chopsticks to take a first bite.
And then I tasted it.
Hmmm…something wasn't right. What had smelled and tasted so appealing just a few seconds ago was suddenly transformed into something entirely unexpected. My husband gave me a few careful glances, but finally couldn't hold back. “It kind of tastes like Chicken and Dumplings,” he said, smiling apologetically.
It was true. Somehow, the rice and the curry chicken dish had merged into a strange union of Southern food. I didn't understand. What had happened to the chili and curry and ginger and lemon grass? And didn't Thai Kitchen claim that its products were authentic? The picture on the 11.9-ounce jar sure looked like it would be nothing short of a gourmet experience.
We finished our Red Curry Chicken and Dumplings quietly. I felt utterly defeated, and a little betrayed by Thai Kitchen and its promise of quality – tempting me, and then metamorphosing cruelly into a generic dish of fake Southern food.
Next time, I'm getting take-out.
Although I should know better by now, I occasionally fool myself into thinking that I can create my own Thai food. I'm not a bad cook. I can make decent Indian-ish food with pre-made authentic curry sauces from Kroger. Just add the meat and the veggies, and you're good to go.
Not so much with Thai food. The first time I tried to make my own with a chili-paste mix I had bought at an Asian food store in Berlin was a complete disaster. To put it bluntly, it tasted kind of like feet. Not at all like the Panang Curry I had grown to obsess over and devour at every Thai restaurant I've ever been to. I swore to myself that I would never try to make my own Thai food again. Ever.
The other day at Kroger, I was seized by a sudden craving for creamy coconut milk and lemon grass, accompanied by a brief but fateful attack of amnesia. No problem, I thought, I can make my own! Enthusiastically, I grabbed the $ 3.29 Thai Kitchen Red Curry 10-minute Simmer Sauce in a glass (they didn't have Panang). Really, how hard can it be.
Back at home, everything started out great. After throwing some frozen chicken breast in the pan, I added a mix of frozen bell peppers that I got for 88 cents, painstakingly avoiding the chopped onions that came with it. (Real bell peppers cost a fortune and are purchased only for special occasions.) Last, I dumped the curry sauce over my deliciously sizzling dish. A little garlic-chili and chili powder to enhance the flavor, and let it simmer. In a small pot, I was also preparing some Jasmine rice.
Everything smelled amazing, and it tasted fantastic, too. As I was stirring and tasting and admiring my work, I felt a sense of pride wallow up in my self-conscious chest. Maybe I could make Thai food, after all!
Within 15 minutes, the meal was done, and my husband and I each poured a heaping spoon of exotic goodness over the freshly steamed rice in our bowls. 'Success!', I thought to myself as I grabbed my chopsticks to take a first bite.
And then I tasted it.
Hmmm…something wasn't right. What had smelled and tasted so appealing just a few seconds ago was suddenly transformed into something entirely unexpected. My husband gave me a few careful glances, but finally couldn't hold back. “It kind of tastes like Chicken and Dumplings,” he said, smiling apologetically.
It was true. Somehow, the rice and the curry chicken dish had merged into a strange union of Southern food. I didn't understand. What had happened to the chili and curry and ginger and lemon grass? And didn't Thai Kitchen claim that its products were authentic? The picture on the 11.9-ounce jar sure looked like it would be nothing short of a gourmet experience.
We finished our Red Curry Chicken and Dumplings quietly. I felt utterly defeated, and a little betrayed by Thai Kitchen and its promise of quality – tempting me, and then metamorphosing cruelly into a generic dish of fake Southern food.
Next time, I'm getting take-out.
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