#franzallers

[schadenfreudich]

Michael has two nicknames. Micky and Michi. The only difference is, do I want people who only speak english (or any language that doesn't have the german "ch" or anything similar) to know how it's pronounced.

Because both nicknames just come from how Michael is pronounced in english or german.

But I'm avoiding used "die Michi", because while it is correct in german to put an article in front of someone's name, the feminine article reads in english as if I want her to die. Or I would use "stirb", but I do not wish for Michi to die.

[thrak576isback]

My Fair Lady #myfairlady #rexharrison #julieandrews #stanleyholloway #robertcoote #michaelking #gordondilworth #rodmclennan #lernerandloewe #alanjaylerner #frederickloewe #mosshart #hanyaholm #oliversmith #cecilbeaton #franzallers #lp #vinyl #nowlistening #vinylcommunity #33rpm #vinylcollection #vinylrecords #recordcollection https://www.instagram.com/p/B4GdDIHJArT/?igshid=1k9p24firybmy

[merry-go-round-jailhouse]

Alexander Franz <franzal@uw.edu>

Thu 2/24/22 9:41 AM

To: krlawrence, Labmedall

Re: [DLMP all] [NEWSLETTER] The Dish Newsletter March 2022 Submissions Now Open!

Let me begin by unequivocally telling you that I do not find joy in cooking. I extract no enjoyment or pleasure from the "art" of cookery. As much as it may appear that way to some in this department, who inquire about the fruits of my craft during our breaks, or surreptitiously catch me Googling cooking tips at my work station, or graciously allow me to power through a spiel about some new cuisine I've tried, the truth is that I have never cultivated an affinity for the labor of cooking at all.

In fact, I tend to revulse from people who do claim that they love cooking, especially those perverts and psychopaths who enjoy how it affords them a "sense of control". Show me the nearest exit if we're going to be in a room with one of those authoritarians who yearn in their hearts for the psychosexual thrill of the panopticon watch tower. What little I have picked up from cooking is that I am a fool whose grasp of a situation is weak and fleeting at best. As it should be! If we are to stretch out cooking into some metaphor about life, the lack of control and imminent risk of everything going up into flames should be our lesson to discover. The way I see it, people who enjoy ordering around the knife and the flame and massacring the onions and the breast meat would be much happier if they were given reign of a gulag. When somebody tells you they find a moment of peace at the stove, nod, smile, and make sure they don't see which car you drive when you peel out of the parking lot.

What pleasure am I supposed to draw from eating, while we're at it? The most basal, animal pleasure? Having a pang of ecstasy flash through my body when I indulge in a beignet or a plate of oysters and chips is shameful. When I'm done, I experience a sort of post-orgasm clarity, that "little death", as I wipe my hands and consider what I've done to my body. That's just more calories to burn off, I think. I'm a slave to my constant self-conception. Where's the sense of control in that? Perhaps, in our age of total surveillance and corrosion of democracy, the only power we have left is our ability to choose destruction. When there's nothing left, why not take a match to the curtains and burn, burn, burn, until the whole town is reduced to ash! Let's burn, burn, burn those calories, our bodies, the world!

What use is there in extinguishing that fire if we are all to have the flame of passion in our hearts extinguished? Nearly twenty-seven years, every single day of each one of them, my teeth pound and grind, my tongue quivers and glides. The mastication, the gulping, the salivating—doesn't it all get a bit old? My mouth has been exhausted by this ridiculous charade. I long for the secrets of the plant kingdom. Maybe, when I die, my wisdom will grant me the miracle of being reborn as a madrona tree, and peace shall fall onto me, as my cells worship the sun outright.

I cook to survive. Don't read any emotion into that. I mean it like it exactly as it sounds. We're both on a public sector salary, so I don't have to tell you that we are not afforded the option to fall in love with food. Cooking my own meals provides the same level of chic fun and urbane whimsy as what I assume our ancestors from 12,000 years ago felt roasting a fish over a fire in the dirt. It only means living to see one more day.

I don't despise cooking. As much as it may seem like it, if I were to collect my mind for a moment, I can only say that I have a mundane relationship with cooking. My heart holds no real hatred of it (as there is to be found no wild and impassioned lust), and our coupling is like that of a husband and wife who have fallen asleep and woken up next to each other in the same bed for nearly four decades. We go through the motions, play our parts, and do it all the same the next day. There is no fire, but there is no ice. I heat up oil in the pot, wipe the tears from my eyes as I dice the onion and mince the garlic, flex my arms as I grind the toasted peppercorns with the mortar and pestle, and I can only stand at the scene of the action with my hand on hip like an old wife tutting at her lay about husband, who feels more like a cellmate than a partner. We're in this together, I think to myself, for better or for worse. And each new day it only gets worse and worse.

However, to get to the point, yes, I do have a suggestion for this month's recipe recommendation. Recently I tried a chimichurri sauce with the stems of carrots instead of parsley as I read in my Joy of Cooking book that they are related, so I thought they might taste similar. I will send the recipe tonight when I can find the ratios in my notebook. However, for the reasons outlined above, I request that there be no further communications on the subject.

Thank you,

Alexander Franz

Communications Specialist Department of Laboratory Medicine and Pathology | UW Medicine

2837 NE Atlantic Street | Box 459334 | Seattle, WA 98195 OFFICE: 206-544-3084

[schadenfreudich]

We stopped the loop of saying "Michi" and Franzal" not because either of us gave up, but because Wolfgang is also here and he does not appreciate us saying the same two words over and over again.

[schadenfreudich]

"Nichts" socht die gute Fra, nachdem se zum zwonzigste Mol "Franzal" socht. Nichts, goa nets, un i denk immanoch se will was von ma. Aba da is nets, se will nets, hört sich aba an als würd se.

Die gute Fra kann sich net beklage, ich scho, konn ja net einfa mei Nam verwend, so neba mia. Un dann nichts soche. Aba se hat nets.

[schadenfreudich]

I have never really complained about Franzi as a nickname but damn, Genevieve really decided to go with what is the weirdest one, without me thinking of a little wreath (Fränzchen/Kränzchen).

So she uses Franzerl, pronounced like Franzal, I am still not complained.

Madel, haste nix beseres zu tun. (girl, do you not have anything better to do; but mostly joking, I just wanted to use Madel, if she has to call me Franzerl)