Parmesan, Shipyards, and the Yellow Mercedes of Destiny

When I hear the word balance, I do not first see a scale or a yoga picture or somebody sitting very quiet with candles. No, no. For me, balance is much more practical. I see my kitchen.

When I have had a hard working day, when the head is full and the body says, “Okay, Ralf, enough now,” then I go into the kitchen. I want to cook. That is the difference between the hard working day and the relief afterwards. This is balance for me. Cooking is like holiday at the stove.

Or, better, holiday at the induction hob. I learned that one. Not on the stove, because if I am on the stove and the stove is on, then maybe I start cooking myself. But with induction, maybe I am safe. So, yes, I go into my kitchen, and this is my little holiday.

On Friday, after the week was closed, I did not make a big complicated thing. I made something simple, but it was fantastic. I had cauliflower, broccoli, carrots, and onions. Sweet onions. That is very important. I put everything together in a casserole dish. I added herbs, salt, and pepper. Then I took my olive oil can, the one you can pump, and sprayed the olive oil over the vegetables. Then I put Parmesan cheese on top and put the dish in the oven.

I did not make a big plan. I looked what would come outside.

After about twenty minutes at 170 degrees, I took it out, put more Parmesan on top, switched on the grill in the oven, and made it a little bit brown and crunchy. It came out fabulous. My wife was really enthusiastic, and this is always the best test. When she says it is good, then it is good.

On the market that Friday, between working time, I also bought chicken legs for Saturday. Good chicken legs, without antibiotics. On Saturday we had the vegetable pan again, this time with the chicken legs from the barbecue. That is also balance for me. Friday evening, close the week. Saturday, barbecue. Kitchen, fire, food, wife happy. The sun is shining.

When The Mayor asked me to go back to my childhood and think about work and play, I had to go first to my father. My dad worked for forty years at a shipyard in Bremen. He was a machine man, a kind of engineer, a practical man. The shipyard was old, more than 175 years, and it was a family business. When I was a young boy, at Nikolaus time, all the children of the workers came together in a big hall. We sat at tables by age — seven years old, eight, nine, ten, twelve — and when you were fourteen, then it was finished for you. You were too old for the party.

But before that, it was fantastic.

We got cake and cacao, and later in the afternoon we got little presents. A woman from the owner family managed the whole party, and for us children it was magic. We could play, eat, drink, laugh, and be together. That was not normal for an employer. It felt special. The Mayor said maybe this is why the shipyard lived so long, not only because of quality and the market, but because they looked after their people. I think this is true.

Later, after my father had worked there for forty years, the shipyard went down. There was a problem with a ship and the calculation was not good. Somebody did not quite get the mathematics right. In northern Germany, many shipyards died in that time. It was not only one. There were big places where thousands of people lost their jobs from one day to the next. In Bremen there had been several shipyards, and now there is only one left. I remember this as part of the world around us. Shipyards, metal, work, pride, and then suddenly the world changes.

My mother was at home for my sister and me when we were small. Later, when we went to school, she started cleaning in a bank. She stood up at four in the morning, sometimes maybe even before four, went to work from four to six, came home, made breakfast for us, made our bread for school, and then we went to school. My father started work at six, so when my mother came home, he was already gone.

When I think about it now, it is difficult to imagine. But for us, as children, it was normal. My mother was there for us. When we came home from school, we had fresh food, good food. In the afternoon, she went to the sofa and slept for one hour. Of course she did. She had already lived half a day before other people had their first coffee.

My parents were partners. They were always there for us. They put nearly all their money into the house. New windows, a new main door, things for the home. Holidays were not like today, where everyone flies everywhere all the time. When my parents had their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, we went with the whole family to Sweden and celebrated there on holiday. Another time they went to the Mosel River and visited places there. But these were almost all the big holidays I remember for them.

Most of the time, holiday was at home. Barbecue in the garden. Sitting together. Friends coming over. Family there. Party in the garden. That was holiday for them. I could not always understand this when I was younger, but this was their generation. The house was important. The family was important. The garden was important. The work went into the house, and the house gave life back.

My father also had his own balance. He built things. He made things. He worked with steel. Grinding, welding, repairing. For everything in our street, he said, “No problem, I make that for you.” And then he made it.

He built a carport for me from old wood from a ship. He made himself a little hobby room. He helped family with practical things. My cousin still thinks every day about her father and my father because they built the railing on her staircase. Before, there was nothing to hold on to. Her father worked with stone and cement, a bricklayer, and my father worked with metal. Together they made the stair rail. Now, when she goes out of the house, she says, “Hello, Max. Hello, Papa.” Every day. That is how practical work becomes memory. You touch the railing, and two men are still there.

My father did not make big plans on paper. If he wanted something, he took the metal, maybe thirty centimetres this way, thirty centimetres that way, put it in a right angle, welded it, looked at it, and said, “Okay, next step.” Then next step, next step, and at the end it was ready. No plan. But in his head, he saw it. He was fantastic with this. A natural genius in practical things.

So when I think of my parents and balance, I do not think they had “playtime” like we say it today. But they had joy. They had the garden. They had barbecue. They had friends. They had family. My father had steel and welding. My mother had the house and us children. It was serious, yes, but there was laughter inside it. There was grounding.

As children, we had the best life. We had friends, family, relatives, garden, parties, and we felt safe. Very safe. The work was there, but it did not eat the house.

That is maybe the big difference. My father worked hard. Sometimes he worked at Easter Monday, or on the first or second day of Christmas, or during the night. If a ship came into the yard for repair and the time window was small, they had to work hard, very hard. They had to finish. But when my father came home, he was home. He was there for my sister, for my mother, and for me. He was a good father and a good husband.

The Mayor asked if it was easier then to leave work outside than it is today. I think for my parents and for me, it is almost the same principle. When my wife comes home from work and I come home from work, we drink a coffee. We do not talk immediately about the working time. Later in the evening, maybe we say, “It was a good day,” or “It was a bad day,” or “This was a problem.” But first, we are together. First, coffee. First, home.

For me, Friday evening at five o’clock is a border. I put my business mobile phone on the table in my office, and I do not take it in my hand again until Monday morning. That is my life.

I learned why this is important. There was a time in my working life when I had too much pressure. I could not switch off in the evening. I woke up at three in the morning thinking about my job. That was not okay. Then an opportunity came to change direction, and I said, “I can work everywhere, but not like this anymore.” It was the right step. Work must not follow you until three o’clock in the morning. That is not balance. That is a thief in the bedroom.

Modern work would make my parents shake their heads, I think. Emails, reports, Excel sheets, apps, online meetings, passwords, systems, all the things. My father would say, “You have a problem with your brain. Why do you make this? It is not productive.” And I understand him. He was practical. He put two things together, welded them, and something existed. Today you can spend one hour filling something into a system, and after that you have nothing in your hand. Only a green check mark, maybe. If the password works.

This is why I like real things. Food, tools, machines, cars, bicycles, coffee. Things you can touch. Things that answer.

At the weekend I had another little moment of play. I drove my Vespa to go shopping for food. Then my wife and I had to fetch our small cabrio car from the next town, where it had been standing in a garage because the battery was broken. We bought a new battery, put it in, started the car, and drove it home.

It was only eighteen degrees, but I have a rule. After fifteen degrees, you must open the roof. This car has a metal roof. The back opens, the roof folds itself inside, and then the windows go down. For me, this is fine. My wife said, “It is cold.” I said, “Yes.” Then she drove home in the other car, and I drove home in the cabrio. Funny. That is also balance. A little wind, a little cold, but the roof open because life is short.

The Mayor and I also talked about the silly games for driving. Before, there were rapeseed fields, yellow fields, and the word “rapsy.” But now the rapeseed is not really yellow anymore. It is going brown and waiting for harvest. So we started the yellow car game. I told my wife the story, and then a yellow Mercedes came. I said, “Yellow, yellow!” She said, “What is yellow yellow? It is no rapeseed.” I said, “No, it is the car.” So now the game has started. I have one point. She has zero.

But it is fair. We only play when we are together in the car. If I drive alone for work and count yellow cars, that is not fair. The Mayor was worried maybe one day he meets my wife and she complains. No, no. The rules are clear. Together in the car, then the game counts.

This is also advice for younger people, I think. Make rules that protect the joy. Make the game fair. Make the work finish.

Now many people work from home, and this is dangerous if they do not have borders. My advice is: work in a business room, in an office, if you can. When the day is ready, go outside and close the door. That is the best thing. I have my office. My business phone stays there. My private phone goes with me into life.

But many people have a small apartment. They work at the eating table, in the kitchen, in the living room. Then there is no real end to the working day. The computer is still there. You think, “Only five minutes.” Then five minutes becomes one hour. It is seamless. No border. That is not good.

I also do not like one phone with two SIM cards. I know myself. If a message comes on the business number, I would be too curious. “Oh, somebody sent me a message. I look quickly. Only two seconds.” And then it is not two seconds. So I keep two phones. The business phone belongs in the office. The private phone belongs in the living room, in the house, in the car, in normal life.

It also helps that my wife and I have a full private life. After work, there is cooking, coffee, bicycles, hedgehogs, the garden, the small things. If your private life is alive, work has less room to sneak in. You have something to close the door for.

And then, of course, there is food.

The Mayor told me he was making mushrooms with butter, onions, garlic, cream, Dijon mustard, a little white wine, and pasta. I asked him the most important question: “Where is the meat?” It was warm where he was, and he had made barbecue every evening, so maybe he wanted no meat. But I said chicken breast would be good. Cut the chicken breast in small pieces, put it in a pan with olive oil, make it a little crispy, and then put it inside the mushrooms. Or, even better if you have a good Italian shop, use original salsiccia with fennel. Take it out of the intestine and cook it into the sauce. That is a good thing.

This is how my mind works. Work and play, parents and children, shipyards and steel, phones and office doors, yellow cars and cabrio roofs, and at the end always something in the pan.

Balance is not a theory for me. It is Friday evening when the phone stays in the office. It is coffee with my wife before we talk about problems. It is my father coming home from the shipyard and still being a father. It is my mother sleeping one hour on the sofa after standing up before the sun. It is a railing on a staircase that still says hello to two men. It is the roof open at eighteen degrees. It is a casserole dish full of vegetables, olive oil, herbs, and Parmesan.

It is holiday at the stove.

Ralf’s Recipe: Crunchy Vegetable Casserole with Parmesan

Ingredients

• Cauliflower
• Broccoli
• Carrots
• Sweet onions
• Olive oil
• Salt
• Pepper
• Mixed herbs
• Parmesan cheese

Optional for the next day:

• Chicken legs for the barbecue

Cooking Instructions

1. Cut the cauliflower, broccoli, carrots, and sweet onions into pieces.
2. Put all the vegetables together in a casserole dish.
3. Add salt, pepper, and mixed herbs.
4. Spray or drizzle olive oil over the vegetables. I use my pump olive oil can, because then the oil goes nicely over everything.
5. Add Parmesan cheese on top.
6. Put the casserole dish in the oven at 170 degrees Celsius.
7. Bake for about 20 minutes.
8. Take it out, add more Parmesan cheese on top, and switch on the grill function in the oven.
9. Grill it for a short time until the top becomes a little brown and crunchy.
10. Serve it hot.

For the next day, you can make the same vegetable pan again and serve it with chicken legs from the barbecue. Then it is also fabulous.