The Sisters Baerenklau

In previous exposés, I tried to introduce you to recycling cigarette butts and bath water and to give you some alternatives to the wasteful use of toilet paper. Today, I’d like you to meet the sisters Baerenklau, who were way ahead of their time when it came to recycling or reducing their carbon footprint, terms that didn’t enter our popular vocabulary until half a century later. They were experts in the art of substituting birch sap for those expensive and politically incorrect shampoos which take up so much shelf space in our stores today. And they were pros at creating gourmet meals out of animal innards.

The sisters Baerenklau, whose secrets I am about to reveal to you, lived on the third floor of our house, back in 1946, in the room to the right, as you stepped off the narrow wooden spiral staircase. There were three of them and they were refugees from Upper Silesia, now part of Poland. They told us that their father had been a game warden and forester, who’d been murdered by the Poles in the turbulent last days of the war. They also said that they’d been gang-raped by Russian soldiers as they tried to flee their father’s house and make their way west.

I know this will be viewed as extremely politically incorrect by some, but those Russkies must have been a pretty desperate bunch to go after the Baerenklau sisters. They were in their late 50’s and early 60’s and they were spinsters and very homely, ill-favored even. The youngest, Dora, was one burrito short of a combination plate, as Robin Williams used to say and she was very short and stout. She also had a large growth protruding from her left shoulder blade, which forced her head forward and twisted to the right. She looked like she was about to topple over unto her ear at any moment. She always pumped her elbows vigorously when she walked. She wore her sisters’ hand-me-downs, shortened to fit – sort of. Her two siblings, Rosa, the oldest, and Marta, on the other hand, were very tall, close to six feet, and extremely angular, almost scraggy.

Dora did all the work, constantly bossed around by her two sisters, who never lifted a finger to help. They always walked in lockstep when they went out together, Rosa and Marta in front, Dora behind. Dora only got to go out when they went shopping, because she had to lug their purchases in two nets slung crisscross, like a bandolier, over her shoulders. Otherwise the nets would have dragged on the ground. Dora did not talk. The other two never stopped talking. They were Lutherans and attended church every Sunday morning without fail, sitting in the front row with the older two singing loudly and off-key, while short Dora sat between them holding up the hymnal for them. She had to hold it over her head for her sisters to see properly. Dora did not sing. She did, however, pass wind quite frequently and loudly, much to the amusement of the confirmants, who also sat in the front row.

The sisters Baerenklau truly believed in the old adage “Waste not, want not.” Every spring, when the snow had melted and the first puss willows started to sprout, the sisters could be seen marching into the surrounding woods, searching for birch trees. They believed in the division of labor. When they found a suitable birch, Rosa would produce a small metal tap, about six inches long and sharpened on one end. She and Marta would hold it in place against the tree trunk and Dora would whack it into the tree with a mason’s hammer, which she carried on a rope around her waist. The older two would then step back and Dora, who had been schlepping a wooden pail, would move up and hold this receptacle under the tap and catch the birch sap dripping out of the pipe. It took a lot of birches to fill that bucket. They never came home without a full pail.

When they got home, they bottled this sap in old half-liter beer bottles and used it undiluted to wash their hair. They swore by this concoction and wouldn’t think of switching to something a bit more acceptable. They called it their Silesian shampoo. We called it Silesian “Jauche”, meaning liquid manure. The stuff made them smell odd, kind of musty and dank, like compost or wet rotting leaves. They always tried to get my mother to use it, but she steadfastly refused.

This reminds me of a story I read recently about someone, whose idea of recycling and conservation was to carefully clean their used paper towels by soaking them in their dish water, squeeze out the water and hang them up to dry on the clothesline in their back yard. The person crowed that she got an extra month out of each roll. Now that is an example of conservation truly worth imitating. The sisters Baerenklau certainly would have approved, but unfortunately paper towels were not the staple of civilization then that they have become since.

My father was a forester and during and after the war we pretty much lived off what he shot on his hunting excursions, usually venison or rabbit, occasionally wild boar. We lived off the land and managed pretty well, certainly a lot better than the vast majority of people in the bombed-out cities of Germany, who for the most part were starving and homeless.

The sisters Baerenklau were always after my father for deer entrails or the leftover innards of jackrabbits. There were persistent rumors making the rounds that dogs had mysteriously disappeared after the Baerenklau sisters had been seen high-stepping through the village. They were big fans of boiled cabbage and potatoes, which they served with wild game offal, like sliced heart, boiled spleen or steamed kidneys and tripe. Their room reeked of it. They were happiest when lung pie was the main course on their menu.

Here are the ingredients for lung pie, should you have the inclination to try some. You need the well-drained lungs of an adult deer or other substantial animal, carefully cleaned of all shotgun pellets, a pound of boiled barley, a sizeable dollop of uncooked badger suet or if that cannot be found in your larder, fresh deer lard, diced, three diced onions, thyme, coriander, ground mace and cayenne pepper. If you saved some of the deer’s blood, that would be a major bonus. You need about two liters.

The thing about badger fat is that it is said to have proven medicinal as well as culinary qualities, if you were to believe the Frauleins Baerenklau. They not only used it as shortening in preparing cakes and pies and, of course, as the main addition to lung pie, but also swore by it as a sure-fire remedy for the flu and other common ailments. If you came down with a fever, they’d tell you to slather the stuff on your chest, pack you into blankets and then make you sweat. If you had an open sore or a boil, a liberal helping of badger fat would draw out overnight whatever caused you discomfort. It seemed to work.

Next you mince the lungs into tiny pieces, add egg batter, and a bit of gelatin, beat and blend this mess with a whisk until almost liquid and foamy. Pour this concoction into a cast-iron pot, add the blood, the diced suet and onion, spices, salt and pepper to taste. Stir and mix everything thoroughly, cover and let it rise over low heat for at least two and half hours, chill until firm, then cut the lung pie into servings. Lung pie done to perfection should be firm and be able to stand on its own on your plate without too much seepage. This savory delicacy is best with boiled cabbage or steamed rutabagas and, of course, cooked potatoes, washed down by a large bottle of Bavarian beer.

In the next issue, I was going to talk about how wool socks, used properly, can deter trespassers, but my wife, Andree, dissuaded me. She feels that particular subject is not well suited for dissemination in a community publication. My ramblings on the recycling of beer steins must also await further research. Andree thinks this tale might induce some readers to indulge in violent behavior. Perhaps, I just shouldn’t run these stories by her first.

So instead I will try to explain how you can substitute and mix other readily available fluids to overcome a lack of alcoholic beverages in a time of need, how to use your neighbor’s chicken coop to add variety to an otherwise bland breakfast and how to make ersatz coffee from readily available stand-ins.