Happy Hour and Frisky Little Titties


Occupation of Germany post WWII

In the early seventies Germany was very much an occupied country. According to Wikipedia, at one time there were over 196 military “installations,” which could be anything from an army barracks to a training area, storage facility or depot. Gradually they’ve been closed or consolidated; today there are only 42 and that number will be dropping in the next couple of years unless the cold war heats up. Let’s hope, dear God, it does not.

The only Americans who really understand what it’s like to live an occupied county are Native Americans. The rest of us cannot imagine having foreign troops on our soil, driving their tanks down our roads, building their bases on land that could be used for housing, disrupting our festivals, and, in many cases, sadly, raping our women. I’m not saying it wasn’t necessary to have so many troops stationed there. I’m just saying it affected the psyche of both the occupiers and the occupied. From the German perspective: Americans bought their food cheaply on army bases, received gas coupons to alleviate the exorbitant price of petro, and, with the money they were saving, hired local women to scrub their toilets.

Happy Hour

The college students I met reacted by becoming well versed on American atrocities and thus were more than happy to jump at the chance to point out just what an evil group of materialistic, war-mongers we Americans were. I’d been raised politely and thus didn’t point out Germany’s recent past, besides I knew they were lashing out however they could. And the Americans? Well, they tried to maintain little oceans of Americana on the bases – softball games, Indian Princesses, Cub Scouts and of course that very necessary of American traditions: Happy Hour.

It was the night of a thousand peanuts; casings and skins littered the bar and floor. When one bowl emptied, another was brought forth from beneath the bar to replace it as gin and tonics replaced Heinekens, shirts were loosened, ties were flung to the side, and jokes became raunchier and raunchier. Happy hour at the officers’ club was in full swing.

This week I’m throwing in an extra excerpt from the Graduation Present.  Our young protagonist (Riley) has just been picked up from the airport by her uncle and they’re driving through the German countryside to his home.  The captivating Gil and Oncle Boob are in the front seat chatting as Riley enjoys the scenery from the back.

This green landscape seemed so clean, so pure. The land of happy villagers, peaceful, loving peasants and urbane, chic, and sophisticated Europeans. I’d arrived.
“Gilberto, did you get a look at the knockers on Lou’s new secretary?” Uncle Bob blurted out, destroying my revelry.
“Molly, you mean Molly, right?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s her name. You know, the big ones are fun to cuddle but there is something to be said for frisky little titties. The French have a saying that the perfect size tit fits into a champagne glass. What do you think of that Gilberto? You like the little bitty titties?”
“Ah, Uncle Bob. I’m in the backseat,” I reminded him.
“So? You got a thing against tits?”
“I can’t believe I actually thought you were a spy.”
UncleBobSpies don’t like tits?”

Through Other Eyes

The first time I went to Europe, so full of romantic illusions and so desperately naive that it’s painful to think back upon that time, many things took me by surprise. First, it wasn’t Disneyland.

"Jan at fifteen"  by Connemoira

“Jan at fifteen” by Connemoira

Second, the war which seemed so long ago to me, still hung over the continent as if it had happened the day before I arrived.  I will never forget seeing WWII, not from across an ocean, but through the eyes of people who’d lived through it and for whom it remained a constant shadow.

However, what gave me the most pause were the lowered expectations of the young people I met. In America, everyone wants to be a movie star or athlete. In America, it’s drummed into our heads that not only could everyone go to college but everyone should want to go to college, as well as buy a house, a car, twelve television sets and membership at the local golf course. To do otherwise was – for my generation – lazy, degenerate behavior, ultimately resulting in a life spent on the street with a bottle of gin hidden in a paper bag.

Thus, running into young villagers perfectly happy to remain at home, with a life no better than their parents, caused me to rethink American values.

I lived in a village unchanged for hundreds of years and populated by people of Slavic descent who’d migrated there for political reasons. As in many small villages in Europe, during the day there were practically no young people on the streets, only old women tending small children. The parents of the children and young people old enough to work, commuted to one of the larger cities nearby.villagepeg

I met Inga and Hans only because they were both on vacation; he was on leave from the army and she was taking a short breather before training to become a shop clerk. They lived with their folks and had no immediate plans to move out. Nor was college or a car a remote possibility.

From the Graduation Present: It depressed me to see young people my age without the hunger to change the world or to rise up the ladder to what we in American defined as success; more money, more power; greater knowledge than our parents. But, on the other hand, they were happy, content, and secure, on a path that wouldn’t lead to an uncomfortable place. I envied them in a way. If I told my parents: “I just want to live with you the rest of my life, work in the local store, maybe travel a bit,” they’d blow a gasket.

I regret to say that after I returned stateside, I got a letter from Inga and Hans asking if they could stay with me when they came to the United States. My life was then in such flux that I never responded.

Oncle Boob’s Fest Hopping Strategy

I found out the hard way that in many parts of the world smiling at strangers is considered very odd behavior –

Grandmother after more than a few vodkas.

Grandmother after more than a few vodkas.

which presented a problem for me as my father had ground into my head from early on that frowning causes your jowls to droop prematurely and if I didn’t maintain a cheerful countenance at all times I would look like my grandmother.

Riley O (in the Graduation Present) is similarly clueless as she wanders through the tiny village where her uncle lives for the first time:

 “The square plots of yard, along with driveways and garages, began disappearing as I neared the center of town. Ancient stone buildings huddled together on the streets, forcing the few pedestrians—primarily middle-aged women dragging children behind them on leashes while juggling canvas bags full of produce—to walk in the road. They scowled at me as if I were a child murderer. They even scowled when I smiled at them.”

In Germany this no-no flies out the window during fest season, a two week long orgy of beer, wine, sex, and singing during which the entire country sheds its stoicism in favor of a frat party mentality. To illustrate this point, an indiscretion committed during fest season cannot be used as grounds for a divorce so if you’re going to cheat on your frau, do it in September. During these two weeks, villages scattered throughout the wine growing regions throw street parties featuring bratwurst smothered in onions and sauerkraut, tastings of the local wine and beer, and sometimes music. In the larger towns the fests are held in giant, circus-like tents with picnic tables, polka bands and beer maids in their sexy costumes. Everyone drinks, everyone sings and a whole lot of flirting goes on.festjpeg

Many young people engage in the sport of “fest-hopping,” mapping out routes that’ll insure they hit the most number of beer-tastings possible.  Uncle Bob (whom the villagers called Oncle Boob after his niece Riley arrives in town) is a champion fest-hopper. In the following excerpt he is forced to re-evaluate his strategy while he and Riley await the arrival of a late friend.

 He had meticulously drawn out our route the night before on a map he’d attained of all the fests in the area. He’d rated each and every one in case we weren’t able to attain his ultimate goal of visiting them all. The prize, which he held a record number of times, was bragging rights at happy hour. On his map, the Must Visit fests were circled in red while the Nice to Visits were circled in blue. Each fest was also given a priority level of one through five.
“I’d better reassess my plans,” he complained after another half hour passed. He pulled out the map and began studying his fest-hopping route with all the seriousness of a four star general planning a sneak attack against a much better equipped enemy. “The Leusdorf fest will have to be downgraded to a four. It’s too far east. We couldn’t possibly swing back to Klingerbrick and still make Rheinfell. Goddamnit Newsome! It’s almost ten!”

Excerpt: Eggs with Hats

Uncle Bob's special Eggs with Hats garnish!

Oncle Boob in the kitchen!

Eating, sleeping, taking a bath and just plain goofing off. Those are the things I do and I assume I’m not alone. However, in best-selling novels like The DaVinci Code the characters run amok for days without even taking a leak. Now I don’t think that’s a nice thing to do to one’s characters. So I always make sure to include bathrooms, kitchens and bedrooms in my stories. My inspiration for the kitchen scenes in The Graduation Present came from my dear, sweet (right!) Uncle Bob’s love affair with what he called: “Eggs with Hats.” They were also his remedy for hangovers, along with tomato juice with a sprig of celery and just a wee dash of the hair of the dog (vodka).

During the year I stayed with him I’d often wake in the middle of the night to the sound of eggs sizzling and know that he’d risen from the recliner ravenous because he’d skipped dinner in favor of a post Happy Hour snooze. Sometimes he’d be having a conversation with the nasty yellow cat who’d adopted him or listening to his favorite record at the time, Stanyan Street and Other Sorrows.

Now Eggs with Hats are quite easy to make, however I’ve seen them referred to online as “Toads in a Hole.” To the English this is a sacrilege.  A real Toad in a Hole contains sausage and Yorkshire cream and apparently takes skill to make correctly.

IMG_3367American Eggs with Hats have only three ingredients and if a man with a hangover can make them in the middle of the night, well, need I say more?

Here’s what you’ll need:

  • eggs
  • white bread (preferably Wonder Bread)
  • butter
  • a skillet
  • a stove
  • a shot glass

Perfectly made Eggs with Hats

Prep time: Depends on how much you had to drink.
Cooking time: Till done. No longer than fifteen minutes on high heat or you’ll set off the smoke detectors.



  1. Lay your pieces of bread out on the counter. Take your shot glass, turn it upside down and punch a hole through each piece of bread. Fill the shot glass with vodka and add to the tomato juice.
  2. Melt butter in skillet (use as much as you want. When butter begins sizzling, drop each piece of bread into the skillet along with cutouts (the “hats)
  3. Let crisp on both sides briefly.
  4. Crack eggs and drop them into the holes. Let eggs cook till cooked to your preference (runny or solid yolks). Remove from skillet and put the hat on the eggs.
Tip from Uncle Bob:  To make them even tastier, slather with peanut butter.

Tip from Uncle Bob: To make them even tastier, slather with peanut butter.

Now the excerpt:
“They tasted good, those eggs with hats. I ate like I hadn’t eaten for days, even soaking up the runny yolks with the crispier edges of the fried bread. It felt good to have protein in me. And real orange juice, not that orange-colored water. But it was hell waiting for Uncle Bob to come back downstairs and explain what was going on. Why did Lou Raferman have Charlie’s car towed away? Why did I have to go to Paris?
The weather had changed overnight. Frost covered the lawns. As the sky grew lighter, children rode past the house on their way to school, bundled against the cold in such a way that only their red cheeks and noses were visible. In the distance, the always-on-time train hooted through the river valley. Omie emerged to sweep her front porch, a scarf sharply tied under her chin and thick black galoshes on her tiny feet. The concrete porch wasn’t particularly dirty, but it was her habit to sweep it every morning. As she did, she took clandestine glances at Uncle Bob’s house. I figured she would be over later to question why an unmarked moving van full of soldiers had pulled into his driveway early in the morning and disappeared with a Fiat; she spoke no English and Uncle Bob, little German, so the story she would circulate through the town would probably contain no element of truth.”






Excerpt: In Honor of Those Boys


American Military Cemetery in Normandy

Ten years ago, just before the sixtieth anniversary of D-Day, my husband and I took a trip to Normandy. We stayed in the tiny fishing village of Grandcamp Maisy on the marshlands below Pointe du Hoc, a 100 foot promontory overlooking the English Channel. Because the cliff was the highest point between the beaches which came to be known as Omaha and Utah, the Germans massively fortified it.

The painting depicting the Siege of Pointe du Hoc

Every morning we would have our coffee beneath a large painting depicting the US Ranger Battalion’s insanely brave assault and capture of the pointe using ropes and other mountain climbing tools.

Anyone traveling in Europe can’t help but be reminded of the war.  Even a naive and often silly young woman, like Riley O’Tannen is profoundly affected by the stories she hears.

Omaha Beach, Normandy, France

From the Graduation Present (currently out of print)

“I thought of those young kids from small-town America, about to jump from a rattletrap plane into the unknown, for that one last moment believing Hollywood crap of fame and glory, then dropping with fewer chances than a duck in a shooting arcade into an alien land, a land they’d been assured would include cheering crowds and willing women, which they would never see because they would splat like frogs into marshes filled with dung or float to earth full of bullet holes. And they were the lucky ones.”