Sommertagszug and Reisfleisch

Burning the snowman. Apparently it’s almost spring. That’s what I’m being told, and the calendar agrees. Germany is already preparing to parade winter through the streets (literally) and set it on fire (also literally). Meanwhile, here in Wales, it’s just wet. But not in a dramatically stormy kind of wet. Just a persistent, cling-to-your-socks kind of damp that makes you question every life decision that led you outdoors.Two weeks ago, in what I can only describe as seasonal optimism, I cut the grass. It may have been February, but a break in the rain fueled my enthusiasm for a tidy yard. My old lawnmower did the job, but I suspect it viewed the entire event as a betrayal. It has since retired without notice. Unlikely anything to do with the previously 6-inch high wet grass… So now I’ve ordered a new one. It's battery-powered, sleek, and suspiciously modern. It arrives tomorrow, and I’m choosing to see this as an early declaration of springtime rather than an overreaction to a break in the clouds. In parts of Germany, they don’t wait around for better weather. They host the Sommertagszug, a spring parade where winter is symbolically marched through town in the form of a snowman and ceremonially burned. It’s hard not to respect a tradition that says, “Enough,” and lights a bonfire to make a point. I briefly considered offering my old mower as a tribute to the changing season in a dramatic garden pyre. A sort of cleansing flame. Then I remembered the leftover oil and gas still inside, and the minor issue of not wanting to explain myself to the fire department. So instead, I’ll settle for charging the battery on its replacement and staring suspiciously at the clouds. My dad had his own version of the seasonal transition. The moment winter loosened its grip, even slightly, he’d swap snowblowers for mowers and snowshovels for rakes. It could still be cold enough to question your circulation, but he’d be outside in overalls and a t-shirt, clearing away debris like an uncaged lion. And once he came back in, there was a good chance he’d make Reisfleisch. It’s one of those German dishes that doesn’t try too hard to be good. Rice, meat, onions, and tomatoes. That’s pretty much it. He learned it from his Mutti and taught it to us in the same tone he used for explaining how to change the oil or fell a tree. There was no flourish or unnecessary steps, just quiet competence. While I was writing about the Sommertagszug, it struck me that while not all of us have access to a parade and a flammable snowman, most of us do have a stove. If winter insists on lingering, you can at least counter it with something warm and solid. Reisfleisch does that nicely. It’s hearty without being fussy, and comforting without taking ten steps to get there (only four, actually). There’s a reason these kinds of recipes stick around and carry a memory. They feel like continuity. You make them in March when the sky can’t make up its mind and you need something reliable. So that’s my plan. Tomorrow, a new lawnmower arrives as a symbol of forward motion. As for tonight, I’ll drive out winter quietly with a skillet on the stove. There won't be a parade, but it's a gas stovetop… so technically, there will be a fire. If the sun shows up tomorrow, great. And if not, at least I’ll be fed. Herzliche Grüße, Eran Fulson

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Sommertagszug and Reisfleisch

Burning the snowman.

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