Zwetschgendatschi 

When Ingrid brings me a bag of Zwetschgen, we start speaking in German, reminiscing about the late summer treat, in Bavaria called Zwetschgendatschi. It is juicy plum cake that comes in many regional variations. Normally it is sold from a big baking sheet, cut into squares, sometimes also eaten with whipped cream – yum :)  At once, memories begin flowing: places in München and other cities where I grew up, studied, worked, performed, hunting for the best Zwetschgendatschi for so many years. 

 

Since my mama’s recipes don’t include this cake, Ingrid gives me her grandma’s. I have not made a yeast dough in ages, but I am determined to try. Luckily, I still have dry yeast left over from my brother’s yearly birthday care packages. I substitute the milk with hemp milk, the white flour with whole wheat flour, the sugar with brown sugar, using less of it as always. I am curious if this will work – will the dough rise? These firm damson plums from Ingrid's tree inspire me to experiment. My mother was a great baker, my brother is, too. Matthias’ Käsekuchen is the best. I myself don’t bake that often, mostly in the fall with fruit from the garden.  

 

But I really love kneading the elastic dough by hand, then letting it rise, waiting, and kneading again, digging in the heel of hand to push and stretch. Then fingertips spreading the dough thin into the baking form and up the sides, finally arranging the halved and destoned fruit tightly in circles, creating order and beauty. And then leaving it up to the gods. 

My heart harmonizes during the long gestation, in sync with the fruity fragrance coming from the oven. The Datschi  turns out vibrant, shimmering with promise – a happy hearty glow. And it tastes delicious. Texture and taste of the improvised dough are good, rustic. With a few stills I capture my first attempt at Zwetschgendatschi. Fragments and thin slivers of distant memories are surging through me, faint and vivid all at once. Ungraspable. Smiling faces, young and old mingling outdoors on plazas, in lush gardens, under chestnut trees, swinging summer dresses, swirling laughter, kids crying or shrieking with abandon, fingers and mouths tinted blue and purple. Family, friends, old times – irretrievable. Sweet and fleeting. 

 

I offer pieces to various friends, each time I explain about this special plum of late summer, and the spirit that is distilled from it, called Slivovitz or Zwetschgenwasser.  But I am aware that Zwetschgendatschi evokes these joyful feelings only in me, happy and free like only memories can be – and they cannot be really shared. The cake yes, but not the long-gone times in a far-away country and continent. For a couple days, an insistent and not so familiar nostalgia hangs around, heightened by being an immigrant, wild at sea. And an emigrant. Having left behind voluntarily the motherland with its culture and customs, its language and leisurely pleasures.

  

Now old here – far away from my birth country – there is no return. Only the bittersweet glancing back with gratitude, silent pauses, wistful sighs. (Not in the habit of engaging in nostalgia, I rarely allow it space, but maybe it is time to accept its surprises and nourishment.) Lingering aromas and tastes, lose threads and sensual shreds, all receding into the Bay Area fog of night. A long way back to shivering youth, dark night follies, swimming in smooth lakes, floating under indifferent stars. We all carry those long-ago treasures in our chest, time flows beneath our skin, evaporates. And sometimes we bake a cake that rips us open. Life’s beauty shines through, past, present and future unite – how can we resist… 

 

What are your forgotten treasures?

(not the old stories repeated a million times, but the buried sweet secrets...)