Category Archives: Funny Stories

Adventures having very little to do with Germany.

The Perfect Latte Macchiato: My German Wife’s Top 10 Attempts to Make This Elusive Coffee Beverage

The term latte macchiato translates disturbingly to stained milk. It is a coffee beverage prepared by adding espresso to foamed milk, and true coffee nerds like to pour the espresso in gently, so it floats between the liquid milk below and the frothed milk above. When done correctly, the layers stay separate, like an adorable little metaphor for racial segregation. You can buy these cups of Apartheid for $5.00+ at Starbucks, or you can just make them yourself at home. (Or you can be like me, and not drink them at all because you don’t give one piece of flying monkey shit about coffee anyway.)

My wife takes great pride in preparing her own latte macchiatos. (And then telling me how much money she’s saving every… single… time.) She uses this little reverse espresso thingie, which sits directly on the stove and bubbles the water up through the grounds. Check it out:

italian-espresso-maker

But the problem has always been how to properly froth the milk. My wife started out using an absolute piece of garbage milk foamer, which looked like this:

handheld-milk-foamer-device

…but the foaming process took so long our breakfast would get cold and then I’d get all hungry and pissed off, like a little bitch. So thankfully, my wife graduated to a real milk foamer, which looks like this:

tchibo-milk-foamer-milchschaumer

Aww yeah! This thing can foam the shit out of some milk. It’s from a chain of German coffee retailers called Tchibo, which, inexplicably, sells completely unrelated products as well. One week you can roll into Tchibo for some coffee and a complete set of running gear, and the next you’ll get your coffee while enjoying a sale on electronic gadgets. Makes no sense to me. All I know is the logo — which is supposed to be a steaming coffee bean — looks more like a smoking vagina after a particularly exhausting porno shoot.

 

So anyway, my wife has been making these stupid coffee drinks for herself every weekend since we moved into our new house. She’s the only one who drinks them; I just take pictures of her efforts so I can mock them. What follows is a list of my German wife’s top 10 attempts to make the perfect latte macchiato:

#10

Perfect-Latte-Macchiato-10

Oh come on, honey! That looks like a glass full of toilet water! There’s hardly even any foam on top, and that gradient from milk to espresso… for shame. I cannot award this attempt with anything higher than 1 out of 5 Merkel Diamonds:

Merkel-Diamonds-1-of-5

#9

Perfect-Latte-Macchiato-9

Dear God, this one’s about to spill over! And I bet I’ll be the one to clean it up! What is that coming out of the top anyway? A stool sample from the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man? 1 out of 5 Merkel Diamonds for you!

Merkel Diamond from Angela Merkel, Prime Minister of Germany

#8

Perfect-Latte-Macchiato-8

Alright, now this one is lookin’ better. I don’t see any spillage, and the foam has a nice, non-fecal shape. But dude, there’s more espresso in there than milk! The ideal proportions should be 1:1, or so say the rules I just totally made up. This one scores 2 out of 5 Merkel Diamonds.

Merkel Diamond from Angela Merkel, Prime Minister of Germany

#7

Perfect-Latte-Macchiato-7

Now we’re gettin’ somewhere. Nice rounded foam top. Visible gradient lines between milk and espresso. The ratio is still off, however, and I know you’re better than that. Again, 2 out of 5 Merkel Diamonds.

Merkel Diamond from Angela Merkel, Prime Minister of Germany

#6

Perfect-Latte-Macchiato-6

Wow! Excellent foam, better ratio. Your technique has really improved, my dear. But what is that brown streak running down the side? Looks like a skid mark. Filthy, but much improved. You’ve earned 3 out of 5 Merkel Diamonds with this one.

Merkel Diamond from Angela Merkel, Prime Minister of Germany

#5

Perfect-Latte-Macchiato-5

Solid foam top, distinct layering and a decent milk-to-espresso ratio — although a bit heavy on the espresso. But my main concern is THAT GIANT FESTERING TUMOR ON THE SIDE. Are you really gonna drink that, honey? Better lance it first and then cauterize the wound. Jesus Christ. 3 out of 5 Merkel Diamonds.

Merkel Diamond from Angela Merkel, Prime Minister of Germany

#4

Perfect-Latte-Macchiato-4

I like where your head is at: good ratios, graceful foam formation and no malignant tumors. But what’s with the turbo skid mark? Looks like my undies after an hour on the stationary bike. “Honey, I sure hope today is laundry day!”

This one kicks it up a notch to 4 out of 5 Merkel Diamonds.

Merkel Diamond from Angela Merkel, Prime Minister of Germany

#3

Perfect-Latte-Macchiato-3

Again, I’m not a big fan of the skid marks down the side, but I must applaud your attention to detail. The foam comes to a pleasing apex, and the espresso is clearly separate from the milk. (Though you’re still using enough milk to drown a dairy cow.) 4 out of 5 Merkel Diamonds.

Merkel Diamond from Angela Merkel, Prime Minister of Germany

#2

Perfect-Latte-Macchiato-2

Oooo! Now that looks professional! I hate to see that little brown star on the side, and the milk could be in better balance with the espresso, but still, great work! The ratio is still too heavy on the milk, however, and the German I married would never settle for second best. That’s why you get 4 out of 5 Merkel Diamonds, mein Schatz.

Merkel Diamond from Angela Merkel, Prime Minister of Germany

#1

Perfect-Latte-Macchiato-1

Ahhhh, perfection. Look at that generous heap of milk foam. It’s like a pile of baby dreams. And the milk-to-espresso ratio? Perfect. Why, you can even see two distinct layers in the coffee. It’s a two-tone work of art! Congratulations, my little German wife, you’ve finally achieved 5 out of 5 Merkel Diamonds.

Merkel Diamond from Angela Merkel, Prime Minister of Germany

But what do you think, Dear Reader? Which of these 10 latte macchiatos is the best one? The comment section is open, and we’ve even got a survey in which to make your preference known!

 

If you liked this post, there’s a solid chance you’ll dig this one too: My German Wife Attempts to Reheat A Soft Boiled Egg in the Microwave

 


 

My German Wife Puts a Dead Cat in the Microwave

leschi-warming-pillow-warmekissen-black

*hissssss*

Okay, so I may have exaggerated a little with the title of this post, but check it out; this thing is flat as a pancake, jet black, and it never moves… just like a real dead cat!

What you’re seeing above is a Leschi Wärmekissen — or microwaveable warming pillow — which my wife received from her parents for her birthday. (Until this year, I had no idea you could warm yourself using bags of wheat shaped like roadkill. It’s just so grim and humorless. God I love this country.)

So my wife gets this thing and, because she’s a huge philosophy nerd, promptly names it “Minerva.” Minerva was the Roman version of the Greek goddess Athena, and Athena was the goddess of wisdom, courage, inspiration, civilization, law and justice, strategic warfare, mathematics, strength, strategy, the arts, crafts, and… you know what? They should have just named her “Miscellaneous.”

My wife took Minerva into the kitchen, put her in the microwave and zapped her ass for exactly one and a half minutes. She then shook the bejeezus out of the poor thing — mixing all the wheat kernels inside — and gave her another minute and a half. When Minerva finally came out of the microwave, she was hot. Like, surprisingly hot, and growing hotter with every passing second. My wife wrapped the thing around my neck and exactly three thoughts sprang into my mind:

  1. I am impressed because it is burning me.
  2. The kernels inside are seeping moisture onto my neck.
  3. Are children allowed to use warming pillows? I mean, you just know there’s gonna be a lawsuit after a little kid gets a hold of one of these things and gleefully wraps molten grain around his jugular…

So we placed Minerva in a dish rag and that helped with the moisture. It also helped keep her from blistering the skin over my vertebrae. I really was impressed though: the warming pillow kept its heat for almost an hour. Here is the sequence of events:

leschi-warming-pillow-wrapped-in-towel

“Wait! Stop! I am not a burrito!”

leschi-warming-pillow-in-microwave-with-towel

“This is a joke, right? Ha ha, guys. Very funny.”

leschi-warming-pillow-in-microwave

“Oh God, it burns! You sons of bitches, it burrrrns!”

Once Minerva began to cool, I went back into the kitchen and attempted to reheat her myself. And since I am American, I figured, hell, more is better, right? Wouldn’t the heat last even longer if I were to leave her in the microwave for, say, two and a half minutes at a time? And that’s how I managed to turn Minerva into “Popcorn Minerva.”

Ever since that day, she has smelled exactly like scorched popcorn, which is how she became more my birthday present than my wife’s. I’m the only one who uses the foul-smelling thing. I keep Popcorn Minerva stuffed into the back of my hood, which is pulled up over my head all day long as I work. The smell permeates my hoodie and seeps into every pore of my skull, so when my wife comes home at the end of the day, she pulls my hood back, sniffs my forehead and tells me I smell, “like an old man.”

This one is totally my fault. I can only award myself 1 out of 5 Merkel Diamonds for the manner in which I destroyed my wife’s birthday present this year:

Merkel-Diamonds-1-of-5

(I get one diamond for effort. If the cat had burst into flames, I would have earned at least 3 for style.)

 

Would you like to read another post about life in Germany? You might dig this one: Culture Shock: Even More Things That Suck About Living in Germany

Bachelor Week: American Man in Germany Left to His Own Devices for 7 Days

german-beer-grafenwalder-mini-keg-pils-fass

Recently, my German wife went on a field trip with one of her Gymnasium classes to Poland. This allowed me a full week in which to eat, sleep, work and relax in exactly the manner I wished. No opinions. No objections. What followed were 7 days of ‘Me Time,’ and shit got weird fast.

Day 1

Woke up. Left the bed unmade and felt like a badass about it. (But still a little guilty.)

Tried to open the blinds and accidentally broke one.

broken-window-shade-blind

Went to the gym, worked out and showered. Decided not to shave my chin whiskers all week as a kind of repulsive welcome home gift for my wife. (The last time I did this, she stated flatly, “You look like a goat.”

Breakfast, lunch and dinner were all ritualistically drowned in Sriracha hot sauce.

hot-sauce-sriracha-and-tapatio-bottles

Day 2

Woke up. Made half of the bed, because… fuck it, right?

Took a picture of myself with my wife’s pink panties on my head and my eyes peering out through the leg holes… kind of like the world’s fruitiest ninja. I then emailed the picture to her and decided I am the funniest man alive.

Ate all of my meals with a near-lethal dose of Tapatio hot sauce.

vietnamese-food-bowl-with-sriracha-hot-sauce

Finally returned that gigantic container full of empty beer bottles (Bierkasten) to Edeka. A clerk showed me how to slide the whole thing into the recycling machine, which felt uncomfortably like hand-feeding Optimus Prime.

Walked home and dropped a spicy deuce in the main bathroom downstairs with the window completely open, giving myself a panoramic view of our entire back yard. The old couple living in the house to my left — and the kindergarten full of children to my right — should have (theoretically) only been able to see my smiling face.

Day 3

Woke up. Drank coffee mixed with tea. (I call this “Super Tea.”)

coffee-and-tea-mixed-funny-bachelor-pad

Talked to myself for an hour and a half. My monologue ended abruptly when the mailman rang the bell, scaring me so badly I spilled Super Tea all down my front.

Examined my facial hair in the mirror. I’d been hoping for the “rugged cowboy” look, but things were headed more toward “dandy Englishman.”

Went to the store, bought supplies and made the largest, spiciest batch of chili ever. (The seasoning mix was courtesy of one of my favorite blog readers, whom I’ve actually met and befriended in real life. I call him, “Texas Hagrid.”) I wore my trusty onion goggles as I cut the onions, because if I don’t, my eyes sting and water uncontrollably. (Because I’m a huge pussy, you see.) Cooked the chili and then tasted it — still boiling hot — and seared the sweet holy Jesus out of my mouth.

D-L-Jardins-authentic-texas-chili-fixins making-chili-in-germany-home-made blanching-tomatoes-for-texas-chili-in-germany onion-goggles-tear-free chili-bowl-with-beans-non-texas

Watched the same 3 Best of Vine videos for the 10,000th time each and laughed merrily:

1: Baby Sitting Caucasian Kids
2: The moment I finally catch that mosquito, I feel like a NINJA!
3: Beautiful NBA Basketball Game Song (AKA: Best vine ever)

Day 4

Woke up in a terrible mood. The whole world could really just kiss my lumpy white ass, you know? I think it was due to the fact that I went to sleep pissed off because my internet connection would not allow me to Skype with my wife the night before. We tried everything, and it was terribly frustrating. Obviously this gave me license to be a complete cock to every single person I encountered, overreacting to every petty annoyance with volcanic rage:

Old person walking in the middle of the bike lane so I can’t pass him? “STEP ASIDE, SHORT-TIMER.”

Bike pedal slowly coming unscrewed and I know I don’t have the right wrench at home to tighten it? “I KNEW YOU’D FAIL ME, YOU SECOND-HAND PIECE OF DOG SHIT.”

Bike store closed from 1pm until 3pm, like this is some kind of siesta culture? “OH FUCK YOU, DIETER. I HOPE YOUR SLEEP APNEA PLAYS HELL WITH YOUR QUALITY OF LIFE.”

Day 5

Woke up, went to the gym, showered and then sent the following text message to my wife: “I just finished washing my pink nutsack and I am thinking of you!”

Worked all day, getting up from my desk only to use the bathroom or peer suspiciously out the window at the slightest noise from the outside world. My neighbor closed the door of his car and I was certain I’d heard a gunshot. The joyous laughter of the children in school next door hit my ears like nails on a chalkboard. I felt like everyone in the neighborhood was watching me, judging me for watching them, so I left all the lights off and stroked my chin hairs in the dark. Time to start writing my manifesto condemning industrial society!

Ate 5 scrambled eggs for dinner, cooked with a big slab of pig fat. What? I just greased the pan with the fat — I didn’t actually eat it. Okay, so I did. Then I washed it all down with a full liter of tap water and felt sick to my stomach. You’re not better than me.

scrambling-eggs-with-pork-fat-hot-stuff-spatula

Day 6

Woke up to find all of my upper body muscles so sore from the gym I could hardly move (though I managed to hit the snooze button on my alarm 3 times.)

Came home and — like every day since my wife’s departure — ate all of my meals drenched in hot sauce. This culminated in an intense burning sensation within every organ south of my nipples. Obviously I chose to ignore this warning sign and go about my day. At one point, I got up to urinate and, thinking I needed to pass some innocent gas, flexed a little. It was not gas. There was an incendiary round in the chamber, and it had gone off right in my undies. I jumped in the shower, put on a fresh set of clothing and accepted the fact that I am the most disgusting man on the planet.

hot-sauce-tapatio-and-sriracha-empty

Purchased a mini keg of beer. Oh yes! Five whole liters of sweet golden honey all to myself! And no one around to tell me, “You’ve had enough, Dear,” “It’s time to go home,” or, “Your right eye is starting to wander again.”

german-beer-grafenwalder-mini-keg-pils-fass

Wound up going to a party with my friend and took the mini keg with me as the greatest party gift ever. Everyone loved it, except the birthday girl, whom I accidentally sprayed across the tits because I had no idea how to open the keg properly.)

Day 7

Today… The Wife came home. Oh. Shit.

The house was a mess. All of the bathrooms qualified as biohazards and the kitchen should have been quarantined. This is exactly what happened the last time my wife went out of town! Why do I do this to myself!?

I swept the stairs with a brush and dustpan, wiped a sponge around the toilet seats and ran around the house with a broom like I was herding dust bunnies. I jammed all the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and punched the ON button, grabbed the trash and tossed it into the bins outside, then sprinted with all of the empty glass bottles to the recycling bins down the street and Hulk-smashed the shit out of them. Ran back home, folded the laundry, threw the bed together and fluffed the pillows on the couch. If she didn’t look too closely, my wife might have been fooled by this facade into thinking the house was in order. Nope. She saw right through it. And you know what she said when I met her at the train station?

THE WIFE: “You grew out your beard! You’re my little wolfman, aren’t you…”

ME: *Blushing like a girl and trying to hide my smile* “… Yes ...”

 polish-beer-debowe-mocne-and-zubr

When we got home, my wife presented me with several bottles of Polish beer to try. She is so awesome I could just cry. And I am, in fact, crying right now as I type this. (Which is probably due to the fact that the party last night left me deeply, profoundly, level 10, Red Alert hungover.)

I love you honey! *sniff* Please don’t ever leave me alone again!

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