The Sweet Sides of Bitter

By Krista

The story of a young girl growing up in the war torn German metropolis of Berlin is factually correct. Her strict and disciplined upbringing and the mortal fear of nightly bombings causes her to be nervous and shy. She soon finds solace in nature while she learns to harvest the bounty of the nearby forest for nutrition that calms the ever present gnawing of her hungry stomach.

The story makes reference to some historical events post war Europe and the struggle for an apprentice position in food education. With a sense of adventure and a tongue and cheek humor the reader joins her on a journey to America. Participate in the wide eyed wonders of getting to know different cultures, different foods and a new language. The detour into motherhood, while balancing a cottage industry, makes for some zany moments. Finally, tragedy and personal challenges are touching events, but they open the field of experiences in the world of food professionals. The mental and physical stress, as well as the ambitious rush of adrenalin so typical in the service industry, often causes hilarious and at times serious happenings behind the kitchen doors. Sharing in the experiences and the knowledge of different food professionals will interest any food enthusiast.

The different segments of the books chapters are preceded by poetic stanzas which describe the part of her life following. Traveling with food in mind and an original formula for cold raised yeast pastry, ends the story of a German immigrant who adopted Texas as her home, while discovering the sweet sides of bitter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468574852

Krista

Born and educated in Berlin, Germany as Christa Doberschuetz, she obtained an early interest in the food industry by environmental exposure to her parents occupation. Her early life was filled with daily uncertainties in her home life as well as prevalent war conditions. Conversations of historic events overheard as a child made sense in her home later life. She completed her formal training after the war ended and was awarded her Journeymanship papers from the department of labor in Berlin, Germany. She met and married R.N. Flores, of the U.S. Army, while stationed in Germany in 1953 and followed her husband to Edinburg, Texas. While raising five children there, Chef Krista continued her studies and also actively participated in several community organizations. In 1963, she ventured into her own catering and baking business and in 1969 added a research and test kitchen where she conducted gourmet classes for adults. Krista also lectured at the Pan American University of Edinburg during five summer sessions. From 1973 to1978, she owned and operated, Kristas German Restaurant and Pastry Shop, then went on as a Pastry Chef for a country club in McAllen, Texas until 1980. Becoming a widow at that time, she sought solace in managing a bistro in McAllen until 1983. Moving to Houston for a year as a personal chef, she was drawn back to McAllen to accept a position as Chef-Manager in a rustic restaurant and bar. Then as a self employed Pastry Chef at Large, she contracted out her services to many hotels and fine restaurants for special event cakes and pastries and accepted seasonal assignments. She also taught night classes at a vocational institute in Harlingen, Texas. In 1990, she remarried to a Mr. E.G. Holmes. During that same year she was struck with an ocular disease which left her legally blind. She learned to make use of modern technology and after an adjustment period, accepted a contract as Special Events Coordinator at the Community Hotel and Conference Center in her town. After two years, Krista also added a summer position as the Executive Chef at a prominent golf resort lodge in Wisconsin to which she returned for five seasons. She then settled fulltime into her position at the local Community Hotel and Conference Center where she remained for the next thirteen years. Finding herself widowed again, she decided to record the highlights of her busy life and devote more of her time to leisure and to family. She still enjoys directing an occasional special event and is frequently asked to consult and help plan events. She is still involved in local and state and conferences of her profession. She has been a member of different civic organizations as well as the Pan American Round Table, the Texas P.T.A., the Hidalgo Historical Museum Guild, the Alliance Francaise and the Retail Bakers Association. She is an honorary, retired member of the Texas Chefs Association (TCA) and the American Culinary Federation (ACF) which includes the Les Amies de Escoffier Society. She is also an accredited retired certified executive pastry chef (CEPC).

Book preview

Table of Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

FOREWORD

In 1934, I was born at a time when all seemed right….

PART I–MY EARLY YEARS

1. THROUGH THE SWINGING DOOR

2. TASTING THE BITTER

3. THE APPRENTICESHIP YEARS

4. JOURNEY TO AMERICA

Nevertheless…in marriage, I bowed to a loving hand…

PART II–DETOUR INTO MOTHERHOOD

5. NEW ENDEAVORS

6. REVISITING GERMANY

7. ENTERING THE COMMERCIAL WORLD

The Culinary Federation of America beckoned…

PART III–IN THE RANKS OF THE WHITE COATS

8. ENTERING THE BIG GAME

9. THE WORLD IN A BISTRO

10. THE ESCOFFIER DINNER

11. ON TUFF TURF

12. IN THE PITTS

13. ROMANCE WITH MEXICO

14. IN THE DOUGH

15. WORKING AS A TEAM

16. CONTINUING EDUCATION

17. THE HUNTING LODGE

18. ANOTHER KIND OF CHALLENGE

19. A VISIT FROM MY PAST

20. SERVING TWO MASTERS

21. GATHERING SWEET MEMORIES

ART IV–TRAVELING & TASTING IN RETIREMENT

22. A) LAS VEGAS

      B) Alaska

PART V–RECIPE FROM THE TEST KITCHEN

BLITZ DOUGH

REFLECTIONS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

For the support and mentoring of many individuals and food professionals during my career, I will always be thankful and able to pass on the same. The encouragement of my colleagues caused me not to give up when my eyesight was failing. Through my family’s understanding and interest in my profession, I was able to succeed. My sister-in-law, a retired teacher, got me organized in the initial start up of this book. My daughter, Diane, also a teacher, has contributed valuable tips and suggestions. My son, Robin, with his expertise in media communication, gave me sound critique and to my grandson, Delton, who owns www.deltonchildsmediaservice.com who created a website for me. My daughters, Barbara, Siegrid, Gretchen and her husband Randy, are my daily support system for which my gratitude can hardly find words.

Of course my special thanks goes to my daughter, Gretchen, who’s collaboration with me on this manuscript took a great number of hours out of her busy life; truly a labor of love. With a grateful heart, I dedicate these writings to my close friends, to my family as well as to food lovers of all ages.

FOREWORD

Success and happiness is a personal measure of the quality in time and effort spent while the sands of time in life’s hourglass slip by. Sweet are the moments of joy in accomplishment of a job well done and sweet is the memory of laughter shared with the people we love. Sweet is also the feeling of having survived the bitter blows that life must deal us to test our fortitude and acceptance of what cannot be changed. Finally looking back, success is a life well lived.

My hope is that my memoirs in the field of food shall encourage and motivate the reader in times of bitter setbacks, to not let them mar the soul, but to reach for the core of survival to find joy in new beginnings and to accept the challenge of searching for the feeling of sweet satisfaction in accomplishing the task of being productive each day.

Before WWII, there was unrest in Europe, full of protest and fear.

Bread lines were long and war was near.

The people were burning with desire to rise

against noble oppression and slow demise.

They were willing to believe in HIM, who spoke so strong.

They unknowingly followed a path of wrong,

Folks blindly believed in the light of tomorrow

with courage and hope, forgetting all sorrow.

In 1934, I was born at a time when all seemed right.

My father was working and the future looked bright,

but my parent’s horizon clouded over again

and domestic bliss was about to wane.

Turbulence followed with struggle and tears.

Dad and I stayed together for a few brief years.

I was not yet six when a new mom was selected,

but my time of joy ran out when least expected.

Into a grey mass of soldiers my dad was inducted,

as we watched and waved till his face was obstructed.

The tear streaked white kerchiefs of those who remained

seemed like a sea of white doves mournfully contained.

Life continued. New regulations and rules,

strictly enforced as Government tools.

Soon there were sirens interrupting our slumber.

We dressed in the dark and hurried down under

into the basement so damp

taking towels and gasmasks, but never a lamp.

Women at work as nurses and cooks,

children in schools and in young people’s groups.

Old men assigned as neighborhood guards,

to darken the streets in all city wards.

As the bombs whistled past and hit nearby,

the radio preached about the People’s Partei!

Six years passed, I was now eleven.

Waking from a night’s sleep, I looked up to heaven.

It was not heaven – but Hell I had seen!

The sky was a flickering inferno, as the city was burning.

Cannon fire resounding, as we were learning…

that the end was now near.

Still the radio demanded that the people must fight

to the last drop of blood with all their might.

As the ruler expired, a new world unfolded.

Wounds had to heal, but new friendships were molded.

My dad returned safely, when I was fifteen.

It was joyful but different, nine years lay between.

Goods were still scarce; the Black Market was soaring,

and people were quiet, no one was roaring.

In silence, ashamed and dismayed

by their own enthusiasm they felt betrayed.

In the next generation, a new seed was born

of compassion for the pain of the weary and worn.

Berlin was rebuilt and my studies renewed,

I entered the world of fashion and food.

My continued education in English and French

completed the picture of a cultured wench.

It so happened that the destiny I was to fulfill

led me far from my homeland; unsure of my will

to leave behind that which I knew

and to take a chance on an unknown view.

PART I–MY EARLY YEARS

1. THROUGH THE SWINGING DOOR

In my earliest recollections as a three year old, I am perched on a high countertop in a huge kitchen where white clad men in tall white hats are scurrying around and always finding a moment to slip a little morsel to me. I sat obediently, my eyes intently focused on the constantly swinging door, which separated me from my father; catching an occasional glimpse of him while he greeted and seated the guests in front of the house at the prestigious Café des Westens on the Kurfuerstendam in Berlin, Germany. Who could have guessed, that this setting might have left an impression that would influence my later life. I had been the prize he so vehemently fought for and won in a bitter divorce, scenes which are but flashes in my memory. He felt so sure that he was the only one who could assure a proper upbringing for me. Now, however; he was at a loss as to my care during his working hours. For a short while I slept on a cot at the foot of his bed in the small, one room apartment he shared in shifts with one of his night working colleagues. Sometimes my dad would have me wait for him at the revolving door of the restaurant entrance when his day shift ended. I always waited patiently, but one day the man that delivered newspaper bundles told me to follow him on his route. I knew not to go anywhere with a stranger, but I saw him everyday, laughing and joking with everyone. He did not seem like a stranger to me. Feeling a little bit bored, I joyfully agreed, hopping on and off the streetcar at all of his stops. The man left me outside of each café where I obediently waited for him to return. Suddenly, I saw my panic stricken and furious looking dad jump off the moving streetcar and just as the man appeared, he was flattened to the ground with one punch of my father’s big hands. Soon after this worrisome incident, he found a children’s home for me to stay. The traumatic separation from my father at that time certainly left yet another indelible impression on me. There must have been painful marks on my small fists from hammering against the high, massively carved door which had closed behind him. A terrible feeling of abandonment, anger and extreme frustration made me rebel in a wild frenzy. I was led into a large hall filled with rows and rows of white cots. There I was made to lie down until I could behave. As soon as a woman with a long dark apron had closed the door, I sat up to think and try to understand my surroundings. I knew that I was helpless against this grown-up world. The only way to survive was to obey. Visits from my dad became more painful each time for both of us. Every time he had to leave he would purposely not turn to look back, no matter how long I stayed and waited for another glance. One day, the housemother with the big apron brought a lady to me and announced, This is your mother. You may go with her for a walk. I did not recognize her. I hadn’t seen her since I was two years old, but I was happy to go with her. This lady who professed to be my mother gave me chocolate and told me that she missed me. We then rode in the subway train, but I do not remember much of what happened later only that my father located me again and enrolled me into another children’s home. One afternoon, as I was outside on the playground, I saw my mother again. She waved for me to come closer to her. Then, taking my hand, we ran to catch a streetcar. Somehow my dad always found me. Now, as the last resort, my ailing Aunt Elly agreed to keep me safe. She was widowed and a mother of a boy about ten or eleven years older than I. Her luxury apartment was located on the third floor of a 19th century building. Wide marble stairs led up to the first landing. A staircase, flanked by colorful stained glass windows, ascended upward throughout all floor levels. I liked it there, although I was a little frightened going downstairs. In her apartment there were two spacious rooms appointed with carpets, paintings and tapestries. The comfortable sitting areas felt inviting. I especially loved the balcony overlooking the street in front from where I could see a large part of the city below. From the kitchen window located at the back of the dwelling, I was allowed to watch the recycling man on certain days making his rounds throughout the courtyards chanting loudly: Iron, Paper, Rags and Bones, over and over again. The most anticipated visitor, however; was always the organ man with his cute little monkey. I could hardly wait for my aunt to wrap a coin in paper for me to throw down and then watch the monkey run to retrieve it. The monkey would hand it to his owner. The man always acknowledged the donation by tipping his hat toward my window. My dad visited often to read a fairytale from the big book of the Brothers Grimm. The only pest in my new life was my teenage cousin, Gerhard, who delighted in teasing me mercilessly. On some special Sundays my dad would join my aunt, taking my cousin and me to a lovely resort island at the outskirts of the city. The island was accessible by a lake cruiser. Built by the King of Prussia, Frederick the Great, the French name Sans Souci, implied a care free stay. The nearby Peacock Island was also on the agenda to see. I loved it. When I tried to chase the birds into strutting their beautiful feathers into a defensive position; I often was able to plunder one of them for my souvenir. These were sweet and precious moments we all enjoyed not realizing that they would never return. In time, dad was able to persuade a capable and efficient woman who worked as a kitchen garde manger to be my stepmother.

2. TASTING THE BITTER

We moved into a three story town house in a beautiful suburb of the city with color co-coordinated rows of town houses on the edge of a well known pine forest and a large lake. A small medieval hunting castle was nestled there and was still used to house riding horses. Making the rounds in the neighborhood on my father’s hand, I told everyone we met that I was 5 years old, and we were getting married