Sure, our washcloths had pockets. Sure, we had bratwurst and sauerkraut on cookout days. Sure, I was probably the only kid in school who had ever heard of Kinder Eggs -- a chocolate creation with little easily breakable toys inside -- and I’d probably never be able to explain why they were the best thing ever. Sure, many of my vintage children’s books were in German, one of which was about Lurchi, the salamander, who went on a plethora of wild salamander adventures and got out of life-threatening of trouble simply because he had these awesome shoes that were just really shiny and hard, and that’s how they got him out of trouble, and at the end you found out the whole book was an advertisement for this German shoe company.

I generally forget that I’m German until I’m around my mother. She's the type of person who seemed to have taken a vow at birth to feed everyone she comes across, even if they currently have something halfway down their gullet at the time. If you are in her company and not eating something, she gets nervous. You never leave her house without tupperware or at least one plastic bag.

I have not yet inherited my mother's obsession with feeding everyone, but I may be getting there. I like to cook, and I like it when people like what I cook, so the sickness is already beginning. Tonight, I realized it may be getting to a pathetic level.