Tofuwachtel

Lotti and Irmi. Sisters. They grew up in Silesia. Lotti became a seamstress and a milliner. Irmi took over her parents' flower stall at the market.

After months of trekking, and they and the horses were simply too exhausted to move on, they were assigned a room with a war widow in a small northern German town. Welcome, they were not there.

That changed only after Lotti began to sew clothes from old uniforms, sheets and blankets. So slowly she made a name for herself in the place with that. Especially since she also took on any kind of alterations. It wasn't long before Irmi had traded an old sewing machine for Lotti on the black market. She had given her earrings for it.

In general, the sisters could not have been more different.

Lotti was always elegantly dressed. Costume, preferably in a shade of yellow, matching hat, gloves. Even in the summer. Irmi loved her old trousers and the washed-out green yoke she had worn in the beginning when working in the fields, which she had taken on with a farmer. One graceful and small, the other tall and stout.

Only two things, they both had in common. Their almost water-blue eyes and a fondness for 4711.

After Lotti opened a small tailor shop and also started making hats again, the two of them moved into a tiny cottage.

The smell when you entered, I'll never forget it. Everywhere in the small rooms were small bowls, in which small cotton balls lay. These were regularly soaked with the cologne.

This tangy fresh, a very little bit bitter note of orange and lemon, this fine herbaceous spice, the slight hint of lavender, embraced a summer as winter.

And they always smelled of it, too. Lotti always put a few spritzes on her handkerchief and then dabbed her forehead and neck. Irmi was less complicated. She would take the bottle and put a few drops on her décolleté. And if then only a soft reverberation on the skin lay, was immediately nachgelegt.

When I visited them as a child, my chocolate mouth was wiped with it, if I had an abrasion it was used to clean the wound and I think they also used it as a mouthwash additive. In any case, a good shot of it was always put in the little bowl of ironing water.

That was a long time ago, but when I smell the scent today, refreshing myself with it in the summer, it's an incredibly nice feeling. And then there are somewhere also Lotti and Irmi.

When we met you were
Sparkling and charming

You seemed
Fresh and reliable

You had
Pepper and wit

You loved
Earth and herb

You wore
Suit and jeans

You were
Spice and life

You liked
Smoke and wood

You showed
Style and nonchalance

You knew
Wagner and Wacken

We have grown older
But nothing has changed ...

For hours she had been struggling through the icy wind, sinking again and again into the deep snow. The cold stung her face.

Again she had fallen, lying in a snowdrift. She didn't care. Sleep, just sleep some more. She closed her eyes, no longer heard the wind, no longer felt the cold.

When she came to, it was warm. Her camp was soft and thickly padded. Slowly her eyes opened. Had to get used to the dull light in the small hut.

Sitting by the fireplace, someone had their back to her.

She turned her head, looked around. Thick bunches of herbs and a smaller one of meadow flowers hung down from the ceiling balcony, their aromatic flowing spice permeating the entire room. The broad wooden beams of the walls gleamed softly in the glow of the small, dancing flames. Here and there drops of resin glistened on them like great golden tears.

Her eyes went back to the fire. Slowly, the man rose, turned to her. Tall he was, his broad silhouette standing out thick and dark against the glow of the light.

Carefully he repositioned a log, which began to burn, crackling and smoking slightly.
Thoughtfully took a large pot from the cooking rack and lifted the lid. A sweet familiar smell permeated the room, filling it. Melded almost a little creamy with the warm, soft, slightly aromatic spice and resin. United with the scent of wood and some smoke.

In three steps, he was beside her. Calmly placed his hand on her forehead. Not a word was spoken. She sank into his amber eyes.

There was a deep, inner feeling of security, peace and trust.

In white light
Shines the day

Swan plumage
Powder-pure shimmers

Small blossoms sway
In freshly sachtem wind

The horizon hazily blurring
In a breath of bright green

From far away
A soft fruity breeze

Almost still it whispers
In the tender branches

Shadows fall softly
Into the soft young moss

Thoughts drift
White clouds like

There, near the citrus grove
There rises the spring

There it bubbles
Cool and fresh

There's a dark mist
So clean and fine

There grows moss on stones
Soft and thick and green

There are dragonflies dancing
With shimmering silver bodies

There are little blossoms
Their heads in the warm summer wind

There is the herb
So spicy tender and dewy

There sprouts the grass
Gently earthy cool breathed

There appear branches
So silky soft

There dance bright shadows
In dull yellow light