In the morning S packed a box full of snow and placed it in the freezer, chortling in anticipatory delight of taking it out in June. Then we went to join the sun-dazzled snowy streets. Lunch was a butch, bloody steak at Filetstück for me, a heap of perfect mashed potatoes for her. (We ate apples on the train, I murmur in my defense.) In the glass box that is the kitchen, we glimpsed the staff stealing spoonfuls of an anonymous dark mass in a metal bowl. S screwed up her courage and asked the waiter what it was when he brought us our change. Wollt ihr probieren? he said and when we shyly begged off, he brought us a bowl of buttery ground poppyseeds and two spoons.
The snow was shin-deep at the cemetery playground. Swooping curves marked the course of wooden sleighs. We made our way north. When we arived, we sank into the embrace of a familiar royal blue sofa and listened to the Weihnachtsoratorium as the candles burned down.