I Apfel Quotes

Why do I wear such large glasses? The bigger to see you with, my dear. Anyway, you have to have fun. If you can't have fun, you might as well be dead.

I never had a fondness for gems or the extravagance of Harry Winston or Van Cleef & Arpels. I've always liked the more flamboyant, imaginative things. I lusted after costume jewelry. My husband was a very lucky man.

When you try too hard to have style, you look uncomfortable, like you're wearing a costume, like the clothes are entering the room before you do. If you're uptight, you won't be able to carry off even a seemingly perfect outfit. If that's happening, I say abandon the whole thing. It's better to be happy than well dressed.

We thought we'd seen the worst when those girls disappeared, but seeing, and not seeing, is a funny old thing. Even now, I don't know which is crueller in the end.

You don’t have to look like an old fuddy-duddy, but I believe it was Chanel who said, ‘Nothing makes a woman look so old as trying desperately hard to look young’. I think you can be attractive at any age. I think trying to look like a spring chicken when you’re not makes you look ridiculous.

I never expect anything. I just feel things in my gut and I do them. If something sounds exciting and interesting, I do it—and then I worry about it later. Doing new things takes a lot of energy and strength. It’s very tiring to make things happen, to learn how to master a skill, to push fears aside. Most people would rather just go with the flow, it’s much easier. But it’s not very interesting.

I never expect anything. I just feel things in my gut and I do them. If something sounds exciting and interesting, I do it--and then I worry about it later. Doing new things takes a lot of energy and strength. It's very tiring to make things happen, to learn how to master a skill, to push fears aside. Most people would rather just go with the flow; it's much easier. But it's not very interesting.

I learned that if you make a point of bonding with the group and they accept you, they will actually like it when you do something original. But if you don't try to be part of things, forget it. That's when your originality is going to work against you. Fit in first and then step out. There is a difference between being perceived as original and being accepted, even loved for it, and being perceived as different and resented for it. You can have your cake and eat it, too.

But every once in a great while, the pull of her heritage would hit her, and Grand-mere would cook something real. I could never figure out what it was that triggered her, but I would come home from school to a glorious aroma. An Apfel-strudel, with paper-thin pastry wrapped around chunks of apples and nuts and raisins. The thick smoked pork chops called Kasseler ribs, braised in apple cider and served with caraway-laced sauerkraut. A rich baked dish with sausages, duck, and white beans. And hoppel poppel. A traditional German recipe handed down from her mother. I haven't even thought of it in years. But when my mom left, it was the only thing I could think to do for Joe, who was confused and heartbroken, and it was my best way to try to get something in him that didn't come in a cardboard container. I never got to learn at her knee the way many granddaughters learn to cook; she never shared the few recipes that were part of my ancestry. But hoppel poppel is fly by the seat of your pants, it doesn't need a recipe; it's a mess, just like me. It's just what the soul needs. I grab an onion, and chop half of it. I cut up the cold cooked potatoes into chunks. I pull one of my giant hot dogs out, and cut it into thick coins. Grand-mere used ham, but Joe loved it with hot dogs, and I do too. Plus I don't have ham. I whisk six eggs in a bowl, and put some butter on to melt. The onions and potatoes go in, and while they are cooking, I grate a pile of Swiss cheese, nicking my knuckle, but catching myself before I bleed into my breakfast. By the time I get a Band-Aid on it, the onions have begun to burn a little, but I don't care. I dump in the hot dogs and hear them sizzle, turning down the heat so that I don't continue to char the onions. When the hot dogs are spitting and getting a little browned, I add the eggs and stir up the whole mess like a scramble. When the eggs are pretty much set, I sprinkle the cheese over the top and take it off the heat, letting the cheese melt while I pop three slices of bread in the toaster. When the toast is done, I butter it, and eat the whole mess on the counter, using the crispy buttered toast to scoop chunk of egg, potato, and hot dog into my mouth, strings of cheese hanging down my chin. Even with the burnt onions, and having overcooked the eggs to rubbery bits, it is exactly what I need.

But seeing and not seeing is a funny old thing. Even now I don’t know which is crueler in the end.