Grießbrei

Grießbrei is not feast food; it's the sweet milk supper of cold evenings, school nights, and the Sunday when the soup was the work and dessert had to come from the cupboard. It doesn't belong to one province the way Sauerbraten belongs to the Rhineland. It belongs wherever milk and grain sat in the pantry.

Still, the regions argue. In the north, a spoon of Rote Grütze, red berry compote, cuts the pale pudding sharp and ruby. In the south and along the Alpine edge, the same bowl often gets butter, cinnamon sugar, and sometimes egg for more body. Im Norden anders, im Süden anders.

The minute that decides it is the minute the semolina goes in. I heat the milk until it trembles at the edge, then rain in the Grieß, semolina, while the whisk is already moving. Dump it in and each grain gels on the outside before the centre drinks milk, so you trap dry pockets and spend supper chasing lumps. Runter mit der Temperatur after that; milk scorches before it forgives you.

This is thrift cooking, but not thin cooking. A litre of milk and a scoop of grain feed four, and yesterday's thick leftovers can be chilled, sliced, and fried in butter. Weggeworfen wird nichts. Finish with a knob of butter, cinnamon sugar, or fruit put up from summer. Schön ist, was schmeckt.