You on the balcony!” the police officer barks at me. “Please come down and open the front door! Hurry up and don’t hit the buzzer!” I press my face between the two rosemary in my balcony box and wish very intensely that the shaggy things miraculously grow twice as much. And hide me I would like to be invisible. Unfortunately, miracle growth doesn’t happen – my bun is sticking out well above the stems and there’s no escape.

“You mean me?” I page back. “What’s going on? Um, what’s up?” The policewoman is getting a little impatient with me. “PLEASE COME DOWN IMMEDIATELY AND OPEN THE DOOR!” The officer has brought along seven colleagues and they are standing next to her with their hands on their holsters and also look up at me sternly. “Um… I’m coming,” I croak and make my way from the second floor to the front door.

The child jumps excitedly next to me. “Mom, what do all the cops and firefighters want from you?” His face is glowing with excitement. not mine. I’m probably rather undecoratively pale. But 5 minutes ago I still felt like the queen of the world…

On my balcony, made ready for summer, with flowers and chairs and candles. And BBQ. Finally grilling again! It’s the eve of my birthday. Since we practically live on a main traffic junction, we don’t bother anyone when we throw on the charcoal. I had a fantastic steak and an incredible amount of sausages. The coals looked great when they glowed orange, because the strong wind had provided great ventilation in the pink kettle grill. Our crossing has its own thermal winds. The barbecue tongs in one hand and a glass of white wine in the other hand made the evening on the balcony just perfect. And then.

Then two Peter wagons came rushing up our street towards the intersection. “Man, there’s a lot going on in the hill again,” I thought to myself. “Probably Lampedusa or something.” I just had my tongs on a sausage that was getting a tiny bit dark when the first Peterwagen stopped with squeaking tires five meters to the right of my balcony. hum? The second police car came roaring and stopped noisily on the other side of the balcony.

I stared perplexed at what felt like countless police officers who spilled out of the Peter vans. At that moment, a huge fire engine with a siren turned the corner and stopped exactly in the gap between the emergency vehicles. That was the moment when I sought my salvation in the flight between the rosemary. Vain. So now I was on my way to the front door. The child always beautiful next to me.

I open the door and a flood of black uniforms pours into our hallway. “Did you call?” I am asked by the officer. “No. I did NOT call. So what’s going on?” It’s all getting crazier. “Do you have gas in this house?” I’m a plumber’s daughter by birth and have also welded a heating pipe before – but with the state inquisition about the installations in this 10-party old building, I feel a little overwhelmed. i look stupid

The police officer gives me a hand: “A neighbor called. A strong smell of gas was noticed. That’s why you shouldn’t press the buzzer.” I assure you that we have not noticed anything in this direction. I cross my arms in front of my chest and notice, however, that I still have the barbecue tongs in my hand. she is pink And one of the officials also notices it directly. “Did you have a barbecue?” I am interrogated. “Um, yeah…we’ve just started. Haha… just for a moment. On the balcony, you know.” – “Then I can already vividly imagine what happened…” the officer says to me and makes a very funny face. Me gets weird too.

Then there is movement in the friends and helpers. You would have to check the whole house. I go back to my TV knowledge the night before and ask the officer if I should go to my apartment in an orderly manner and wait there for further instructions. She is currently discussing the next steps with her colleagues and only murmurs a short “Yes!” to.

I rush up the stairs, dive into the apartment and slam the door behind me. Then I sprint onto the balcony and start frantically to remove the grilled food from the kettle grill. “What are you doing there?” the man wants to know. I don’t allow myself to be distracted and rip the sausages off the grid in record time. Six firefighters stand six feet below me and watch me with interest. Oh God! What if they really all just came because of me and the pink grill?! How terrible!

I clamp the lid on the grill and pretend nothing is going on. With a little inconspicuous waving, the smoke can also be distributed quite well. The firefighters are still staring up at me. I smile down, hide the – darn! – Barbecue tongs behind my back and sweat. Strong. “Where is the child?” the man asks. “Why isn’t he here?” – “No,” says the man.

I rush to the front door and throw it open. Five surprised police officer faces stare at me. “Sorry!” I say. “Have you seen a little boy? About five feet tall?” I indicate the size by hand. Now the officials look stupid. I shorten the procedure and yell “H. are you up there Come down immediately!!!” From the fifth floor, a voice announces “Yes, Mama!”. The little one makes its way through the police and fire department and trudges guiltily into the apartment. I slam the door. Dad speaks a few loud but well-chosen words to the child.

We hear the officers ringing the doorbell of every apartment and checking the situation. I retire to the balcony. The firefighters are still staring up at me. I continue to smile down in an emphatically winning manner. Then it rings with us.

The man opens the door. Six firefighters enter our living room. It suddenly seems surprisingly small. We are asked if we smelled gas and answer truthfully that we didn’t notice anything. Because we are asked to present our grill lighters. I fish the 100-piece container off the floor (how embarrassing!} and hand the can to the firefighters. Funnily enough, one of them guesses that we used these eco-lighters that always smoke like that. His colleague explains to him that we use the whole would have used normal old lighters. One is a bit at a loss. The man throws himself into the breach and explains the difference between grill lighters and the smell of gas to the gentlemen verbosely and colorfully. I get weak. I think about that I only ever expected firefighters to be strippers at some stray bachelorette party. But not in my living room! And no: you don’t start stripping. They’re real, and I feel oddly guilty

At some point the rescuers, protectors, rescuers and extinguishers leave our apartment again. I wave my hand limply and the man squeezes a glass of white wine into it. I’m not feeling well.

The doorbell rings again. It’s the police. The officers do not come in, but remain outside the door. “As the suspected cause of the operation, I have to take your personal details,” the officer says to me. His three blond colleagues are blocking my escape route. “Your ID, please.” I fish my wallet out of my pocket and hand my ID to the officer. “It’s expired,” I whimper. “Would you like my passport?” The official is moody: “Nope, it’s okay. But actually you would have to pay each of us a sausage for all the effort.” I sway “Oh, if only the sausages were ready!” it escapes me. The officers laugh. The policeman gives me my ID card back and whispers to me, “Don’t worry, there won’t be a bill or anything. ” Then the door slams shut and I stand alone in the hallway with my ID. I am beyond hunger.

The man hands me a schnapps, stands in front of the kettle grill, removes the lid and throws the sausages back onto the grill. Downstairs, the firefighters are packing up. My steak, which I unfortunately forgot on the grill in my hurry, is grilled to death.

I have a pair of pink barbecue tongs in my hand. I’ll be 39 tomorrow.

I have a great, light, low-carb cheesecake recipe for everyone who needs something refreshing after similarly precarious situations or just loves to eat harmless cake in the summer. The cake is basic, but can be pimped with the strawberry-rosemary topping. After that everything just looks better. Promised.

Here is the recipe for a wonderfully refreshing low carb cheesecake with strawberry and rosemary quark

Mix 750 g low-fat quark with 6 egg yolks , 2 packets of custard powder , 1 pinch of salt , 1/2 teaspoon of ground vanilla , grated zest and juice of 1/2 lemon , 6 tablespoons of xylitol (or another sweetener of your choice) and 1 teaspoon of baking powder .

Beat 6 egg whites until stiff and fold into the quark mixture.

Fill a mold lined with baking paper or a silicone mold 2/3 full with the batter. Bake at 160°C for 45-50 minutes . Leave to cool in the oven, remove from the mold and place in the fridge.

Before serving , puree 150 g strawberries with 1 pinch of lemon juice , 1 tablespoon of xylitol (or sweetener of your choice) and 6 rosemary needles. Mix with 250 g low-fat quark. Put some of the quark on the cake and garnish with more strawberries. Add the rest of the quark.

Tip: If you’re a low-carb person who stays true to the rules, skip the strawberries and mix the quark for the topping with vanilla, lemon juice, grated zest and some sweetener to taste.

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