Welcome to our first guest post on Bunny got Blog! I am very happy to welcome my very own fiance, Thumper, today. I asked him to follow up on our discussion about the pretzel and, since he is from Germany, provide an insider’s view on this traditional German treat. I think it is a very nice story and that’s why I wanted to share it with you. So here goes!

The Origin of the Pretzel

(By Thumper) - My dear Bunny kindly “asked” me to write a bit about something that is traditionally German, but well known throughout the world: the pretzel. I am from Germany, so it seems fitting that I tell you a bit about the history of the pretzel. This is an anecdote which is quite interesting, in my opinion, as it bears a myth. And everybody loves myths.

I would like to tell you the story that I have been told when I was a child. It is not a long story, and it doesn’t involve knights or dragons. But it does involve a castle, a count, and a very serious capital punishment which, back then in Germany, was the dealth penalty. Modern Germany has of course abolished the death penalty, but those were different times.

There are many myths about the origin of the pretzel. Some stories are from the 11th century, and others are from times as late as 1855. The story I want to tell you today is in fact from the mid-15th century, a time when Germany was split up into many, many large and small, semi-autonomic territories governed by independent counts. It was a state of supranationalism; the king, or emperor, didn’t have much influence over the single principalities, and the counts pretty much felt and acted like kings themselves.

There is a similarity I could tell you about - today’s best example for supranationalism is the European Union. But let’s put that aside for now, because around 1469, the year in which my story begins, the great count Eberhard V. of Württemberg-Urach, who later was to become Eberhard I., Duke of Württemberg, didn’t care much about Europe. Count Eberhard, who had taken charge of government of his father’s principality at the age of fourteen, had bigger problems than taking care of international issues. On this day, count Eberhard of Württemberg-Urach had to face the mightiest of all challenges a leader lives to see: dealing with libel and slander from one of his subjects.

The subject of the matter was Frieder. Frieder was a baker in Urach, a small town in Württemberg which today, is known for its rich mineral water springs. In his days, Frieder was the best baker in the region, which is why the count had appointed him to be the baker of the court. Frieder would deliver fresh bread and pastry from his bakery to the count’s table, which he usually did a pretty good job at — but today, the count learned from trusted whispers that Frieder had lampooned his magnificence.

Naturally, count Eberhard was piqued at Frieder over his impudence. This was not nice at all; it does not fit with the image of a loyal and devoted subject! What if such audacity were to spread? Coming from a privileged initiator such as Frieder, badmouthing the count could quickly become ubiquitious. The count had to act.

He sent for Frieder immediately and confronted him with his failures. The count was visibly annoyed; he fulminated at the ungrateful Frieder whom he had given his utter trust, and who had now virtually stabbed him in the back.

The disgraced Frieder was dashed on the ground; on his knees, he apologized over and over again and adjured the count for forgiveness, well knowing what the penalty was for insulting his eminence. But it was too late, the count had made up his mind, and so - rightfully -, he threw the baker Frieder into the dark dungeons of the old castle in Urach, which still exists today and is majestically enthroned on top of the mighty rock which towers above the small town of Urach.

It was a sunny day. Not for Frieder, who, alone, in the depths of the castle’s dungeon, was waiting for his decapitator to arrive. Not for Frieder’s wife, who, in an audience with the count, begged him to spare her husband’s life. Instead, it was a sunny day for the count, who had slept quite well last night (knowing he had eliminated the threat among his subjects), and was now having breakfast. Admittedly, he missed Frieder’s delicious pastry; but he was willing to live with that drawback if that meant peace for his mind, and peace (silence) among his people’s mouths. But Frieder’s wife was persistent and reminded the count that Frieder’s well-being was directly connected to his, the count’s, morning appetite.

And so, because count Eberhard was a good count, he freed Frieder from the dark dungeon of the old castle which sits on top of the mighty rock which towers above the small town, and he gave him an ultimatum.

Only because I value your baking skills, I want to give you one more chance. If, in the time of three days, you are able to create a cake, or a bread, through which the sun shines three times and which tastes better than anything I know, thou shalt be free!

Frieder, on his knees once again, thanked his graciousness for his graciousness and was on his way to his little bakery in the valley. He went to work immedately.

Two precious days passed, whithout Frieder having a breakthrough.

On the third and last day, Frieder was kneading a slightly salty dough, well knowing that the count preferred salty treats. The other thought crossing his mind constantly was the loop of the rope which the decapitator was going to use on him if he didn’t come up with a good idea. So he formed a loop out of the dough.

He looked at his dear wife with fear in his eyes. He would miss her. She on the other hand was standing at the door, her arms crossed, determined to make sure that her husband solved this task. Poor Frieder was lost; his mind was wiped clear. So he tried to incorporate his wife’s crossed arms into his dough loop.

He noosed and swaddled, until he had it: A sausage, made of dough, thicker in the middle. That was the body. The flanks were thinner, those were the arms. He crossed the arms, just like his wife’s. It looked beautiful; it was very artistic, and even the sun was able shine through the three openings if it wanted to.

Frieder made a fire in the big stone oven to bake his creation. It was only minutes until he had to deliver; only minutes until it would be decided whether he lived or perished. He was nervous. Frieder’s cat, who had been sleeping in her usual spot on top of the oven, was nervous too - because Frieder was literally lighting a fire under her.

It soon became too hot for the cat. From her little place on top of the oven, she leaped forward, and landed quite miserably - on the baking tray with Frieder’s looped pieces of dough. The tray swayed to the left, to the right, to the left again, more to the left, where finally, half of the dough loops fell right into a bucket with hot lye water which Frieder’s wife had left there. She had intended to clean the floor with the lye soap - but hadn’t gotten to it yet.

Frieder’s wife scolded Frieder’s cat. Frieder scolded Frieder’s wife. The cat scurried away.

Frieder and his wife were devastated. They whined and fetched the dough loops out of the lye water and collected the remaining dough loops from the floor. Frieder was more devastated than his wife; he wanted to throw the dough away and give in to his fate. This was not bad luck, it was destiny.

Frieder’s wife though did’t agree. She needed her Frieder, and she persuaded him to just stick the dough in the oven and bring them to the count. So they sprinkled some large-grained salt on top of the pieces - for decoration - and put them in the oven.

When Frieder got his big wooden spatula and opened the oven door, the two were overwhelmed with wonder. The loops with the lye were wonderfully brown on the outside, and had cracked open in the middle, revealing the nice and soft inside. The loop arms were crunchy, the middle was soft like a roll. The Frieder ran, as fast as he could, to the castle, to deliver the warm loops to the count.

The count was enjoying a glass of wine with the countess when Frieder arrived. Frieder presented the basket with the loops. It was deadly silent in the room while the count tried one. The countess nibbled on one, too. Frieder, the humble, was on his knees once again, and praying to God the almighty that the count would not recognize his blunder.

All of a sudden, the count jumped up from his chair and lifted the loop up against the window. It was a nice, warm evening, and the sunset was sending beautiful beams of light through the castle windows. Indeed, the three holes in the loop parted the sunlight into three beams.

How do you call this creation?, the count asked into the silence. I.. I don’t know, stammered Frieder, I was thinking of my dear wife and her dear arms, and that she wouldn’t be able to embrace me with them anymore when I’m dead. The count, being the wise man that he was, knew of course that he couldn’t call Frieder’s creation anything like that. He turned to his wife, Princess Barbara.

Indeed, these look like arms, the count said. Princess Barbara was very educated - that’s why the count had married her - and she remembered the latin word for arms: bracchia. She also remembered the latin word for two entwined hands, brazula.

Frieder almost said, I can’t even pronounce that! But he didn’t, and the count then said, I hereby proclaim this creation to be called Brazel, and tomorrow morning, I want a whole basket of them on my table!

Frieder was exuberantly happy. He ran into the valley to his wife, crying, and fell on her neck. She said, so you’re saved - and indeed, Frieder was saved! His life was safe now, and he would never again speak evil of somebody. Instead, his creation would go down in history as the brezel, the good thing that only came to life when a lesson was learned - involving two bad things: A man badmouthing another man behind his back, and a solution made of something other people use to clean their drain.

And this, my friends, is the origin of the pretzel. Well, it’s only one of many stories, but I find it to be the most charming one. Whenever you have the pleasure of enjoying a pretzel, remember its history - and maybe you will, in turn, have a story to tell.