In 1971 I was an exchange student in Goettingen, West Germany. I lived in a bedroom on the third floor of a 200-year-old house owned by an elderly widow. I remember passing through the dim parlor on the way to breakfast in the sun room, peering at the framed photos of relatives and trying to discern the Nazi uniforms. That was also my introduction to soft-boiled eggs, waiting for me on the table in egg cups with tiny little knitted caps. I still love the ritual of knocking on the top with my spoon and slowly peeling bits away to expose the dome of the egg and then dipping into it with my spoon!