From the cold hides the tiniest of ladybirds on the snow white pillow, complete with her Seurat dots. A pair of them or more would have made a loveliness of ladybirds, a legitimate collectible noun gone with the wind along with a school of fish, yet leaves us with a parliament of owls — for gone too are the simpler times of a piteousness of doves and a lease of hawks.
A ladybird has come in from the cold; what makes her particularly lovely? For all I know, she may just be dickish, or perhaps just a tiny terrorist sequestering the spare pillow. It just happens to be my spare pillow this particular morning.
“What do ladybirds eat?”, I ask Google, with helpful suggestions that follow: “How do you attract Ladybugs”, “How to Take Care or a Ladybug: 9 Steps (with Pictures) - wikiHow”, “What do Ladybugs do”. Sieving aside the brazen American English takeover of my browser and search, the answer is Aphids. Well then, where the hell does one get Aphids in Berlin, in Winter, and what are the fuck are they called in German?
(Spoiler Alert: They are called Blattlaus, though I inform you with some modicum of certainty, complete with trial and mostly error, that no Berliner pet store is going to find that request as delightful as the way it sounds.)
(Spoiler Alert #2: Mongrel gets extra treats for not mauling the “dried out pig ear” section. The Halal and Kosher force is not strong with Mongrel. Then again, neither is his mother. Then again, I’m Korean and we are known to eat mongrels for breakfast.)
I wish the ladybird glück and go back to the spreadsheet of refugee women I have known, through dinners I would throw in my house, away from the camps, googling how different a mandoo (만두) really is from shishbarak (ششبرك) with scant island ingredients for either cuisine.
Unsurprisingly, a dumpling is a dumpling is a dumpling: though if you have ever met a handmade dumpling — not unlike snowflakes and Seurat-perfect ladybirds — no two dumplings are ever the same, starting from the first row: her face and her name.