Dutch Baby

I got the message LOUD and clear from some of you that my last post had some shortcomings, if you will.  Mea culpa.  And now my penance...(you might be the sorry ones after this post...)

This morning Ian made me breakfast.  He found a recipe for Dutch babies in his latest issue of GQ and has been keeping it in mind for just the right Sunday morning.  In case you're wondering what a Dutch baby is, look here:

It's a big, puffy, eggy, delectable pancake.  And the smell of one (or 3) of these baking in the oven is like nothing else I've ever smelled.  It was a wonderful treat. And it got me thinking about the Dutch origin of my married name...which is just one of a few of its origins by the way. 

I'm someone who finds herself intrigued by names and the origin of a name can tell you so much about a person and where they came from (physically and psychologically).  For example, we've all heard someone tell the story that they went to school with twins named Oranjello and Lemonjello.  What kind of upbringing do you think those poor souls had?   Just the other day a friend and retired school guidance counselor told me she had a student named Takila.  Wow.  Now, before I got married I never really questioned the ethnic origin of my name.  Katie Fitzpatrick.  As my parents would say, "it sounds like she just got off the boat." But ever since I adopted Ian's last name I've found myself up a creek without a paddle so to speak. 

If you look up "Haag" on Wikipedia you get this:

Haag may refer to:


The Hague, in the Netherlands (Dutch: Den Haag)


Several places in Germany:


Several places in Austria:

It turns out that the name Haag was first found in Bavaria and some of the first settlers with the family name were Hans Caspar Haag and his wife Andreas Haag, who immigrated to Pennsylvania in 1752.  Interestingly (or not), Albany was founded by the Dutch in the 17th century.    So us Haags are right at home here.

I started actively looking into all of this after a strange encounter with a TSA officer at the security checkpoint at the Asheville airport.  We were at the outset of our return trip to Albany. As we approached the exceptionally senior citizen behind the podium at the ID checkpoint, we snickered at how rinky-dink and hassle-free the security line appeared.  I handed the man my boarding pass and New York State driver's license and started to feel a bit anxious after it seemed like a minute went by with my documents still in his hand.  When he finally relinquished them from his wrinkly cold hands he looked at me and mumbled something that I had to ask to be repeated.  I was holding up the rinky-dink line now.  He mumbled something again and I figured out that he was asking me something to do with the origin of my last name.  I panicked and paused and looked at Ian...a silent but desperate plea for help. I noticed the middle-aged couple behind us react to the fact that I, a grown woman who unbeknownst to them just received her Ph.D., did not know where her last name originated from.  I just mumbled and nodded and moved quickly past the podium.  I could hear the couple laughing with Ian that I had to look to him for the answer.  Needless to say that was a humiliating experience.  Then the officer operating the body scanner commented on the "originality" of my socks and sweater.  Yikes. As you can see from this post,  I'm determined to avoid a repeat of that kind of situation, namely.