A Life Lesson

I made this for my son's school lunch the other day, and it was a success, so I decided to make a replica of it for breakfast: Whole wheat pita bread with shallot and chive Boursin cheese, spinach, avocado, and Chia seeds. And on the side, the first peach of the season.

Ah, the many lessons we learn in life while interacting with one another!

On a recent Saturday morning, my phone rang. It was a phone call I was expecting, and felt slightly apprehensive about. A kid at school, let’s call him Tommy, had been bothering my son for some time. Little things, or so I had assumed. My son didn’t seem overly upset about it so I, not wanting to make a feather out of a hen, downplayed it too. Although I did notify their teacher.

Then one day, when I picked my boy up from school, he was agitated:
The kid, Tommy, had hit him! Fortunately a teacher had seen the incident and asked Tommy to write a note of apology. My son, being my son after all, mislaid the note.

Two days later, another shocker: Tommy had stepped on my son’s glasses, causing the frames that were already kind of worn out, to break.

Needless to say this made me angry. Not so much with Tommy, as with myself for not having realized the severity of the situation earlier, with the teacher for not nipping the silly teasing in the bud, and with my own son, since I suspected he had not properly portrayed the relationship between himself and Tommy.

“Have you ever done or said anything, anything, to him? Have you teased him or hurt him in any way?” I asked angrily.

“No!”

The teacher called Tommy’s mom, who in turn, on that Saturday morning, called me.

A couple of hours later, she and I were sitting at my kitchen table. I was fidgeting. She was composed. My son and I had talked about this visit; we had bought cookies and popsicles to make it a bit smoother for Tommy. We knew what was going to happen, because Tommy’s mom had already decided: Her son Tommy, who is the same age as mine, was to give my son all his savings (a total of $48) as a “lesson”. She said:
“I want this to be difficult for Tommy. I want this to be a lesson. He has to pay for your son’s glasses.”
“I am pretty sure the insurance covers that,” I said.

She shook her head:
“It doesn’t matter, it is a lesson for my son. He must never do this again. If for any reason it should cost more to fix the glasses, let me know and I’ll pay the difference.”

Tommy gave my son an envelope with the money and a formal apology. My son forgave him and they ran off to play in my son’s room.

Two days later, we’re sitting at a Lenscrafters in the city with the broken frames. The lady behind the desk says the insurance does not cover this, so we have to pay $27. My son hears this. I pay for the frames and give my son the rest of the money.

This, I thought, was the end of the story.

Then just last week, I run into the Tommy’s mom at a school event. I walk up to her and say:
“You know, the new frames only cost $27.”
She is visibly upset.

“I know! Your son told Tommy. And Tommy feels it’s unfair. He thinks he should have his change back!”

I look at her in disbelief.

“But I thought you said it was supposed to be a lesson for him? I mean, isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes, well, but I didn’t realize your son would tell mine how much it cost to fix the glasses!”

Afterwards, I walk back home from the school event with my son.

“Remember the money for your glasses?”
“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, but I think we better give it back to Tommy.”

“Why?”
“Tommy’s mom thinks it is more fair that way.”

I put $21 in an envelope and marked it “Tommy”, then I put the envelope in my son’s school folder. My husband came home, and I told him about the whole thing. Then he got upset.

“This is not quite right,” he said. “She offered to pay, you didn’t ask. It was meant to be a lesson for her kid. That was her suggestion. And now she wants the change back?”

I nodded.

After a fairly long discussion, we put all the $48 in the envelope. The next day my son gave it to Tommy who cried out:
“Yippee!”

Swedish Candy

I didn’t know there was a breakfast dish with the beautiful name Idaho Sunrise, but I stumbled upon it and then stumbled upon a variation of it, the result of which you can see above: Hash brown nests filled with eggs, fake bacon (of course you can use real if you, unlike me, eat meat) and eggs. Easy as pie and quite delicious! Serve with avocado.

“Sugar can cure everything”

Sylvia Plath

Ask any Swedish expat what he or she misses most from Sweden, and I guarantee you they’ll say Swedish candy.

There’s just not anything like Swedish candy anywhere else. Swedes know candy and take it seriously. For them (us), candy isn’t just some sugary concoction sold in plastic bags with a funky name on it, candy is a science, dare I say even art?

In Sweden you buy candy in special stores where only candy (and soda and chips) is sold. You buy it by the pound (or kilo, more correctly) and you pick it yourself with plastic tongs into a paper bag. The selection is endless. There’s violet and licorice twirls, strawberry and vanilla-flavored vampire teeth, coca cola snakes as long as your arm, soft, green jelly frogs, sour peach skulls, chewy nougat bites, chocolate-covered banana marshmallows, caramel marshmallows, Turkish-licorice coca cola bottles, peppermint candy… In other words anything your heart desires, the very things sweet dreams are made of.

Imagine my dismay every October when I look into my son’s Halloween basket and find year-old Reese’s peanut butter cups mingled with bland and boring Hershey’s kisses – it’s enough to make me want to cry. If a kid is “lucky” he or she gets candy buttons, which surely must be a joke.

When I first met my husband, I told him about Swedish candy, and he told me about Colombian candy. Then we got our hands on each other’s candy and I can promise you he’s now a convert!

There’s a Swedish candy store in New York, which we sometimes visit. I enter it as I enter church: Solemnly, quietly, and with the deepest sense of gratitude. It’s located in the Village and it’s called Sockerbit, after an iconic Swedish piece of candy that’s been around since, I don’t know, but quite possibly forever. The problem I have with Sockerbit, which in many ways is a little slice of Swedish paradise, is that the candy there is an expensive treat, and besides they don’t always have the things I like. 

Sometimes, I ask my mother to send me some candy and while that’s all good, she doesn’t quite know my taste either. I prefer to pick my own.

Unlike food or wine, which taste better and thus is best enjoyed in the company of others, candy is something for the person who is home alone. Candy is for when you’re reading a good book, for those rainy, thunderous evenings when the rest of the family is magically scattered on activities outside the house. And since it’s sugary, candy is perfect for when you’re studying.

In Sweden, candy used to be a treat given on Saturdays only and was then called “Saturday candy” or “lördagsgodis”. Or you’d get it for when you went to the movies. In fact, Swedes used to buy candy, not pop corn, when going to the movies.

The “tradition” to consume candy on nearly a daily basis began with the opening of the first candy stores, in 1985. Buckets and buckets filled with candy led to Sweden becoming one of the most candy-consuming people in the world. Today, Swedes eat 15 kilos, or 33 pounds, of candy a year, beaten only by the Danes, who eat 36 pounds a year.

That must make for a whole lot of sweet Swedes!

Swedish candy galore in my favorite red candy bowl.

White Chocolate

Blackberry smoothie and one of the strangest novels I’ve ever read: The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake by Aimee Bender about the (sometimes) magical gifts we’re born with.

 Aunt Julia drinks coffee from a demitasse. When it is cold outside, she adjusts her fur collar with a gloved hand. And today is a cold day. Quick steps down the cobblestoned street, but careful so you don’t trip! Fall days are short this far up north, and the light is already fading.

Gilded mirrors and heavy green velvet curtains. At Holmgrens Kafé on Kaggensgatan the girls stand in line and wear starched, white aprons over their black dresses. Now one of them holds up the lid to a glass dome and waits for Aunt Julia to choose a pastry. There, on a doily, is a pretty selection of freshly made ones. The girl then uses silver tongs to transport Aunt Julia’s choice to a white dessert plate. Aunt Julia bends down and flashes a seductive smile to a little boy who is only six years old:

“And what would you like, dear?”

Today is my father’s 81^st birthday, and I am celebrating him by telling you about his grandmother, whom he called “Aunt Julia”. My father was young when Aunt Julia passed away, but he remembers her well. She was a whiff of the finer things in life: French perfume from a cut glass scent bottle, fur coats, cloche hats, lipstick, and – most importantly – “white chocolate”, my father’s favorite. White chocolate meant hot chocolate with a dollop of whipped cream taken with Aunt Julia at Holmgrens, her favorite café.

I’ve heard the tale of Aunt Julia so many times. And I have her photograph right here, in front of me.

She set out in life as a starry-eyed maid whose greatest asset was her petite, dark-haired beauty. No wonder her unmarried boss, the one with the fat wallet and the gold pocket-watch, fell for her! And perhaps she fell for him? Or was she maybe more cynically made and fell for the idea of an elegant, idle life? Either way, Aunt Julia was in for a rude awakening, the lesson of many a young girl: Rich Men Don’t Marry Girls With No Money. At least not then. At least not him.

They had two baby boys, Aunt Julia and her rich boss. Twice did he make her pregnant and twice did she make the long, arduous trip to the capital, where she gave birth and promptly placed her babies in an orphanage on a shabby backstreet.

My paternal grandfather, Harry, was the younger one of those babies. He was auctioned off from that orphanage to the highest bidder, a ruthless man who made my grandfather’s childhood a living hell. There was a long scar at the back of my grandfather’s head from a beating he took as a child, and later on, when he was an adult, he oftentimes woke the entire household by thrashing about and screaming, the result of endless nightmares.

The first baby, my grandfather’s brother Werner, was also auctioned off. The two boys didn’t know of each other’s existence. My grandfather didn’t find out he had a brother until he was a grown man, and by then it was too late: Werner had already immigrated to America. He never knew of my grandfather, never knew he had a family back in Sweden actively searching for him. Werner died in California in 1985.

I guess most of us don’t change. It’s only in the movies that people have those hoped-for epiphanies. Aunt Julia’s rich boss died and though they never married, he willed all his money and belongings to his “faithful servant Julia Larsson”. Aunt Julia took the cash, moved into a modern apartment in the city, and made even more cash by letting rooms to students. It’s at this point she looked up – and found –  her son (my grandfather), and his family and began visiting them and taking my father to her favorite café.

How I wish this story had a happy ending! Or at least a conclusive one.

I have asked my father several times:
“Did Aunt Julia ever apologize for giving up her babies? Did she ever express any regrets?”

But no, she never did. She has been dead for many years now. I don’t know where she is buried, and I don’t think anyone in my family has ever been to put flowers on her grave.

"Aunt Julia" - my father's grandmother.

Mary

Today is the first day of May. Where I grew up that meant a whole lot of demonstrations, since it’s the International Workers’ Day. But May is also the month of Mary. For that reason, I decided to make Madeleines, Proust’s French Madeleines. However, this year I wanted to do something different, so I made Spanish Magdalenas instead. They aren’t shell-shaped like the French cookie, but are baked in muffin trays. They have a subtle lemony taste to them and are, I read, typically eaten for breakfast in Spain, with café con leche. Recipe here. Have a good weekend!

Mary wasn’t around when I grew up. Not that there was much religion at all, but whatever there was – light a candle for Advent, open presents at Christmas, eat eggs for Easter – for sure there was no Mary.

She had been thrown out during the Protestant reformation in Sweden. Perhaps they had meant to keep her, Mary hardly did any harm, but as a female figure she wasn’t deemed necessary to save. I guess.

As an adult, after I converted to Catholicism, I never much cared for Marian devotion. Or rather, I didn’t understand it. I already had a mother; it wasn’t like I needed another. Also, Mary seemed a bit lame.

It was our 5^th grade teacher who took us to visit a Catholic church. We had been reading about Catholicism in school. Sweden is a Lutheran country, and in the small town I lived back then there weren’t many Catholics, so they didn’t exactly have a church, it was more like a big room in a private villa. There were a whole lot of things in there. That’s what I remember. A whole lot of things. Crucifixes in all sizes, paintings depicting dramatic scenes from the Bible and pictures of all kinds of saints, candlesticks, sculptures. And rosaries in silver and gold with colorful gems in them, and a mysterious wooden booth and a mysterious sweet-smelling smoke, but I don’t remember any Marys. Although there must have been at least one.

In school, I always liked when the teacher talked about other religions, and my favorite ones were Hinduism and Catholicism. They were mysterious and different. They had elephant-headed gods and blue gods and Gregorian chants and stigmatas and “signs” flashing across the sky. Spooky, fascinating stuff. The Lutheran church I was used to seemed empty and cold in comparison. 

When I was 13 or so, I discovered Joan of Arc. She was a revelation. I’d never heard of saints like her before, an armor-clad, brave girl with a sword. She was more like a superhero than a saint, and way cooler than Mary.

Mary didn’t come into my life until everything else had been pretty much given up and emptied out. It was a time when all seemed utterly hopeless. I felt very much alone. You know those endless nights that somehow blend into days and you don’t sleep and there are no more tears to cry and you wonder how you’re going to be able to go on? Your head aches from thinking. That’s when Mary came.

I had a friend in this Mary business. She too was lying sleepless at night; she too felt everything was a hopeless mess. So we started talking. We talked and we talked. I don’t know how we came upon Mary, or how she came upon us, but suddenly there she was. And my friend and I got very excited; we could both feel her presence. These are things that you can’t really talk about because they are so remarkable. It’s almost like saying:

“Hey, Jesus is out there walking on the water! I can see him from my bedroom window!”

But we were strangely joined in this, my friend and I.

It was like a game we played. Skype was constantly on, because my friend lived in another country. I would send a message:
“Now!”

And we’d fall to our knees and pray.

She’d send a message:
“Now!”
And we’d fall to our knees and pray.

The Memorare nine times. Always.

Some months later, maybe four, Mary pulled through. I used to go to this tunnel where there was a whole lot of graffiti and the graffiti said: “Love, love, love!” I thought that was a “sign”. Not like those signs flashing boldly across the sky, but nevertheless a sign. From Mary.

My friend was the first to receive a miracle, but only a week or so later, I received mine.

Shortly afterwards a woman in our town told my husband:
“When I see your wife, it’s as if there’s a woman walking next to her. All the time walking next to her. Who is she?”
My husband said he had no idea what she was talking about. It sounded downright crazy.

But later, when he told me about it, he clearly had thought it over, because he said:
“Maybe it’s your dead grandmother walking next to you?”
“Oh, no,” I shrugged. “That’s not my grandmother. That’s Mary.”

Them Carefree Brooklyn Days

The other day I bought canned pumpkin and made pumpkin pancakes with half of it. I knew exactly what to do with the rest of it: Bake my favorite pumpkin muffins that happen to be vegan! You can find the recipe here.

Years ago, I lived in Brooklyn. Actually first, I lived in Manhattan, on Bleecker Street, in a one bedroom apartment, which I shared with a model and a dancer. I cried in the taxi the day I moved from Manhattan. I sat in the backseat with my belongings in a suitcase and two plastic trash bags and cried and cried.

“You all right there, Miss?” asked the cabdriver as we crossed Brooklyn Bridge.

I turned and looked at all Manhattan’s twinkling lights through the window.

“No, I’m not,” I whispered.

A small part of me was dying.

Over the next 13 years, I lived in four different apartments in Brooklyn: Three of them in Greenpoint and one, the last one, in Williamsburg. They all had this in common: Filth, roaches, and mice.

And yet, I fell in love with Brooklyn. I would still take Brooklyn any day over Manhattan. Brooklyn has attitude. Manhattan has only cash. Big cash-fat Manhattan. Unfortunately, friends tell me Brooklyn too is going in that direction.

My husband Fernando sometimes sighs:

“Remember the carefree days in Brooklyn?”

What he means is: Remember when we were young and beautiful and could spend all our money on restaurants, books, movies, and the theater?

Back then Bedford Avenue was lined with no-frills mom-and-pop stores and you got a cup of coffee for 75 cents. There wasn’t a commercial café in sight. I ate my Edith Piaf sandwich in peace in the back garden of the L-Café.

We knew that the best Mexican food, the authentic, real stuff, could be found in the back of a dingy store. Cooked and served by stout Mexican women with hairnets, while Spanish music was playing on the radio. We drank cheap Jarritos soda.

We browsed the shelves with second hand books at Spoonbill & Sugartown where you sometimes had to shoo away one of the two big, fat cats, which sprawled the book tables. I bought Colette’s Retreat From Love for $2.50

Fernando, Friday nights we splurged on fancy dinners at Sea, way before Sarah Jessica Parker and TV got to it.

We took turns reading chapters of Umberto Eco’s Foucault’s Pendulum.

One summer day we fell asleep on a blanket in McCarren Park and slept for hours. I got sun burnt, but you got a nice tan.

Saturdays we strolled over Williamsburg Bridge into the city where you bought me my favorite licorice candy on Rivington Street.

I bought a never-once-used Calvin Klein coat at the Salvation Army in the corner of North 7^th and Bedford for $10, because the manager had never heard the name “Calvin Klein” before.

Sometimes we took the less glamorous Driggs Avenue home.

“Man Ray lived here,” I told you. “And Henry Miller.”

And you squeezed my hand.

Brooklyn is where we first became cat owners.

Brooklyn is where we took our infant son (born at Beth Israel Medical Center on 1^st Avenue and 16^th Street in the City). I was terrified you hadn’t fastened the newly purchased infant car seat correctly in the yellow cab. You checked it and checked it and checked it again while I – clumsily – held our 2-day old son, brand new little star in our private universe, in my arms. He wore his bear outfit, his homecoming suit. Over us the November sky arched gray and rainy.

Then carefully, gingerly, the cabdriver took us downtown and home, home to Brooklyn.

Sweet, wonderful Brooklyn.

The Emin

Last year, around Thanksgiving or so, I made these delicious pumpkin-chocolate chip pancakes found here. Today, I bought some canned pumpkin (which is thankfully sold even when it’s not pumpkin season) and made the pancakes again, this time omitting the chocolate chips. I also made the cinnamon syrup. Here’s a recipe for it.

 When I was in college, a friend of mine, Eszter, and I went to a lecture by the Emin Foundation. Eszter, who was Hungarian, was into all esoteric things, and the Emin Foundation was one of those mysterious New Age movements that sprung up everywhere back then. I was sort of clueless but thought “why not?” The flyer promised three free lectures (or maybe they were called lessons, I don’t remember) after which you had to either stop coming or become a paid member.

There were two men heading the Emin Foundation in Lund, Sweden, where I lived then. The leader of the two was a British man named Lance. Lance was tall and slender with a longish face and a light brown beard. I especially remember his hands, which were also long and had monkeylike, sensitive fingers.

The other man was a shorter, dark young man who was always smiling as if he knew something you didn’t. Which I guess he did. His name was Constantine. Both Lance and Constantine wore black pants and full, white, fluid shirts, like the ones Cossack dancers wear. Lance and Constantine weren’t their real names. Once you became a proper member of Emin, you were given (or could pick) a new name.

Only English was spoken.

There was something spooky and forbidding about the whole thing, which I guess is why we were drawn to it. The lecture-lessons were held in a deserted part of the public library, a bit too clinical for mystic stuff to take place, which it nevertheless did. I don’t remember much, but I remember we always sat in a circle. Lance either talked or conducted experiments, while Constantine stood aside smiling. One such experiment was called “the aura”.

Lance showed us photographs of ancient Egyptian art and asked us to look closer at the heads of the people in these pictures. Most of them had some sort headgear, strange structures, or just a huge, red circle on their heads. I hadn’t thought about that before, though obviously I had seen pictures of Egyptian art.

“These are not hats,” Lance explained. “These are auras. The Egyptians could see them clearly, which is why they were manifested in their art. We’ve since lost the ability to clearly see the aura of a person, the way the Egyptians did. Yet, it is still there, and it has many different colors. For instance, what color do you think the aura of an angry person has?”

“Red,” some smarty-pants piped up.

“Exactly,” nodded Lance. “And from there we get the word ‘hatred’, which is a combination of the words ‘hat’ and ‘red’. A red hat, or aura. Hatred.”

Next, he had us all line up in front of an empty wall. And sure enough, as I watched the others parade in front of that wall, I saw a faint sort of light emit from their heads. I suppose “shadow” would be the word. I left that lecture-lesson filled with awe, and proceeded to tell everyone I knew about the root of the word “hatred”.

“I saw it myself,” I whispered, baffled at the non-believers who just shook their heads at my naiveté.

The next time, Lance had an even better trick up his Cossack-sleeve. This time he was going to demonstrate his heat.

“Heat radiates from our bodies,” he explained. “And if you practice, you’ll be able to conduct that heat through various body parts.”

Since we had no clue what he was talking about, Lance asked us to stand up and hold out our palms. Then he went around and above every open palm he held his slender magician fingers. One after the other, everybody quickly withdrew their hands as if they’d been burnt by fire. Some even yelped “Ouch!”

I decided that I wouldn’t fall for this particular trick. I would not withdraw my hand and I would not scream. But when it was my turn and Lance stood in front of me and held his fingers over my palm, I felt a burn as if from a laser beam, and just like the others I pulled back my hand quickly.

I never went back for my third and last free lesson-lecture. I am not sure why. Eszter did though. She became a real member of the Emin. She even got to pick her new name: Spring.

Whales, Fires, Public Restrooms & Other Fears

Quinoa and kale breakfast, topped with a poached egg. This recipe comes from Gwyneth Paltrow’s It’s All Good cookbook, which I rather like. It’s simple and tasty, and perfect for those times when you have leftover quinoa (but good enough to make with fresh quinoa too). You can find the recipe here. Have a good weekend and see you again on Monday!

My son, who is seven-and-a-half, has exhibited a lot of fears lately. He’s afraid of the mother of another kid, because she once screamed out loud, he’s afraid of police officers, he’s afraid of going into the kitchen alone at night.

The other day I asked my husband:
“What’s up with all these fears? I was never afraid as a kid!”

As if my son’s fears surely had been passed down from my husband’s side of the family, not mine. I tend to think of myself as pretty fearless, but a deeper examination of my own childhood and youth, revealed quite a few fears, some of which were almost compulsive in nature and a few of which lasted until I was a grown-up.

Two major fears are connected to this one summer, when I was 8 or 9. First, it was this whale, which had gotten lost and was “stuck” in the shallow strait located between the island of Öland and the town of Kalmar on the mainland, where we lived. Because of this whale, I refused to put my foot in the sea all summer for fear my foot would touch the back of this great big Leviathan. I imagined the feel of it: Slimy, bumpy, and worst of all alive.

That same summer there was a fire in a nearby school. Everyone talked about it and I couldn’t sleep at night, imagining our house, too, might burn down.

“Our house is made of stone,” said my mother. “Stone houses rarely burn.”

Yet in my dreams I saw firefighters and police and a curious crowd of people poking in the remains of our house and our furniture all covered in heaps of black ash. And our bodies, blackened and burnt, found amidst it all.

Traveling alone was another fear. I was terrified of being alone on a train in my younger teens. I was afraid of having to change trains, actually my heart started to race every time the conductor announced that Alvesta Station was next. Alvesta was a busy railway junction, with tracks and platforms forming a difficult, snaky grid. I always knew the platform from which my next train would leave, but one little hick-up, one small delay, could easily change track 3b to track 5a and that would produce an hitherto unknown terror in my heart.

Public restrooms were also extremely scary. It began with the restrooms at school, where the older students held court and terrorized those who were younger. And the public restrooms were even worse! Who knew what one would find in there? I always opened the doors to the stalls very quickly. I imagined half-naked; half-dead bodies slumped in there, in a sea of urine. The stalls back then were always covered in vulgar graffiti and veiled in a nasty stench. I always wondered who in this world could stay in there long enough to write and draw all those things.

I still try to avoid public restrooms. The good thing is, that in New York City there’s a whole bunch of really nice ones: The ones in Bryant Park are the best, followed by the ones in the lobby of the Renaissance hotel at Times Square. Most Barnes and Noble restrooms are OK. I’m not as picky as when I was younger, but if you are in New York and you are picky, there’s a book out there for you.