The House Husband in Sweden

I was sitting in my study this afternoon when a weather alert popped up on my phone. It was a warning of impending snow. ‘There is a high chance of snow in the next few hours’ it read. I looked out my window and shook my head. It felt highly unlikely.

It may well have snowed somewhere else but it certainly didn’t here, in Trosa. Mind you, there was a slight dusting of light snow last night. I crunched through it this morning, on the way to the ICA but it had all gone by lunchtime.

Mirinda was at uni today so I busied myself around the house until it was time for Reading Hour when I was happily and comfortably ensconced on the lounge, covered in dozing dogs. Then, suddenly, all hell broke loose.

Emma started barking, jumping off me and taking station on the window sill, intent on something outside. Freya quickly followed, her paws on the big glass door, her face pressed hard against the surface, staring at something while her gremlin growl scared no-one.

I joined them thinking it would be the Norwegian forest cat taking a prevening stroll. And I was correct. It was down the road, happily strolling along. It vanished into the increasing gloom. But the dogs didn’t stop their intense staring and low growls.

I told them there was nothing there but they heeded me not. And for very good reason because, out of the gloom came a woman dressed in a coloured beanie, dull green jacket and orange trousers.

She stopped outside our house and stood, staring at the house across the road with frequent scans of the road behind her. She was talking to someone or her phone or god, maybe. It was impossible to tell. Then it was obvious.

Two small cats came bounding up the road and went to her as she crouched down. One climbed up, onto her shoulders, while the other one brushed itself up against her legs. I decided it was time for the girls’ dinner in order to distract them from this odd display.

A little after, I looked outside and she and the cats had gone. A longer time later, I let the dogs out the back to go to the loo. It was, by this time, dark. I heard a voice coming from the forest but saw nothing. The voice stopped. The started again. This time I saw a figure on the lit path. It looked like the woman from before. And it was.

Behind her, answering her calls, came the two cats, leaping and running to keep up with her. It was like I was seeing the local witch and her evil familiars. It was very weird.

A bit unexpected, like the earlier weather forecast. Unless, of course, the local witch had cast a no snow spell so she could take her cats for an evening stroll.

Actually, now I think about it, I did see some snowdrops today.

I spotted these while sitting with Inge this morning. It wasn’t magic, just a delightful harbinger of Spring.

I was in ICA this morning and had wandered unexpectedly into the jam and conserves aisle when I was reminded of my maternal grandfather. It was because of a bottle of marmalade that had caught my eye. I was almost transported back 50 odd years to a time when I lived with my grandparents.

It was during my early high school years that my parents moved away from Cambridge Park to Rooty Hill, making it very difficult for me to continue to attend Penrith High School. After a few missed trains and a smattering of truancy, I suggested that, maybe, I could stay with my grandparents during the week then live with mum and dad on the weekends. For reasons I’ll never fully understand, the plan was approved and things returned to normal.

It was in this house that I learned many things from my grandparents. Cribbage, cryptic crosswords, the correct way to carve meat and a love of various foods. I was introduced to such things as parsnips, broccoli, liverwurst and blue cheese. There was never a choice other than eat or starve.

There were also nights spent munching on his homemade pickled onions and chunks of cheddar cheese.

Grandad was a stickler for routine (something else he probably taught me). Everything had to be just so. For example, porridge oats had to soak in a saucepan overnight with plenty of salt, ready for him to heat up each morning before heading off to work and the mail had to be placed on the top of the fridge ready for him when he returned from work in the evening (he used to complain when there was no mail on top of the fridge even though there had been no mail).

My grandparents (like my mum, dad and sister) had immigrated to Australia from the UK and one of the things that my grandfather really missed was something he called Robinson’s Silver Shred. You couldn’t get it in 1960’s Australia. Well, not in the sticks where we lived. He would go to great lengths describing to me how wonderful it was on toast.

Obviously, I knew about marmalade. It was an ever present item in the house. We rarely had jam but there was always marmalade. And Vegemite, of course, though I’m fairly certain my grandfather disapproved of the yeasty black stuff. It was solely for me.

Then, one day, unexpectedly, my grandfather came home with big smile on his face. He didn’t smile very often, wanting the world to know what a gruff old sea dog he was. He served in the Royal Navy during the Second World War and would sorely complain if he didn’t get his tot of rum at night. But not this particular night. He was a different man: Like a sailor suddenly given shore leave in Singapore after months at sea.

In explanation for his unusual behaviour, he plonked a small jar on the table between my grandmother and me as if he was a magician finishing his act with a flourish.

It was a jar of Robinson’s Silver Shred. He had found a jar and was overjoyed.

The thing about Silver Shred is that it’s made with lemon rather than orange. My grandfather quite liked sourness, and this marmalade supplied both sweet and sour. I’d never seen him happier.

And this is what caught my eye this morning, jars of Robinson’s Silver Shred.

Of course, the label is very different but it’s the same stuff inside. Well, I assume it’s the same. Given it’s sour, I never really liked it and, to my grandfather’s distaste, I always had Vegemite on my toast.

Mapo Tofu, originated in China. The name, mapo tofu, roughly translates to pockmarked grandma’s beancurd, which I find delightful though odd because it doesn’t look like a pockmarked grandma at all. Anyway, the recipe was first created in China, in either the 13th or 19th century, depending on who you consider more reliable. It is very spicy. I made a Japanese version tonight in honour of White Day.

White Day is a Japanese invention, celebrated one month after St Valentine’s and meant to be a response for gift recipients. So, if I bought Mirinda something on February 14, she should reciprocate on March 14. That does not sound very anti-consumerist to me. And, needless to say, we ignore both occasions.

Speaking of Mirinda, she isn’t that big on spicy food so I left out a few ingredients to make it a bit more palatable. And it was delicious. I particularly enjoyed it. In fact, I enjoyed it so much, I forgot to take a photo.

Like most Japanese food, it takes much longer to prep than to actually cook. But it’s worth it. The only thing I felt it lacked were noodles. I wanted to use some konjac noodles but ICA was out of them. Maybe next time. I fried up some cauli rice instead.

By the way, my walk to ICA in order not to find some konjac noodles, was beautiful this morning. No clouds, nicely cold, a delight.

When I reached the checkout at ICA, one of my favourite women was on the till. We were talking about Swedish sayings. I said a personal favourite was “There are no cows on the ice.” She countered with one I’d never heard before: “One eats in order to live. One lives in order to die.”

As I left, I countered with: “Skita i det blåa skåpet!” Which sounds a lot better than the English translation.

Back at home, Mirinda finally woke up and started her now normal Friday assignment-a-thon which means being locked in her study writing up her observations of her week’s uni classes. It also means that Gary has to hang around, ready to address any technical issues and to add entries for her bibliography, and to help with the addition of same at the end of her paper.

It means my day is generally made up of admin which I can drop at a moment’s notice. It works. Mind you, it can be a bit frustrating if I’m doing something maths related. Gary is not very good at numbers and may have to start again if interrupted. I have often returned to a maths problem only to realise I’ve made a mistake

Which reminds me. Both Sweden and Denmark made the same mistake on TV yesterday.

I found it on Reddit. The thing is, though, was it a mistake?

Last night we had a delightful meal with Nicoline. She made pork and it was delicious. The homemade ice cream was pretty special as well. This follows her New Year’s resolution not to bring outside ice cream into the house. A damn fine resolution, if you ask me.

We discussed a wide variety of things, from hitchhiking to over designed theatre events for babies. It was, all in all, an excellent night. Mind you, poor Selma may not have agreed. She was almost molested by our two at one stage, which caused a mad rush to close doors, retrieve the dogs and confine them to their lead. Selma, by the way, is a cat.

As we left, we realised it had snowed during our visit.

Our drive was a crunchy expanse of white.

The temperature has been steadily dropping over the last few days, and the predicted snow finally fell. It made for a jolly scene this morning as I made my first coffee of the day.

Mirinda headed off to uni while I worked on financial admin and washing. It was all rather mundane but essential.

For dinner, I made pork, which was an unwitting option given I tend to plan meals two days in advance and I had no idea what Nicoline was preparing for us last night. Not that I served the same recipe. And there was no homemade ice cream. Sadly.

Mind you, this looks a bit like vanilla ice cream…

Mind you, most of it was gone by the end of the day.

In a uni essay recently, Mirinda told the sad story of the eradication of wolves in Sweden. It seems they were hated by a number of people who loved shooting and killing wild animals. One reason given was because they killed reindeer.

Then, this morning, I read that another group of people who love shooting and killing wild animals want to get rid of the Eurasian lynx. One reason is because it’s claimed they kill reindeer. Which isn’t true. So, I guess, they actually love shooting and killing wild animals more than they love biodiversity. Sadly, biodiversity is necessary for both the health of the planet and the general survival of life.

Anyway, the rest of my day was spent in a much nicer occupation than removing life from big cats with tufty ears. For one thing, I actually and finally built a bird feeding table for Mirinda.

I managed to use bits of left over wood that’s been hanging around the side of the house for yonks. It felt very satisfying, in a recycling sense. Mirinda has an idea that she might buy a little house to sit on top. We saw one at the Gnesta garden centre the other week. We shall see.

I also collected some information that Mirinda needed for a meeting as well as clearing up a lot of the cables behind the TV. I was quite the productive Gary today.

Earlier, outside the ICA, I ran into Dina from SFI and we had a lovely chat. She has progressed to the next language level because of annoyance.

She was becoming very irritated by the woman who always disrupts class by talking over the teachers, answering her phone and generally showing no respect for anyone. Dina figured it was leave or progress so she asked Alexandria how she could go up a level. Alexandria said she’d have to pass a test in order to ascertain if her Swedish was good enough.

Dina was very worried she’d not pass but, as I would have predicted had I known, she easily passed and is now free from the irritating woman. Dina really is an amazing person.

Also amazing was the light dusting of snow I walked through this morning as I headed for the ICA. The temperature has dropped as well. Just as I thought we were arriving at Spring, so the train heads back in the direction from which we came.

There’s more snow predicted for tomorrow when I’m heading to Stockholm for the Liljevalchs Spring Salon. Hopefully, it’ll be just as light as today.

In an odd twist, tonight, when KSP and Jonas brought the car back, Emma rushed out to greet them only to bark at KSP before happily and quietly going to Jonas with her tail wagging. This was most unusual.

Something else that was most unusual was me getting to watch an entire round of snooker on the telly. Mirinda was at a ballet performance in Stockholm and, subsequently, didn’t get home until well after the snooker was finished. (A win for Judd Trump over Gary Wilson.) It was a shame it wasn’t cricket but, still…

Actually, after the snooker, I watched an interesting programme about a group of Suffolk volunteers who are building a copy of the Sutton Hoo buried Anglo-Saxon boat. They are using old methods and taking a long time but, the aim is to, eventually, row it out to sea. It is an amazing project.

The amazing thing is how they worked out the details of the construction. The original left only an imprint in the ground and iron rivets in the sandy joins. The 1939 archaeological dig resulted in a very detailed set of drawings which, a few years ago, were turned into a digital version of the boat. This digital version was then used to create usable plans; and so the build began.

It was a bit disappointing when the programme ended, but the building didn’t. They still have a few years to go. It’s slow work but, as experimental archaeology, will be well worth it in the end.

The ballet was also well worth it, or so Mirinda asserted. Personally, I was happy being at home, along with another snooker fan.

This was her shocked expression when Trump missed an easy red.

I haven’t roasted beef for years. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I did. Lamb, chicken, pork, sure, but not beef. The reason is not because I dislike either the cooking or the eating of roast beef. I think the issue is that I have never really fancied the distinct taste of British beef.

I have always said it was because I grew up in Australia, where the beef was pretty amazing. That was, of course, before they started feeding them growth hormones. I don’t know what it tastes like these days.

Without wishing to create a list, I also quite like Argentinian beef.

The other day when we went to Wappersta gård and bought up all their meat, we purposely bought a hunk of beef for roasting. And tonight I roasted it. And, can I just say, it was superb. Apart from the wagyu we had in Tokyo back in 2017, it would be up there with the best. (As an aside, I also cooked the prinskorv that we bought at the farm. We served them up with all the chips last night at Mello and they all went. Apparently, Jonas was quite keen.)

Along with the roast beef, I made a different cauliflower cheese than the usual Romanian one I tend to favour. Tonight’s version came from Géraldine Leverd and received an enthusiastic “Yes!” from Mirinda. It was very French, very tasty, and very successful. In fact, all round, dinner was excellent.

Mind you, I was very sleepy after a considerable lack of sleep last night. I blame Emma, who deliberately woke me up at 5am in order to send me off to the shops. It was on the way to the ICA that I came across an odd thing.

This public bin is just the other side of the woods. There are no houses particularly close to it. Of course, I understand why the cardboard box is on top of the bin because, clearly, it wouldn’t fit inside. That’s not the odd thing.

The thing I find odd is that someone would be carrying an empty washing powder box around, then decide to throw it away at the next convenient bin.

It would make quite the unconventional handbag, but the handle was still intact, so why throw it away?