A Swedish Day in Oregon

    When I knew I would be hosting last week’s Grayback Salon, a monthly gathering of six friends who read poetry together, I decided to make it a day of Swedish flavors.
    That morning I set the table with my Swedish things: a white woven tablecloth from Gothenburg; wine glasses from Örrefors; napkins embroidered with Swedish forget-me-nots; and blue and white dinner plates of a pattern called Marbacka, the name of novelist Selma Lagelöf’s house. For a centerpiece I used a small red-painted carving of a Dala horse; a little doll carrying the Swedish flag; and a wooden girl in Swedish costume with uplifted arms bearing candles. On a separate table I set my collection of Swedish literature: a book of photographs from Gothenburg, art books of Carl Larsson and Anders Zorn, some Swedish novels and poetry books, and some print-out versions of dramatic monologues by August Strindberg. A tomte kept watch over the table next to a vase of roses.

    The menu came from my request in Gothenburg last month that Lasse teach me to cook a typical Swedish dinner. As he cooked that meal, I followed him around the kitchen, writing the directions in my journal. The meal he set on the table that night was both beautiful and delicious. I hoped I could do as well.
    When my five guests arrived, Joan was wearing a bright yellow blouse with a blue scarf, Swedish colors. While the wine was being poured, I toasted the Swedish rye bread Greeley had brought. Then everyone sat down at the Swedish-set table. When Greeley gestured that we should hold hands around the table, someone said we should have a Swedish blessing, and I said that would probably be a Swedish drinking song. To my delight, Christopher broke out with a drinking song he had learned in Sweden years ago. We all ended it with a rousing “Skaal!” 

    For the first course we had potatoes, boiled and sprinkled with dill, Swedish style, that Joan had brought, and the mushrooms Lasse had taught me to make – sautéed with bits of onion and ham and served on toast. Then with my Swedish wooden dipper, I ladled into soup bowls the piece de résistance, Lasse’s creamy fish soup with fennel. The broth was creamy and smooth, the taste of fennel feathery light, and the chunks of salmon, cod, and shrimp perfectly cooked. A sprinkle of dark green dill on the cream-yellow soup with its chunks of red, white, and pink seafood was the finishing touch. Like Lasse’s, the soup was both beautiful and totally delicious.
    After the soup, I cleared the table for the readings. Dan and Joan read poems from the recently deceased Swedish poet Tomás Tranströmer. We took turns reading Strindberg’s dramatic monologues. I read a slightly too long chapter from Lagelöf’s Gösta Berlingssaga, but everyone listened politely. We read other poets and talked about their poems. We talked about our various visits to Sweden. We talked about Swedish culture and customs, about the effects of the long dark Swedish winters, about Swedish food.
    When we were sated with the discussion, I cleared away the books and served the dessert Lasse had suggested: vanilla ice cream with warm cloudberry sauce, a taste unknown in this country except that someone might have carried the cloudberry sauce here from Sweden in her suitcase. I had no more than 3.4 ounces of it to serve, but that was adequate for topping the six servings of Haagen Dazs ice cream. Cloudberry sauce was a taste of Sweden itself.
    The whole day, in fact, had been a taste of Sweden. I went to bed with Swedish food and Swedish literature swirling through my head, memories of Sweden and all my Swedish friends mingling with a Swedish day spent in Oregon.