B r a i n C l e a r

Sorting through life one thought at a time

Tag: food

  • A Swede, a Pole, and a Very Decisive Dog

    Years ago, my Polish friend and I had a brilliant idea.

    We were going to start a podcast.

    Because apparently having full-time jobs and normal adult responsibilities wasn’t enough.

    The name?

    A Swede, a Pole and a French Bulldog.

    The concept was simple. We would pick a subject and discuss it from three different perspectives: Swedish, Polish, and French Bulldog.

    The French Bulldog had no qualifications whatsoever, but he was extremely confident.

    We never actually made the podcast.

    We did, however, make notes.

    I recently found them.

    One of our proposed episodes simply said:

    Swedish meatballs vs. Polish sausage — the origins, why famous, and dog food.

    I have no memory of how dog food entered this conversation. Although considering Hugo was one-third of the podcast, I suppose we were trying to be inclusive.

    Sweden enters the competition

    Let’s start with the obvious.

    Swedish meatballs are better.

    I realize this isn’t technically how you begin an unbiased cultural comparison, but I am Swedish and this is my blog.

    Swedish meatballs — köttbullar — aren’t complicated. Meatballs, gravy, mashed potatoes, lingonberries.

    Perfect.

    Then IKEA came along and introduced Swedish meatballs to the world. This has been both good and bad. Good because millions of people now know about Swedish meatballs. Bad because millions of people now associate one of our national foods with buying a BILLY bookcase and discovering three hours later that you have one screw left over, a panel installed backwards, and a marriage that will never fully recover.

    Poland would like a word 🇵🇱

    This is where my friend would immediately point out that Poland has sausage.

    Not a sausage.

    Sausage as an entire category of national identity.

    And Americans call it kielbasa. Which seems reasonable until you learn that kiełbasa is basically the Polish word for sausage. So saying “Polish kielbasa” is a little like saying “Swedish meatball meatball.”

    There are many kinds. Smoked. Fresh. Garlic. Pork. Different regions. Different recipes.

    I know this because once you have a Polish friend, you will eventually receive information about Polish sausage whether you requested it or not, usually mid-conversation, usually unprompted, usually correct.

    I’m sure she feels exactly the same way about Swedish meatballs, except her version of this paragraph is shorter, because there is only one Swedish meatball and I have now spent four paragraphs describing it.

    She is also as of many years a vegetarian.

    I want to be clear that this has never once slowed her down. She will describe the snap of a good kiełbasa casing with the reverence of a woman who has personally eaten thousands of them. She has not eaten a single one. This is not a contradiction to her. This is heritage.

    We need an independent judge

    Obviously, Sweden and Poland cannot settle this ourselves. We’re biased.

    Fortunately, our original podcast had a third member.

    Hugo. French Bulldog. Thirty pounds. No culinary training. Extensive opinions.

    Hugo has reviewed the evidence carefully.

    Sweden argues for the meatball. Poland argues for the sausage. Hugo would like it noted that both arguments contain meat, and that this is, as far as he’s concerned, the entire debate resolved.

    His ruling: both.

    He would like one Swedish meatball and one Polish sausage for comparison purposes. Then another meatball, because the first sample was statistically insignificant. Then another piece of sausage, because scientific integrity matters. He is willing to continue testing until somebody stops him, and it should be noted that nobody has ever successfully stopped him.

    And apparently, dog food

    Which brings me back to our original podcast note: the origins, why famous, and dog food.

    I still don’t know what we intended to say about dog food. Maybe Hugo had negotiated his own segment. All possibilities are, at this point, equally likely, equally undocumented, and equally his fault.

    Sadly, A Swede, a Pole and a French Bulldog never made it to air. Which is probably a loss to international diplomacy.

    But after reviewing the evidence a couple of years later, I think we can finally declare a winner in the great Swedish meatball vs. Polish sausage debate.

    Sweden says Sweden.

    Poland says Poland.

    The French Bulldog says:

    Why are we still talking? Put them on the floor.

  • Peanut Butter Toast

    Some favorites never change.

    When I woke up this morning, I knew I wanted to write something.

    Here’s the thing: I have a long list of subjects and ideas for future posts, but they all seem perfectly happy staying on that list. They rarely volunteer to become an actual blog post.

    So, I wandered into the kitchen to make myself something to go with my coffee.

    Peanut butter toast.

    I’m trying to remember when I got hooked on it. It definitely wasn’t growing up because peanut butter wasn’t really a thing in Sweden when I was a child. Somewhere along the way it found me, and apparently decided it wasn’t leaving.

    If you ask me what my favorite food is, there’s a good chance I’ll say peanut butter toast with sliced bananas.

    Which is funny, because I’m actually a foodie.

    Food has always been a big part of life in my family. We made a celebration out of good meals, and whoever had cooked was praised as if they’d just won a Michelin star. I still love trying new restaurants, new cuisines, and dishes I’ve never had before, and one of my favorite parts of traveling is discovering local food.

    There’s something special about that first bite of a meal you know you’re going to love. I swear it sends little feel good signals all over your body.

    A while back I won a prize at work, and they interviewed me for the company newsletter. One of the questions was, “What’s your favorite food?”

    Without thinking, I answered, “Peanut butter toast.”

    I’m pretty sure they expected something a little more exciting.

    The picture I sent to work when they asked for my favorite food: peanut butter toast and bananas, on my favorite koala plate.

    It’s hard to pick just one favorite — avocado’s a close second (if I see it on a menu, I’m probably ordering it before I finish reading the description), and peanut butter with chocolate is its own category of unbeatable. But none of that changes the answer I keep coming back to.

    As I stood there this morning with my coffee and peanut butter toast, I started thinking about comfort food.

    It’s funny how some foods stay with us through the years. Not because they’re fancy or impressive, but because they never disappoint. They taste exactly the way you expect them to. They make an ordinary morning feel just a little bit better.

    For me, that’s peanut butter toast with sliced bananas.

    Simple.

    Reliable.

    And somehow… still perfect.

  • When Efficiency Met the South

    I didn’t just move from Sweden to the United States. I moved from Stockholm to St. Marys, Georgia. Looking back, I’m not sure I could have picked two places that were more different.

    I thought the biggest adjustment would be speaking English every day. It wasn’t. It was discovering that I had landed in a place with a completely different rhythm.

    In Stockholm, the checkout line is all about efficiency. You pack your own groceries, and you’d better be done by the time the cashier has scanned the last item, or the customer behind you might start getting impatient. There isn’t much small talk because everyone has somewhere to be, and the goal is to get through the line as quickly as possible.

    St. Marys was a completely different experience. The cashier knew the customer in front of me, and they chatted about family, church, the weather, someone’s tomato plants, pretty much anything and everything. Meanwhile, another employee packed the groceries while I stood there wondering if we’d ever get to the part where I actually paid. I remember thinking, “Are we still checking out?”

    At the time, it drove me crazy. I wasn’t used to it, and if I’m being honest, I just wanted to grab my groceries and go. But somewhere between Stockholm and St. Marys, my perspective changed.

    Today, I smile when I think about those checkout lines. I’ve realized they were never just about buying groceries. They were about taking a few minutes to acknowledge another person, catch up with a neighbor, or simply make someone’s day a little brighter.

    Somewhere between Stockholm and St. Marys, I learned that not everything has to be efficient. Sometimes, slowing down long enough to connect with another person is the whole point.

    Although I still silently hoped nobody brought up tomato plants when I was buying ice cream.