B r a i n C l e a r

Sorting through life one thought at a time

Tag: travel

  • 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.

  • Patriotism as an Expat

    Thinking about patriotism today on Americas birthday.

    Living here has made me think about it in a way I never really did growing up in Sweden.

    If Sweden whispers, “We’re proud to be Swedish,” America says it with a microphone. Sometimes I joke that Americans want to make sure you never forget what country you’re in and all those flags certainly help.

    The funny thing is, I don’t think Swedes are any less proud of their country.

    We just seem to show it differently.

    I’ve often wondered if part of the reason is that loud national pride can feel uncomfortable. There seems to be a quiet awareness that celebrating “us” too loudly can start to sound like excluding “them.”

    You see it when Sweden plays in the World Cup or the Olympics. Suddenly the blue and yellow flags appear, everyone is glued to the TV, and strangers celebrate together.

    One thing I’ve noticed over the years is that many Swedes seem to become even more patriotic after moving abroad.

    When you grow up in Sweden, Midsummer, Lucia, crayfish parties, cinnamon buns, and those long summer nights when the sun barely sets and you’re complaining because you need blackout curtains just to sleep, are simply everyday life.

    You don’t think much about them because they’ve always been there.

    Then you move away.

    Suddenly you’re explaining Lucia to your American friends. You’re driving across town to find Swedish candy. You get excited when you hear someone speaking Swedish in the grocery store. You celebrate Swedish traditions with a handful of other Swedes, trying to recreate a little piece of home.

    Even IKEA becomes more than a furniture store, and H&M becomes more than a clothing store. They become little pieces of home.

    It’s interesting how distance can make you appreciate things you once took for granted.

    Maybe that’s one of the unexpected gifts of living abroad you don’t just discover a new country, you rediscover your own. 🇸🇪

  • Midsummer in Sweden

    This week, I was talking to my mom as she was preparing for Midsummer, one of the biggest celebrations of the year in Sweden, the longest day of the year.🇸🇪

    She told me about her trip to the grocery store and how, this year, she wasn’t rolling her own meatballs. That may not sound like a big deal, but rolling meatballs for a large family gathering can be quite a chore.

    There would be new potatoes with dill, meatballs, pickled herring, strawberries, and of course some kind of dessert.

    There would undoubtedly be alcohol as well. After all, it wouldn’t be a Swedish Midsummer without it.

    As she talked through her plans, I could almost picture it all. The grocery stores crowded with people buying the same ingredients they buy every year, and especially Systembolaget, the only place in Sweden where you can buy alcohol.

    Since my mom and her boyfriend were heading up to their summer house in Dalarna, and my sister would be driving up with her little boy, I reminded my mom that she should take him to one of the larger Midsummer celebrations where children dance around the midsummer pole.

    As I said it, I could vividly picture it: an accordion and fiddles playing in the background, someone standing with a microphone leading the festivities, and children hopping around the pole pretending to be frogs during Små Grodorna(The Little Frogs).

    That conversation made me think about how Midsummer has changed throughout my life while somehow remaining exactly the same.

    As a child, Midsummer was about cousins, lakes, and dancing around the midsummer pole. I spent many summers in Dalarna, where my grandparents lived. My aunt, uncle, and cousins would drive up, and we would spend hours playing, exploring, and enjoying the freedom that comes with long summer days.

    As a teenager, Midsummer became something entirely different. It was about friends, freedom, staying out too late, and, if I’m being honest, usually drinking a little too much. Like many Swedish teenagers, the holiday became less about tradition and more about celebrating the start of summer.

    As an adult, I find myself appreciating the things I once took for granted the family meals, the conversations around the table, and the comfort of traditions that connect one generation to the next.

    Living abroad, holidays like Midsummer have a way of reminding you just how far away you are.

    Not because you cannot celebrate where you are, but because you realize that somewhere else, the people you love are continuing traditions that were once your traditions too.

    Hearing my mom talk about preparing for Midsummer dinner made me realize that some holidays never stop feeling like home, no matter how many years have passed or how many miles separate you from them.

    And somewhere in Dalarna this year, my nephew will be dancing around that same midsummer pole, creating memories of his own. 🌼