Let's Start at the Beginning

 
After more than two years away from home, and numerous half written stories about adventures in France and life in a tiny Spanish village, I am going to start at the beginning.

I know Sweden cannot compete with the romanticism of Southern Europe. With the information we are fed at home, when thinking about Southern Europe, we may conjure up pictures of year round sunshine, an abundance of fine wine and food, and of course people whose main priorities in life are to enjoy these things. We may imagine they have the work / life balance figured out just right. Family is at the core and work does not dictate life’s priorities. The numerous religious festivals serve as an excuse for a week off from work to dance and indulge in cervezas.

If asked to describe the characters of these people we may use adjectives such as passionate, sociable, impulsive and hot blooded. My own impressions so far, are more or less in line with these stereotypes. This is perhaps why I have struggled to write anything I feel is interesting or original about my time in France and Spain.

 For most people I talk to, the choice between a story from southern Europe or Sweden is an easy one. Like being asked which would you prefer: a three course meal, starting with a bowl of the freshest mussels, steamed open in a broth of white wine and garlic, to be followed by a Beef Daube where the slowly cooked beef is so tender it melts in your mouth leaving just a hint of orange on the palate and finally, Madame can I tempt you with a selection of our regions tastiest cheese and fruit pastes or perhaps you would prefer the house special, the chocolate fondant, a decadent dessert with a molten chocolate centre? Or would you simply prefer a jar of slimy pickled herring? Bit of a no brainer.

Or...

Tough choice

We hear so little about Scandinavia from home. Those without fear of exposing their geographical ineptitude, may venture a few tentative guesses; IKEA, high cost of living, polar bears roaming the streets, relentless cold and the only light source, the illuminating blonde hair on the heads of all the blue eyed beauties. The general conclusion (even to be found in guide books) is that Swedes are a humourless and distant people. The recent popularity of Stieg Larssons brilliant but chilling novels probably hasn’t done a lot to promote tourism to the area either.

I confess to not knowing much about Sweden until I arrived. However, as I had no intention of being left at home, while my then boyfriend went on a boys trip around South America, I accepted the first of the many jobs I applied for on the internet. I didn’t care where I went; I was just desperate to leave first! Not that I admitted my ignorance to anyone, scornful of those who confused Sweden with Switzerland, including my boyfriend who reassured me that I would be fine in Sweden with all that Swiss chocolate. In fact I doubt I could have even pointed to where on the world map I was, until at least three weeks into my stay.
I hope this convinces you of how truly underrated and wonderful this part of the world is, if not to persuade you to visit it yourself one day, then at least give you an idea as to why a three month trip lasted more than a year. 


Excuse the preamble, but I should explain how I found myself in a Swedish kitchen.  From a young age I had a passion for cooking. However, I was always fully aware that it was to be more of a hobby rather than something to be taken seriously as a path to the land of grown-ups; hence the not to be mentioned, failed attempt to study something respectable at university. I don’t mean to implicate my father in the aforementioned crime of: formerly high achieving daughter, drops out of Law school and coincidently the Real World, leaving parents to try to explain to family and friends, what exactly it is she’s up to (lets plead insanity, far tidier no?). But this passion certainly wasn’t inherited from my mother (I’m sure she feels she’s failed somewhat, in setting an example, in finding the perfect husband. If it’s any consolation I think my sister has that lesson well in hand). I’m afraid it has to be said it comes from Dad, who—with his love of fresh home grown food, curiosity with new styles and habit of spending hours in speciality stores searching for treasures from around the world to experiment with—always had an exciting, delicious and lovingly created meal on the table, even after a hard day’s work on the farm and with the added challenge of accommodating the finicky whims of teenage girls.

So the obvious and sensible course of action while waiting for a bruised ego to heal, would be to enrol in a course for culinary arts, gain a formal education and take it from there. Or you could take an audacious shortcut and tweak your CV just enough to convince the owner of a restaurant to let you run their kitchen. I left home with a few merino thermals, my shiny new knife, one cook book and an astonishing amount of ignorance.

If this muppet can pull it off...