O Sangria
I’m trying so hard to get thru the Dark Tower series again at work. Flash forward five years and it's nearly impossible to listen to anything at all let alone delegate the amount of focus needed on the linear threading of audiobooks. I've been listening to "Wizard and Glass" now for over a month. It was my favourite book in the series and I should be certainly done with it on Thursday but I fear my love affair with the books on disc will end to be traded in for much easier fare such as the likes of political Podcasts and new musiques unless I should find a way to incorporate them into other corners of my life. Don't fancy that will happen any time soon though considering I can't even seem to teach myself Spanish or settle into a persistent exercise routine. No, Norge has taught me the value of cooking. So that each day when I awake, that's precisely what I do. On the menu this week: more homemade pizza, tacos, rice and potatoes.
The Pernil last week was somewhat of a failure when it was determined that I didn't quite season the pork well enough but it wasn't for lack of trying. In some ways I feel I call up short when even a simple act of lighting a fire upon the stove doesn't end in perfection. It's not as though anything I do gets appreciated around here anyway so sometimes I wonder why bother.
I did sample the Farmer's Market today after Alma's suggestion last week. "I buy $70 worth of groceries for me and my husband that lasts the entire month." It is true the prices are a bit cheaper when it comes to produce and meats but I walked out with $70 groceries for Danny and I for one whole week and wondered what sort of voodoo she possesses that she's able to conjure up a month's worth of meals for less than $100 bucks. I also wondered if that somehow I've become a real grown up for getting excited about going to the market and preparing meals and the like or if this was something always instilled within me.
It wasn't that long ago that I was able to experience shopping at the market across the ocean in a different sort of setting. One that was similar yet at the same time dissimilar to our own.
But before that time - the morning came.
Tuesday, December 28th, 2010
I woke up late on this morning tired and particularly sour-mooded. I can't explain why exactly though I'd certainly never profess to be a morning person. Good tidings simply weren't in the forecast during the start of this day. I went to the bathroom, washed my face and then sat on the sofa in a pout. Danny had actually woken earlier and had been in the living room for a few hours before I had even gotten out of bed. His spirits seemed to be a lively sort and as I sat on the sofa curled up with my knees beneath my chin, he pat my head gently as if to note without words that he detected my sour dwellings.
As the previous day, I decided to clean up a bit before Marita arrived. I heated the remaining slices of pizza in the oven for our breakfast and washed the bit of dishes we had dirtied for our meals. I let her cat, Chloe, out to play in the snow. Marita said she stays indoors mostly in the winter but disappears for days during the summer months offering mice or birds that she had ensnared as trophies of gratitude. This particular morning she was ready to go out so I ushered her out of the front door after I was unable to open the kitchen window which was snagged on some safety feature. The weather was just as we left it the day before. Snow had covered the walkway and left everything blanketed in white. The temperature was warm out, just below freezing and the sun was shining (at least until it set in a few hours.)
Marita had come back after seeing a physician for an awful rash she had come into contact with since the onset of our visit Saturday morning. It started on her chest that day and was spreading rapidly to her neck and arms. She was concerned only about it reaching her face for New Years. "I don't want to be a pizza face." We figured it may have been the Snuggie Danny had given her so she washed it thoroughly and hung it to dry over her bedroom door. One thing I noticed was that she didn't own a dryer. She says it's common here but not everyone has one. I noticed her father owned one; it was in a corner of the bathroom last night. "Oh well, they ruin your clothes anyway," she said.
She offered us Skol bread which she had picked up from the cafe that she worked. It was a sweet bread with cream which was covered in coconut flakes. It was fantastic and a pretty common delicacy here. I'm pretty sure they're available at the Norwegian bakery in Epcot. I gobbled mine and had to refrain from shoveling Danny's portion after he refused due to his distaste for the coconut content. My goal was the lose ten pounds on this trip since I don't eat nearly as much when I'm staying with someone as I would at home, but what with the practice of shoveling chocolates after every meal I was doubting that it was going to happen. I have to admit that I didn't even once feel bloated or gross which was probably due to my lack of overeating or over seasoning.
On this particular afternoon we took advantage of the time and exchanged our American currency for Norwegian kroner at a local post office downtown. The American Dollar at this particular time was worth nearly 5.98 kroner so the USD was definitely working to our advantage though we would realize later that mattered little considering the high costs of living that encapsulated the country and the booming Norwegian economy. Their currency was issued in colourful yet non-uniformly cut paper bills as well as various coins. We received two 500 kroner bills each and some change. There's a kroner worth 1, 2, 10, 20 and .5 (much like our near obsolete half-dollar.) There's nothing less than a half-kroner. Nothing equivalent to nickels, quarters and dimes and certainly no pennies. It seemed to me that this was a much simpler way of banking, that is, if everything purchased was in dollar or half-dollar increments.
On this particular evening, Marita wanted to make us a traditional Christmas dinner of spare ribs. This required that we go to the grocery store for the necessary items to complete the meal. She informed us that Tom would come over which would allow us to finally get the chance to meet him. I didn't quite know how to feel about this considering his "jealous" comments she kept dropping but I figured it would at least break the ice since it looked as though we would be spending New Years Eve with him.
It seems the markets are much smaller here in Norway. Sure, they have everything that one could want. But all of the portions were resized. Sodas come in 1.5 liters rather than our 2 liter bottles. Even individual sized bottles are less than 20 ounzes. Don't look for previously sliced bread. Everything is fresh here as though it just came out of the oven. None of that flat, artificial Evangeline Maid mierda.
The baskets were strange. It's similar to hand-held baskets in American markets only a bit larger and deeper with a long handle that sticks out and small wheels on the back. Shoppers grab the handle and tug the basket in back of you. It may seem strange to note such things but being in a different country you tend to notice even the minute details of your surroundings. I don't mean to but it's difficult not to compare how people live and go about their everyday lives in comparison to how you would complete the same task back at home. Why, even the toilets flush differently here. They contain a button that's either pushed or pulled typically placed in the centre on the back of the toilet. The minute you let the button go, it's done flushing. But it's enough. It's not like the slow round and around and around movement of the water here. I spend half of my time in the bathroom praying that the wet wipes won't clog the drain. In Norway the toilets may have flushed very briefly but they were violent in doing so. It was as though not one drop of water was wasted. It makes a North American visitor wonder how it is that we've managed to get so many things wrong here when even our toilets flush badly in comparison to Europe.
She was the tour guide to our first Norwegian grocery experience. Fresh meats here, frozen foods there, oh, and look at the sweeties. We spent a considerable amount of time in the produce section of the market sniffing and picking fruit to toss into the sangria Danny had promised to make. I picked up a bag of paprika chips and some soda to replace what we had consumed of hers. "We guys don't get ice cream like you do. Not a lot of variety. But look! We have Ben & Jerry's now." And indeed, like a great pool of water shown down from heaven in the desert, was an upright cooler in the middle of the potato chip aisle with Ben & Jerry's printed on the front. I asked her if they had Cherry Garcia to which she said "I don't think so." And I looked at the three or four flavours in the freezer and noted that Cherry Garcia wasn't one. "We don't really have anything cherry flavoured here. Cherry isn't so big in Norway." It was unfortunate considering I regard Cherry Garcia as probably the best ice cream flavour the world over. Indeed even Kate in Australia, who was hesitant, tried it and fell into a cloud of taste bud exuberance.
I had decided that instead of taking souvenirs back home, I would bring everyone chocolate. Norwegians have the best chocolate and it's nothing like what we get in America. Truly it's difficult to explain without sampling. Marita had decided we should wait because there was a cheaper store we could pick them up before going back to her place.
Checking out wasn't such a bad experience. We got a really nice guy who didn't mind that we were too stupid to ask for bags. "We don't get bags free like you guys do in America. You have to pay for them." This guy must have noticed the "stupid" in our faces and offered a bag to Danny and I for free so we didn't have to walk out of the store with bags of chips, a bottle of soda and a big pineapple sticking out of our arms. "Oh, and Charly, your cash will be dispensed from there." She said this as my change spat out of a small slot below the register. "I feel so handicapped." I told Danny. But I don't know why because the grocery check out guy spoke to us in English.
We were off to another market to pick up a few remaining items. This place was smaller. The chocolate she had promised would be on sale was nearly all gone but she told us that before we left back home she would take us some place to get some. I noticed here when passing the beer aisle that a few six packs had been dismembered. It was as though someone walked up and simply swiped one or two from the plastic circular banded wrap. "Oh, you could buy them individually here." She said. "Just take what you want if you don't want the entire six pack. Soda's too." I'm pretty sure that's called theft here in America. Egads! How crazy is that? Alcohol is super expensive here so maybe that's explain why -but the sodas? Indeed Marita says they drive forty minutes to Sweden to pick up any alcohol since it's so much cheaper. It would have been nice to make that drive if we had more time. Just to say I'd been to Sweden too.
Our last stop before home was at place to get something for her car. The parking lots here seem coated in thick levels of snow but everyone seems to know exactly where to park. It seemed insane. While she was inside Danny and I spoke about how much we were enjoying life here. How we could definitely get used to living in Europe. How we didn't want to ever go back home. As the temperature dropped in the car's cabin we were scheming and tossing ideas about even so much as deciding we would move here as entrepreneurs and open Norway's first Starbucks since Marita said it doesn't exist here. "I'm sure it would be huge," she said. I think it's the one American chain we have here that we've done right. Maybe fried chicken wouldn't make it. "We really don't fry anything here." But coffee, psssh. Everyone drinks coffee.
Back at home I showered while Marita and Danny cut up the pineapple, sour apples, oranges and star fruit and mixed the red wine and fruit punch for sangria in a large pot. She put her ribs to bake and was horrified later when she says she "burned them." We told her that we were certain they weren't back and that regardless we would all eat them. She said "there's a fine line between well-done and burnt. It's very easy to burn them and I put them in for just a little too long."
She went away to pick up Tom and when she came back we had a traditional Christmas dinner in the living room around the TV.
Ribs, sauerkraut, sausage, potatoes & gravy, lingonberries. She was upset that the sausage and ribs were overdone but really, it wasn't such a bad meal. "Some people do it every year. This is my first attempt actually. It comes out much better when my mother does it."
Tom seemed to be a nice guy. He didn't say much. The four of us sat on the sofa watching TV for most of the night sipping on Bailey's & coffee and the sangria they had made earlier while eating chocolates. It was a lovely and relaxing evening. "People only go out here on Friday or Saturday nights," she told us when we first arrived. And I was thankful for that bit for I didn't want to consume the time in Europe in smokey bars or places with abrasive music. Danny didn't seem to mind the relaxed atmosphere one bit. He sat on the sofa curled up on my side and grew tipsy on sangria which seemed to be a hit across the board. He later revealed that he was practically sitting in my lap so Tom wouldn't think we were after his woman since he was already being pegged as the "jealous" type.
Tom spent the night which meant we had the living room. I let Danny have the cot. It was little too squishy - I knew he would hate it but I really wanted something firmer and he had the couch our first night here. He didn't offer any complaints and we were out within an hour with our bellies full of Christmas offerings and red wine which made for a fully relaxing sleep.
The three of us had plans to explore Oslo the next day. We would rent a hotel and spend the night so that we didn't have to drive or take the train back. I was pretty excited to explore the capital. I had never thought in a million years that Oslo would end up my first European experience.
Little did we know though, that plans would swiftly change within the settling of the creaky floorboards sometime during the night before dawn and the next evening would end on a much darker note within an oddly pleasant bit of spontaneity I would not have expected if I had lived to be a thousand years old.