Swedish Christmas Quotes

You were in Sweden?" Boomer asked. "No," I said. "The trip got called off at the last minute. Because of political the unrest" "In Sweden?" Priya seemed skeptical. "Yeah-isn't it strange how the Times isn't covering it? Half the country's on strike because of that thing the crown prince said about Pippi Longstocking Which means no meatballs for Christmas, if you know what I mean." "That's so sad!" Boomer said.

A Christmas without a book for a present is a disappointment.

[...]a man and a boy, side by side on a yellow Swedish sofa from the 1950s that the man had bought because it somehow reminded him of a zoot suit, watching the A’s play Baltimore, Rich Harden on the mound working that devious ghost pitch, two pairs of stocking feet, size 11 and size 15, rising from the deck of the coffee table at either end like towers of the Bay Bridge, between the feet the remains in an open pizza box of a bad, cheap, and formerly enormous XL meat lover’s special, sausage, pepperoni, bacon, ground beef, and ham, all of it gone but crumbs and parentheses of crusts left by the boy, brackets for the blankness of his conversation and, for all the man knew, of his thoughts, Titus having said nothing to Archy since Gwen’s departure apart from monosyllables doled out in response to direct yes-or-nos, Do you like baseball? you like pizza? eat meat? pork?, the boy limiting himself whenever possible to a tight little nod, guarding himself at his end of the sofa as if riding on a crowded train with something breakable on his lap, nobody saying anything in the room, the city, or the world except Bill King and Ken Korach calling the plays, the game eventless and yet blessedly slow, player substitutions and deep pitch counts eating up swaths of time during which no one was required to say or to decide anything, to feel what might conceivably be felt, to dread what might be dreaded, the game standing tied at 1 and in theory capable of going on that way forever, or at least until there was not a live arm left in the bullpen, the third-string catcher sent in to pitch the thirty-second inning, batters catnapping slumped against one another on the bench, dead on their feet in the on-deck circle, the stands emptied and echoing, hot dog wrappers rolling like tumbleweeds past the diehards asleep in their seats, inning giving way to inning as the dawn sky glowed blue as the burner on a stove, and busloads of farmhands were brought in under emergency rules to fill out the weary roster, from Sacramento and Stockton and Norfolk, Virginia, entire villages in the Dominican ransacked for the flower of their youth who were loaded into the bellies of C-130s and flown to Oakland to feed the unassuageable appetite of this one game for batsmen and fielders and set-up men, threat after threat giving way to the third out, weak pop flies, called third strikes, inning after inning, week after week, beards growing long, Christmas coming, summer looping back around on itself, wars ending, babies graduating from college, and there’s ball four to load the bases for the 3,211th time, followed by a routine can of corn to left, the commissioner calling in varsity teams and the stars of girls’ softball squads and Little Leaguers, Archy and Titus sustained all that time in their equally infinite silence, nothing between them at all but three feet of sofa;

Sweden, a nation that officially promotes gender equality, once pressured a toy company to change its Christmas catalog so that it featured boys with a Barbie Dream House and girls with guns and action figures.7 But when the Swedish psychologist Anders Nelson asked three- and five-year-old children to show him their toy collections, things turned out differently. Almost every child had his or her own room with a staggering average of 532 toys. After going through 152 rooms and classifying thousands of toys, Nelson concluded that the collections reflected exactly the same stereotypes as in other countries. The boys had more tools, vehicles, and games, and the girls had more household items, caregiving devices, and outfits. Their preferences had proved immune to the equality ethos of Swedish society. Studies in other countries confirm that the attitudes of parents have little or no impact on children’s toy preferences.

Är han okej?" "Han är vegan.

Han kysser mig, hårdare än förut. Hårt nog för att få mig att flämta.

I’m on a Year Walk, or årsgång, a tradition that has been attested for centuries in Swedish folklore, which tells how a walk taken before dawn on Christmas Eve, without eating or drinking, without talking to anyone, without looking into a fire, will show the future. More specifically, it should show me shadowy enactments of the burials of anyone who will die in the village this coming year. It might even show me mine – there’s an oft-repeated story of a man who stumbled across his own funeral procession on just such a walk as this.

JANSSON’S TEMPTATION SERVES 4 AS A SIDE DISH This is a rich, deeply satisfying, and fortifying potato dish with anchovies, leeks, and cream to round out the flavors. It’s origins are Scandinavian and it is a much loved Christmas dish there but will soon be a winter regular in your family any day of the month. I use garlic and leeks in my version, and although the Swedish recipe calls for sprats, most Americans preparing the dish use cured anchovies in oil. Some people prefer to use heavy cream, which is a bit rich for my tastes. During the baking the dairy reduces and gets richer, so I find that the half-and-half is plenty rich. 1 large leek, sliced 2 cloves garlic, sliced 1 pound (455 g) fingerling potatoes, thinly sliced 6 anchovies, roughly chopped Freshly ground black pepper 1 cup (240 ml) half-and-half, plus more as needed 1. Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C). 2. In a small bowl, combine the leek and garlic. In a medium baking dish, layer the potatoes and leek–garlic mixture, sprinkling in the anchovies and black pepper as you go. Drizzle in the half-and-half. Bake for 1 hour, checking after 30 minutes to see how cooked the potatoes are by inserting a paring knife into them. Some areas will feel resistant to the knife, others softer and more cooked. Look also at how the cream is reducing. If it has cooked away, leaving too many exposed potatoes, turn down the temperature to 350°F (175°C) and perhaps add a splash of half-and-half to slow down the cooking. The dish is done when a knife passes easily through the potatoes and there are golden brown patches on top.