In case it was a wonder, I am feeling better today. Well enough to throw a whole extra two hundred words to make up for yesterday’s miss, I don’t know. I do not feel like using my head as a pestle and grinding it down into a fine powder.
This is my evening and I have claimed it for pizza, the libidinous Miss Fisher, and for the strong intent of will that is demanding I stop watching the clock as the worries of the day that was and the day that will be swarm over me. That’s a horrible sentence: a strong intent of will.
Someday in the future will be a day that will be all mine, none of it portioned out to anyone else unless I portion it out to them. That sounds as heavenly as anything King James has on offer.
Tonight we went to the Norwegian store. I suppose it serves as a catch-all Scandinavian pick-a-mix, but I had never known there was an organization that supports Norwegian people in America by virtue of their Norwegian heritage. They can get insurance, etc. and all of this was discovered, I must admit, because I chose/was forced/but mostly chose a particularly roundabout way (which includes an actual roundabout) to get to the event site.
The lodge has lefse, though, of a quality more akin to what my grandmother once made than anything us diluted Nords have been able to approximate, even using her recipe. I think perhaps the Irish blood just has a different opinion on the potato. I don’t know. If you haven’t had lefse, it’s sort of like a potato crepe, only thin and sweet, but not too sweet. This is why we were there. One purchase due to curiosity was delivered to him, and my father emailed back demanding, insofar as he demands anything, another package of the stuff. Apparently, we weren’t the only ones as were instructed to come back after 12:00p.m. when more lefse would arrive from whatever mysterious Norwegian grandmother or squad of grandmothers has produced it.
There, in this tiny squeezebox of a storefront that opens up, I saw, into a large hall that you can rent for gatherings, you can also buy lutefisk and herring. We were hoping to be able to send some to my grandfather, but it wouldn’t travel. We asked my aunt if he would prefer the onion or the mustard or the simply water-packed. Frankly, I have this half-notion that he wouldn’t be all that delighted by a jar of pickled herring, but that may just be my projection on the matter. There is still a plot to send him some. Let it be known, the whole seafood side of Scandinavian cuisine has no appeal to this particular troll.
I don’t really know that part of myself, blonde as I am, as much as it played in the background of my mind as I thought about my paternal lineage. But when you’re a kid, how much does that factor into your daily life? I don’t know. But you could go to this hall and learn the language, get the real experience, and briefly, I thought, if it were more lefse and less lutefisk, I could get behind that.
Let it be tonight forever.