The delights of summer

Yesterday, between rain showers, I ate my lunch outside at the tables in front of the coffee shop. I had prepared for myself a salad teeming with the bounty of summer produce. While I sat on the mostly dry chair at a table that was definitely wet, eating my salad that seemed to increase in size as I ate it, I thought of the rainy summers in Seattle.

Perhaps it is global warming or my shady memory, but I don't remember summers in Seattle being long stretches of sunshine. I remember the comfortable rain. Perhaps it is more closely related to my summer habits of retreating into the cool dark basement with a special blend of Ghiradelli dark chocolate chips and walnuts in a Tupperware cup that someday would be taken to the beach and used as a digging implement losing its pleasantly smooth edge and becoming forever relegated to the back of the cupboard. In the hours while my parents were at work, I would watch tv mindlessly - making sure to follow the complicated system of turning on fans and closing hatches and windows to preserve the valued coolness of our stone house.

It must have been hot. It must have been hot because we went swimming in the sun. We all thought that swimming in the rain was the best, but swimming in the sun was necessary. When the weather was hot on the weekends we would pile in the Falcon and drive to Tacoma. Nana and Grandpa Arne always had fabulously delicious food (the broccoli chicken bake, salmon, potato salad, sour cream and onion potato chips, real sandwiches, PIE, ice cream in a variety of flavors, waffles with homemade jam for breakfast). The rest of the family tended to show up. Who wouldn't come for good food, swimming, and laughter?

Grandpa Arne's pool was the perfect place to play and get wet. It was a little short for laps that were more than recreational and diving was not allowed, but those limitations were not particularly bothersome. We floated, played games we'd made up (like Fox and the Eggs), and did tricks (mostly headstands and sommersaults). We'd get out when our fingers and toes looked like the prunes Grandpa and Nana ate every night before going to sleep and there were streaks of teal randomly distrubuted across out bodies where we had bumped into the walls of the pool, the aging paint had come off on our skin.

Sitting at a sidewalk cafe outside an art gallery, eating a bottomless salad, I started thinking about food as art in five dimentions. The fourth and fifth are clearly taste and time, but which is which? According to convention it is time that is the fourth dimention. But isn't taste more important? But perhaps the time to grow the ingredients and select them are as important as the art of the perfect composition of flavors. Taking time to taste the variety of ingredients is critical to the success of the piece. It also creates ample time to remember the delights of summers past.

Yesterday's Salad:

Iceberg lettuce (in Norway it still has a little green color)
Cabbage
Arugula
Onion
Carrot
Tomato
Avocado
Kidney Beans
Feta (marinated in olive oil and herbs)
Red wine vinegar
Oil and herbs from the feta

Chop the things that are choppable and mix together. Enjoy with friends or memories.

At the campfire

On Monday night there was a dance at the Boda Gammalgård. The music was scheduled to be excellent. Many of the Americans were going. My list of reasons for not going was long. I'm running short on cash, my feet hurt, I'm tired, I've been to Boda, and most importantly, I love to sit by the fire.

It would have been easy in spite of that list to talk me into going to Boda if I'd been able to get cash from the bank in Furudal. I'm glad that I didn't and no one tried real hard to drag me away from the mosquito infested paradise by the lake. With all of the Americans in Boda except for me and Tom, I arrived to a campfire of friendly faces speaking Swedish, laughing and talking and relaxing like old friends do at the end of a long hard day.

The scenery is breathtaking. A still lake, clouds strafing the sky which varies from light blue to fuschia in the Swedish sunset separated by pristine forests. At our feet was the perfect fire, tended religiously by Yngve and Busse, it was always just right - never too hot or too cold for grilling and producing enough smoke to keep the mosquitoes to a tolerable level.

After a half hour of Swedish immersion, the natives got restless and demanded some music. I was happy to oblige. After I played a Swedish tune they asked for something Norwegian. Well, I don't need to be asked twice. I was joined by Pär on fiddle and Lennert on accordion.

I'm not sure it's possible to describe how wonderful it is to sit at the fire with friends and sing, play, and eat in the norther twilight, but I can say it's good for the soul. I am glad I didn't go to Boda last night, not because of the money, but why would anyone want to leave paradise? As Tom said on the way back, those are the best memories.

Of course, I never want to go to sleep after an evening like that, so I was happy to find some others sitting in the common area outside my door. I joined them for some conversation about dancing and a couple cookies before turning in for the night. It was a perfect evening.