Pizza Menu in Sweden

I'm just sitting here in the old Midwestern Town of Mexico City, enjoying some Pan Pizza and reminiscing about our recent trip to Scandinavia. I took this picture of our menu at a pizza place near Bollnäs, Sweden:

In the last twenty years, the "Pizza Kebob" places have taken over Scandinavia. I read Eat Smart, Norway before I went, and I even went to a presentation by Joan Peterson at the local library. I sampled some lovely food at home here. But that's not what we had while we were actually in Scandinavia. The real food in the backwoods of Norway was a strange conglomeration of random stuff on pizza- from corn to mutton to ranch dressing. There's nothing they won't put on a pizza there. Sweden was pretty much the same. I'm not saying it's necessarily bad food, but I do prefer American Pan Pizza in the United States- like the kind they have here in the Midwestern town of Mexico City.

The ingredients to the "Mexico City" are:

Tomato Sauce
Cheese (no type specified)
Mincemeat
Tobasco
Corn
Jalapeño
Taco Seasoning Mix
Arugula

Because nothing says "Mexico City" like Mincemeat and Arugula.

The Unobserved Moment

I was in Norway. And Sweden. And Denmark. Lost, too, because my phone didn't work there and no one gives good directions anymore. But wonderfully lost.

You probably already figured it out. If I disappear, you can kind of figure I'm out of the country of these United States, and give it a fifty-fifty chance I'm in Sweden- because, let's face it, when you take the time to learn a language like Swedish, you're going back to Sweden. Often. I mean, no one else in the world speaks Swedish, so what's the point, otherwise?

People in Sweden don't even speak Swedish, half the time, but that's another story.

************

Time is different when you aren't writing about it. Or taking pictures and posting them on your blog. It's all different.

Something changes when you are making something into a story in your mind. I won't say it's a bad thing, necessarily, but something definitely changes. And then you race around writing and photographing and painting and creating and there's just a point when you have to take some time and just...

Be.

You know?

So that's why I haven't been writing of late. I feel refreshed.

***********

I did mean to write about it. I totally meant to keep a journal of my trip. I bought a really pretty journal. I wrote in it the first day. We went through Paris to get to Norway, and I wrote this:

A good beginning, I thought. Nothing special.

Incidentally, my Swedish friend, Stina, went to Paris three years ago. She was staying with a friend. She stepped outside for a moment. The garbage man was there, emptying the trash into his truck. He asked to have sex with her.

She declined, and then asked her friend whom she was visiting what the heck?

"You looked at him," said her French friend.

*************

My book was number three today in comedy give-aways, right behind What's French for WTF? I wish I had thought of that title. My next book has that as the main idea. Guess I'm not alone? I shouldn't get the book, though, because I might be keeping Gwen Ellery ahead of me (although she deserves it).


And yes the book is free again, still today and tomorrow and Sunday. Ja ja.

***************

It's good to be back home, though they sure make it difficult to get back into these United States. Their motto at customs is, "If you left the US willingly, you must be a traitor." They treat people accordingly. Still, God bless America, and all that. There's no place like home.

A guinea hen started living here while we were gone.

I know I wasn't supposed to write this until Tuesday. Forgive me. Förlåt. I couldn't wait.

Proof of my Swedish Heritage

I think this is funny:

Sweden 2

A lot of people in Sweden have a little shack in the woods somewhere, often by a lake, a "sommarstuga," or summer cabin. These cabins are primitive, and they generally have an outhouse. In that outhouse one very often finds a picture of the king or queen of Sweden- often both. It's usually a postcard size portrait, placed right where you can see it when you are sitting on the throne. Other outhouses- like at roadside pit stops and such- also often have the picture of the king and queen as well.

I never figured out where this tradition came from. It's a mysterious thing. If I ever have an outhouse, though, I'm putting a picture of the king of Sweden up inside.

Sweden

I lived in Sweden for a year, and I can truly narrow it down to one thing that I found most wonderful: the language. It's sort of a self centered love. I loved the language, and the language seemed made for my brain somehow. I learned the language, and everyone was so impressed that I learned it so well- and it came so easily. I love how Swedish is literally backwards at times. I love how it really does sound like the Swedish chef. I love how you have to sing a little to speak Swedish. I love how, once you speak Swedish, you understand Norwegian, Danish, and a little Icelandish, too. I also love the near complete uselessness of it- almost all Swedish people speak English. It's art for art's sake, speaking Swedish. I still dream in Swedish sometimes, after almost twenty years. (Although, sometimes, in the dream, I say, "could you say that in English? I mean, it's been a while...")