The Intrepid Sentimentalist

Daddy says "birdie"!

One of the fun things about speaking two languages in one family is that it makes you realise things you've never really thought about before. My first language is Swedish, Dave's is English. We're both adults, reasonably well educated, and we grew up in surprisingly similar families. So you'd think we'd have fairly similar vocabularies in our own languages, right? Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.

Once you think about it, it makes sense. My dad was, and is, an avid birdwatcher (hej pappa!). My mum was, and is, somewhat bonkers about gardening, plants and trees (hej!). It's no surprise that I know my starlings from my thrushes, and my oaks from my aspens. Dave, on the other hands, knows that there are birds. And trees. Yes, he knows the difference between a swan and a magpie, but that's more or less it (hi Dave!).

Because Esther is at an age where she wants to know Absolutely Everything, I have been teaching her the names of birds that we see in the garden, or when we're out and about. She's a little information sponge, so she has already surpassed her father and knows all about gulls, crows, pigeons, swans, blackbirds, robins, and a few more.

The other morning we were having breakfast when a blackbird landed on the patio outside. "Titta, mamma, en koltrast!" (Look, mamma, a blackbird!). Then she gave Dave a slightly puzzled look, before turning to me again. "Mamma säger koltrast, " she informed me, "and Daddy says birdie!".

(She likes doing those little word comparisons, partly because she knows I'm always suitably impressed.)

So, who is going to teach her about birds and plants in English? I suppose I could, later on, but I don't know most of them in English. School, perhaps, although judging by Dave's lack of ornitological and botanical education I shouldn't pin my hopes on that.

Similarly, who's going to teach her computer terms in Swedish? Do computer terms in Swedish even exist? Hmm. I will have to look into it.

Change of subject: let's talk about food. I don't have time to take photos or write down recipes. But how about I try to tell you what we have for dinner each day? Then I'll hopefully get around to updating this thing more often, and you'll get to read what we ate. Don't laugh, I have at least one friend who really wants to know! And I can tell you whether it was easy or not, and if the toddler approved. And if there's a recipe out there, I will link to it.

So here we go. Tonight, we ate gnocchi with a creamy tomato sauce and spinach. It was very easy, the whole thing took 20 minutes, if that. Simple tomato-garlic sauce, stir in some mascarpone, or cream. Boil the gnocchi, throw in some spinach at the end so that it wilts. Mix it all together, sprinkle with some basil leaves and parmesan. Yummy. The toddler approved.

Tarts and such

In honour of the fact that this used to be a food blog once upon a time, I would like to point you in the direction of this excellent recipe for Pasteis de Nata. I first came across these scrumptilicious little custard tarts when we went to Madeira last year, where I used to have two for breakfast every morning. (When I say for breakfast, I actually mean for breakfast dessert. After the rest of the breakfast. And when I say two, I think I may actually mean three, although I have partially blocked that memory. It's  good thing I swam around with my daughter on my back a LOT that week.)

Ever since we got back, I've been thinking about finding a recipe and trying to recreate the magic, and last week, I did exacly that. Do they taste exactly like they did on Madeira? Not really, but they are close enough. And they're very, very easy to make - you use puff pastry, ready-rolled, so it's not really proper baking. And this particular recipe uses milk rather than cream, which makes them rather virtuous, if you ask me. Virtuous enough that I ate, ahem, eight, on the day that I baked them. Yes, eight. Never mind.

That's it for now, really -I have to go and take the second batch out of the oven!

IKEA, I love you. A lot.

When I was a little girl, we lived in Stockholm for a few years. Because I was so young at the time (we left when I was four), my memories are random, at best. I remember the neighbour's white poodle, the scary twisty-bendy merry-go-round in the playground, and the pear-flavoured ice lollies they sold in the kiosk. I also remember IKEA.

We used to go to IKEA in Kungens Kurva. This is the IKEA mothership. The largest IKEA in the world is a big, round monstrosity of a building, full of all the things you would expect - furniture, cheap candles, and meatballs. But what I remember is the play room, which had a ball pit. It was exciting, and a little bit scary, as those things always were. Separated from your parents by a net, at the mercy of other, unknown children, possibly about to drown in a sea of plastic balls, all the while holding your breath to avoid the stench of sweaty socks. Scary.

After moving back to Finland, we used to return to Stockholm and IKEA once a year, as far as I remember, and although I soon outgrew the ball pit I still enjoyed it. Particularly all the cute little rooms, with their inviting beds and expertly arranged lighting, and real books on the shelves. Fabulous.

Eventually, IKEA opened its doors in Finland, too, just in time for me to kit out my student apartment with cheap bookshelves and springy mattresses. The desk I still sit and work at every day is also from there. But then we moved to England, and there was no IKEA within easy reach. I had to make do with Homebase, and John Lewis, and other places which sell really ugly things for stupidly high prices. I missed IKEA. But I held out, because I knew the end was in sight.

In February, IKEA Southampton finally opened its doors. Yesterday, Esther and I stepped through those doors for the first time. And now, Homebase and John Lewis might as well burn to the ground, as far as I'm concerned. Because I am home again.

Despite the name of this blog, I am not sure I'm particularly intrepid anymore. However, I am certainly sentimental, and being in IKEA brought out that emotion in absolute bucketloads. It sounds ridiculous, since I'm very happy in England and wouldn't want to move back to Scandinavia, but IKEA felt like a little bit of home, lifted up and planted smack bang in the middle of Southampton. Bizarre. I read all the silly product names, silently gloating about the fact that I was the only one who could pronounce Ektorp correctly or knew what a Domherre was. I picked up the books on the shelves, and was a little bit disappointed that I couldn't buy them (they're real books! and some of them are quite new! by actual,famous writers!). I ate prinsess cake and kokosbollar and bought blankets and cushions and napkins and a brilliant, cheap easel that Esther loves.

I also loved the fact that I was there with my daughter. And although this is sillier than anything else I've admitted to, I somehow felt better about speaking Swedish in public when I was there. Not that I struggle, normally - quite the contrary, I don't mind who can hear me when I chat with Esther in Tesco or the library or the playgroup. But in IKEA, I felt... proud. As if I belonged. As if Ivar the bookshelf was about to come alive, ent-style, and mutter: "Listen, all ye other shelves. She's one of us!". Considering the fact that Ivar was probably made in China using Russian pine, this didn't make a whole lot of sense. On any level. But there I was, skipping along, rejoicing in the fact that Esther would grow up knowing that it is EE-KEH-AH, not EYE-KEE-AH. 

Because sometimes, when you're living far away from home - even when you're really, truly very happy - it's those little things that matter.

It happened again

Yes, I know, I have been missing in action. Sorry. I am here now. I am sure there are lots of things I could tell you but at the moment I cannot remember any of them. I will get back to you when I do. For now, I just wanted to share my latest tale of humiliation at the hands of a two-year-old.

I am sure that most such tales would involve a misbehaving toddler. You know the sort of thing I mean: tantrums in the supermarket, loud usage of the wrong kind of words in public, biting other children. Normal things.

My daughter, on the other hand, humiliates me by being Smart and Organized. Now, I am not a slob. And I am not a hopelessly absent-minded professor type. But have strong tendencies in those directions, tendencies that I have to fight quite hard in order to live in a clean and tidy house with food in the fridge and even numbers of socks in the drawers (that last one never quite works out, actually). Esther, on the other hands, reminds me to floss after I brush my teeth in the morning. She insists on emptying the cutlery basket of the dishwasher, often re-organising the drawer because she wants to find a way to give the three different spoon sizes their own compartments rather than making them share. Every week, she impresses the teacher at the art club with her determination, focus and attention to detail.

Today, we were going to the supermarket. We put our coats and shoes on, I got my bag, found my keys, and opened the door. I was just about to leave when Esther suddenly turned and went to grab something from under the stairs. "Take these too", she insisted, and pulled out the reusable carrier bags.

I was flabbergasted. I haven't had the bags for that long - only a month or two - and I usually forget to bring them. This time was no exception and I would definitely have found myself in Tescos again, slapping my forehead and being annoyed with myself for having to use plastics bags for the millionth time. However, I have remembered to bring them a couple of times, and apparently that was enough for Esther to make the connection and realise that we needed them today, too.

I was proud, of course, and very impressed. But I was embarrassed, too. She is only just two. And I am ancient by comparison.So why am I frequently the more forgetful and disorganized one?!! It's just wrong!

Well, she is helpful. And incredibly cute.

So I'm not actually complaining. It's just, well, not what I would have expected. But then that's part of the fun of being a parent, isn't it?

It has begun

I already know what Esther is going to be like as a teenager. Sensible, and forever rolling her eyes at me because I have forgotten to do something or am attempting ridiculous things like opening a tin of tomatoes with a teaspoon (no, that never happened, although my husband probably thinks it has).

The reason I know this is because she already makes me feel ridiculous. Today she handed me a packet of new nappies, and told me to open them. Seeing me struggle with the plastic wrapping, she sighed a little and offered the following gem: "Mamma, you need scissors.".

As it turns out, I did NOT need scissors, so HA! She may think I need help but she is only TWO and I know what I am doing.

I am not going to tell you about how I forgot that there was no toilet paper in the downstairs toilet today until it was too late. TWICE. And twice I had to call on my daughter to come and rescue me and bring me paper, which she kindly did.

No, I am not going to tell you about that.

Oh, the humiliation.