Every family has a recipe that has been handed down from mother to daughter and, today, to son, so often it’s considered a family heirloom. In mine, it’s the Christmas honey cutout cookies, a pain-in-the-ass recipe that is believed to have accompanied my great-grandmother from southern Sweden to northern Michigan in the 1880s and that has plagued generations of Swedish-American women in the Upper Midwest ever since.
At first glance, the recipe seems innocent enough (see below). But do not be deceived: the instructions to make dough you can roll are insidious. If there’s not enough flour, the dough is too sticky and you’re left with a gooey mess. If there’s too much flour, the dough won’t stick and the cutouts just crumble. (I’ve baked many wingless angels and footless Santas in my time.) It takes years of experience to master this delicate balance and, more often than not, this phase of the project degenerates into nonstop profanity or even physical violence: an older sister in a fit of frustration once slapped me with a spatula when I offered to help her; we were in our 20s.
Then there’s the endless cutting and decorating.
The job of children in the family is to trim the cookies with colored sugar and sprinkles. At first, this is fun. My children, and occasionally their friends, strive to make each cookie distinctive, a masterpiece unto itself. They take their time, and I wait patiently while they decorate the first tray or two.
But soon I nag, as my own mother did, to “just get it done.” And after a while, they get bored and quit. I can usually cajole them into doing a few more trays, but finally, sick of their whining, I let them go and finish the cookies myself. A tray of all red bells or all green trees. The Horror! They howl in protest, but they don’t come back and help. (They aren’t that stupid!) But even with their assistance, the rolling and cutting goes on for hours and, occasionally, days.
Once the cookies are in the oven, they burn faster than a marshmallow at a barbeque. So they need constant attention. I’ve learned the hard way it’s impossible to decorate and bake at the same time.
I recently found out my maternal aunt and her daughter have never baked Christmas honey cookies. I couldn’t believe my ears! How did they escape this fate? I offered to share this bit of heritage with them, but they gave me an unequivocal “No!” Instead, they offered me a recipe for cranberry pie that supposedly came from my grandmother, although my mother has never heard of it. They tell me it’s both tasty and easy: “I make two at a time,” my cousin assured me, “one to eat and one to freeze.”
After foisting the honey cookie curse on my own daughters, I’ve now suggested we stop making them. But it’s too late. They’ve already decided Christmas isn’t Christmas without the honey cookies.
Occasionally I share the cookies with my Swedish neighbors. It’s a variant unknown to them. One even asked for the recipe. I was happy to oblige. It’s only fitting this diabolical concoction return to continue its legacy of anguish in its land of origin.
Christmas Honey Cookies (single batch)
1 cup sugar, 1 cup honey, 1 cup butter (part margarine). Cream sugar, honey, and butter. Add 1 teaspoon baking soda dissolved in 2 teaspoons hot water. Add ½ teaspoon salt, 1 teaspoon anise extract, and 4½ cups flour to make dough you can roll. Chill dough overnight. Roll dough flat and cut with cookie cutters. Bake at 350° F. until cookies are light tan in color, about 3-4 minutes.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
A place in this world
(To read this article in Swedish, click here.)
My niece is working for a few months in Mumbai at a legal aid/advocacy organization for women and has sent her first dispatch about her experience. Although she is well-traveled for her age, 24, she finds India both fascinating and challenging:
“Nothing and everything is a surprise. I'm constantly taken aback by things I was told to anticipate and expect – cows in the street, overpopulation, poverty, traffic, but I'm still constantly on my toes. Which is good because otherwise I'd get hit by a car, rickshaw, or cow.”
One observation, in particular, resonated with me. Although she enjoys many things about the country, as a young “western” woman on her own, she is experiencing, firsthand, gender culture clash. About men:
“Friendly gestures are invitations. An arm brush is an invitation. Eye contact is an invitation. Yelling loudly ‘No! Don't talk to me!’ is an invitation. Really, it's hard. I walk around sensitive to the glare of men and constantly on guard for my enemy, 50 percent of the population. My workplace is all female, and I'm a regular in the ladies train compartment. I fear I may forget how to interact with men in a normal and healthy manner. So, friends, when I get back home, don't take it personally. It's a jungle for ladies out here.”
It reminds of an experience I had years ago in Tunisia. I went to a bank to get cash and as I completed the transaction, the male teller said, “I love you.” At first I wasn’t sure I had heard correctly, especially because I had said all of five words during the visit. Obviously, it wasn’t personal – I think my American passport caught his eye – but I had absolutely no idea how to handle that kind of remark! I guess I was supposed to be flattered, but mostly I was dumbfounded. I just mumbled, “Thank you,” and got out of there as quickly as possible.
(A couple years ago, my daughter’s friend was traveling with her family in Tunisia. A man offered the friend’s father two camels or a Ferrari in exchange for the friend. Because your average person in Kvicksund has no pressing need for camels or, for that matter a Ferrari, the friend's father declined.)
My niece also said about a few days in Dubai:
“Although I dressed very modestly, I stood out just for being a woman, and especially for being Western. Surprisingly, I was far more comfortable in Deira than the shinier parts of Dubai. Deira was far more crowded, so there was a lot more anonymity. Elsewhere, I was subject to cars slowing down to drive alongside me as I walked or pulling over on the side of the road and silently watching me pass...I felt stalked and terrorized simply on account of my gender…The drivers were working under the assumption I was a prostitute because I was female, alone, and Western. That breeds a terrible feeling of shame and vulnerability. I ended up blowing a lot of money on cabs.”
I’ve talked with other women about this dilemma. In a show of respect for local culture, you dress modestly, watch your behavior, and try not to draw attention to yourself. But it’s about more than just appearance. It’s also about eye contact, bearing, and, really, every aspect of body language and being that screams self-determination and establishes you as someone’s peer, male or female. These things are impossible to censor without great damage to oneself, which is the chronic dilemma of western women who travel in parts of the world where acceptable behavior for women is much more conscribed. How can you mask or change who you are?
They say you don’t miss what you never had. As a western woman, it’s difficult to tolerate regressive attitudes; but it’s heart-wrenching to know most women in the world are seldom encouraged to dream, believe, or dare.
At least they don’t know what they’re missing…I hope.
My niece is working for a few months in Mumbai at a legal aid/advocacy organization for women and has sent her first dispatch about her experience. Although she is well-traveled for her age, 24, she finds India both fascinating and challenging:
“Nothing and everything is a surprise. I'm constantly taken aback by things I was told to anticipate and expect – cows in the street, overpopulation, poverty, traffic, but I'm still constantly on my toes. Which is good because otherwise I'd get hit by a car, rickshaw, or cow.”
One observation, in particular, resonated with me. Although she enjoys many things about the country, as a young “western” woman on her own, she is experiencing, firsthand, gender culture clash. About men:
“Friendly gestures are invitations. An arm brush is an invitation. Eye contact is an invitation. Yelling loudly ‘No! Don't talk to me!’ is an invitation. Really, it's hard. I walk around sensitive to the glare of men and constantly on guard for my enemy, 50 percent of the population. My workplace is all female, and I'm a regular in the ladies train compartment. I fear I may forget how to interact with men in a normal and healthy manner. So, friends, when I get back home, don't take it personally. It's a jungle for ladies out here.”
It reminds of an experience I had years ago in Tunisia. I went to a bank to get cash and as I completed the transaction, the male teller said, “I love you.” At first I wasn’t sure I had heard correctly, especially because I had said all of five words during the visit. Obviously, it wasn’t personal – I think my American passport caught his eye – but I had absolutely no idea how to handle that kind of remark! I guess I was supposed to be flattered, but mostly I was dumbfounded. I just mumbled, “Thank you,” and got out of there as quickly as possible.
(A couple years ago, my daughter’s friend was traveling with her family in Tunisia. A man offered the friend’s father two camels or a Ferrari in exchange for the friend. Because your average person in Kvicksund has no pressing need for camels or, for that matter a Ferrari, the friend's father declined.)
My niece also said about a few days in Dubai:
“Although I dressed very modestly, I stood out just for being a woman, and especially for being Western. Surprisingly, I was far more comfortable in Deira than the shinier parts of Dubai. Deira was far more crowded, so there was a lot more anonymity. Elsewhere, I was subject to cars slowing down to drive alongside me as I walked or pulling over on the side of the road and silently watching me pass...I felt stalked and terrorized simply on account of my gender…The drivers were working under the assumption I was a prostitute because I was female, alone, and Western. That breeds a terrible feeling of shame and vulnerability. I ended up blowing a lot of money on cabs.”
I’ve talked with other women about this dilemma. In a show of respect for local culture, you dress modestly, watch your behavior, and try not to draw attention to yourself. But it’s about more than just appearance. It’s also about eye contact, bearing, and, really, every aspect of body language and being that screams self-determination and establishes you as someone’s peer, male or female. These things are impossible to censor without great damage to oneself, which is the chronic dilemma of western women who travel in parts of the world where acceptable behavior for women is much more conscribed. How can you mask or change who you are?
They say you don’t miss what you never had. As a western woman, it’s difficult to tolerate regressive attitudes; but it’s heart-wrenching to know most women in the world are seldom encouraged to dream, believe, or dare.
At least they don’t know what they’re missing…I hope.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Even you are getting older
(Artikeln finns även på svenska. Se nedanför.)
My knee was bothering me so I decided not to join the rest of the family in climbing one of the medieval towers in San Gimignano, Italy. Although it was only June, the afternoon sun was warm so I decided to find a shady place to sit. Across the courtyard I saw one of those “rooms” you often see on public squares in Italy – a three-walled space that faces the courtyard at street level under the first floor of some medieval building. I went in, propped myself against the stone bench that ran along the walls of the room, and waited.
A few minutes later, a couple white-haired seniors carrying aluminum lawn chairs came in and sat down. Soon others joined them; and before long, I was part of a gaggle of elderly Italians whiling away a summer afternoon. At least one had brought a thermos of coffee. Clearly this was a daily ritual, but no one seemed perturbed by a tourist among them. Perhaps that’s par for the course when you live in San Gimignano!
I've seen a similar phenomenon in southern France. We were poking around a city park one afternoon when a group of elderly women and men gathered to play boules. I had heard that people in France do this, but was pleasantly surprised to see that it is true.
Contrast this with a day at an indoor pool in Sweden. I was showering in the locker room when a woman who must have been at least 80-years-old or even 85 stepped into the shower and removed her bathing suit. Loose skin hung in swags down both sides of her back and from her bottom. She wasn’t fat; just old. Two nubile teens shot glances her way and snickered. But I had nothing but admiration for the woman. I only hoped I would be equally spry when I was 80-plus and able to swim in a large public pool crowded with screaming kids, watchful parents, and self-absorbed teens.
In Sweden and my U.S. home state of Minnesota, you rarely see old people in public. Even on a bright summer day in Stockholm or Minneapolis, you rarely see groups of old people just hanging out in a park or other public place. Where do our old people hide, or perhaps more accurately, where do we hide them? Why don’t we see more old people out and about in Sweden and in Minnesota?
In the late 1960s, my family lived down the street from an Italian-American family whose maternal grandparents lived with the family. The grandparents had a small apartment on the second floor of the house and sometimes I would see them puttering in the yard or sitting in the first floor living room. I was amazed to see grandparents living in the same house as the family. It was the first and only time I had seen that while growing up.
I haven’t thought a lot about what kind of life I want in my dotage, but like most people, I don’t want to “be a burden” to my children. But what constitutes a burden, when do you become one, and who decides? Isn’t it time for meaningful social policies that support families in all ways, sizes, shapes, and forms including intergenerational living for those who want it? (See also Dream On…)
When I lived in Minneapolis, I used to pass a building – it may have been a nursing or retirement home – every day on my way to and from work. Inscribed across the front of the building was this pronouncement and daily reminder: Even you are getting older.
Note: This article has been published in Swedish in the Västmanland newspaper VLT:
Var gömmer vi alla vara äldre?
My knee was bothering me so I decided not to join the rest of the family in climbing one of the medieval towers in San Gimignano, Italy. Although it was only June, the afternoon sun was warm so I decided to find a shady place to sit. Across the courtyard I saw one of those “rooms” you often see on public squares in Italy – a three-walled space that faces the courtyard at street level under the first floor of some medieval building. I went in, propped myself against the stone bench that ran along the walls of the room, and waited.
A few minutes later, a couple white-haired seniors carrying aluminum lawn chairs came in and sat down. Soon others joined them; and before long, I was part of a gaggle of elderly Italians whiling away a summer afternoon. At least one had brought a thermos of coffee. Clearly this was a daily ritual, but no one seemed perturbed by a tourist among them. Perhaps that’s par for the course when you live in San Gimignano!
I've seen a similar phenomenon in southern France. We were poking around a city park one afternoon when a group of elderly women and men gathered to play boules. I had heard that people in France do this, but was pleasantly surprised to see that it is true.
Contrast this with a day at an indoor pool in Sweden. I was showering in the locker room when a woman who must have been at least 80-years-old or even 85 stepped into the shower and removed her bathing suit. Loose skin hung in swags down both sides of her back and from her bottom. She wasn’t fat; just old. Two nubile teens shot glances her way and snickered. But I had nothing but admiration for the woman. I only hoped I would be equally spry when I was 80-plus and able to swim in a large public pool crowded with screaming kids, watchful parents, and self-absorbed teens.
In Sweden and my U.S. home state of Minnesota, you rarely see old people in public. Even on a bright summer day in Stockholm or Minneapolis, you rarely see groups of old people just hanging out in a park or other public place. Where do our old people hide, or perhaps more accurately, where do we hide them? Why don’t we see more old people out and about in Sweden and in Minnesota?
In the late 1960s, my family lived down the street from an Italian-American family whose maternal grandparents lived with the family. The grandparents had a small apartment on the second floor of the house and sometimes I would see them puttering in the yard or sitting in the first floor living room. I was amazed to see grandparents living in the same house as the family. It was the first and only time I had seen that while growing up.
I haven’t thought a lot about what kind of life I want in my dotage, but like most people, I don’t want to “be a burden” to my children. But what constitutes a burden, when do you become one, and who decides? Isn’t it time for meaningful social policies that support families in all ways, sizes, shapes, and forms including intergenerational living for those who want it? (See also Dream On…)
When I lived in Minneapolis, I used to pass a building – it may have been a nursing or retirement home – every day on my way to and from work. Inscribed across the front of the building was this pronouncement and daily reminder: Even you are getting older.
Note: This article has been published in Swedish in the Västmanland newspaper VLT:
Var gömmer vi alla vara äldre?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
