Yesterday, I spotted rhubarb among the pathetic display of fruits and vegetables at the ICA grocery store on Folkungagatan. Pink as a pink begonia and with even a few leaves on the stalks, it was a sure sign of spring, despite the five or so centimeters of lingering snow outside.
So I bought it and made a sort of rhubarb cobbler to have for dessert with creme fraiche.
C. the fashion photographer came over with his two children, and M. the television producer came with his laughing sexual innuendo, and R. the popstar came with her goddaughter, who at nearly three is quite the actress and capable of easily commanding the undivided attention of four adults and two teenagers with merely the slightest display of her dimples.
"Was the rhubarb cobbler good?" I asked the husband afterwards.
"Oh, yes," he said. "But it wasn't enough food."
Maybe he was right, but his own mother is of a generation where one should always serve four times as much food as needed on the table at any given occasion. Because that's what hospitality means, an embarrassment of riches so no one ever feels worried about taking second or third helpings.
"And I didn't get so stressed fixing the food, did I," I said to the husband.
He looked at me skeptically. Then he laughed.
I guess I didn't do a very good job hiding it. I'm definitely not a team player when it comes to cooking. I want to be alone when I'm fixing food.
The Swedish word for the day is vår. It means spring, as in the season of the year.
- by Francis S.