K., who sits next to me at work, came in this morning as usual asking how my weekend was.
Good, I told her.
"Well," she said. "Remember I was talking about that dinner we were going to have with friends? It turned out they served us venison. Which they had shot themselves. In their yard. In Uppsala."
A deer had wandered into their yard and they shot it? In Uppsala, where the university is and which is not the countryside, not at all?
Yes, she said.
Ha, ha, I laughed.
I told her that if my parents had owned a gun when they lived in Boulder years ago, I think my mother would have made my father shoot the deer that would come and eat all her flowers, roses and tulips and irises, anything she planted. My mother is not really an animal person. Her sympathies extend to birds, and that's about it.
Ha, ha, K. laughed.
So, I asked K., was the food good?
"Delicious," K. said.
The Swedish word for the day is rådjur. It means deer.