Somehow, we got the directions mixed up and ended up at the wrong apartment. But half a glass of wine and 20 minutes later, the children's book author and I figured it out, jumped into a cab and righted ourselves, landing at the dinner we were supposed to be at.
The husband, who had helped prepare the meal with the sea captain, thrust a bowl of pale orange creamy liquid at me.
I dipped a corn chip into it, looking at him skeptically.
"Do you like it?" he asked.
Yes, I told him.
"Do you really like it?" he asked again, hovering.
Yes, yes, I really like it I told him.
"Ha! It's cheese from a can, melted," he exclaimed.
As if I couldn't tell.
"He would never let me buy this!" he told the sea captain and the children's book author.
Of course I wouldn't. But it doesn't mean that I don't like it. Nor does it mean that it's good. Or good for you. It's junk food, that's what I told him. And junk food usually does taste good. But food that tastes good isn't the same thing as food that actually is good. I'm a terrible snob that way, but really, it's just about standards.
The Swedish word for the day is ost. It means cheese.