some flowers bloom in fall

that rotten fish

I ate rotten fish last Wednesday. Alright, it wasn’t actually rotten but rather, fermented. Nevertheless, it did smell and taste rotten.

So why eat it, you ask? Well, because in these parts, this fish dish is rather (in)famous and a very important feature especially in the culture of Northern Sweden (where we are). So I vowed that I must taste it, even if just once in my lifetime.

Over here, “that rotten fish” is called surströmming = soured herring. And to prove how significant this food is in Swedish culture, the calendar even marks one day as surströmmingspremiär!

The author Kim Loughran writes:

The third Thursday in August is the unofficial opening of the fermented herring season. This is Baltic herring soaked in lactic acid and packed in cans that literally bulge with odorous gases (hydrogen sulfide, butyric acid, etc.).

Because the Baltic Sea is brackish, not saline, northern Sweden used to lack easy access to salt. Innovation was needed to preserve food. Pickling, curing and drying are still widely used. The herring was sealed in barrels left outdoors for the spring sun to heat. Statistically, heat would spark the process in mid-April. Eight weeks later, trucks would load the cans and speed out from the salting-house gates promptly by the third Thursday in August.

Ever faithful in helping me integrate, Britt and Rakel invited me to a special lunch last week. It was to be their own surströmmingspremiär and, in their tradition, the only time they will eat this dish for the entire year. (I told you it was special, didn’t I?)

For obvious reasons, we had to eat outdoors. Here, Rakel waits for Britta to finish putting things in order so they can open the can together.

Almost there, here it comes!

And here it is!

As soon as the liquid oozes from the lid, one immediately gets a whiff of that infamous foul odor. But while Wikipedia defines that smell as “overwhelming”, I honestly didn’t think so. It wasn’t strong enough to make you turn away or want to gag. No, no, no, not at all. It was a very tolerable rotten smell, even when you put the fish near your nose before you take a bite. I was…underwhelmed. But that’s just me. Could it be that my receptors have been desensitized by trips to Filipino public markets? Hmm…possibly :-)

So what did it taste like? Well, for the first few seconds, it was very salty. In Iloilo, we have this dried salted fish called “uga” or “pinakas” which I consider very mouthwatering, especially for breakfast with rice (Mmm!). So I would have loved surströmming if only it remained just that: salty.

But then came the strange aftertaste: surprisingly not sour (as one would expect from the name), but bitter. I had to load my mouth with big portions of potato to mask the icky taste, and then drown it in gulps of Coke. Altogether, it wasn’t super-duper-awfully bitter, just mildly awful and rather tolerable. So I went on to eat the entire tiny fillet.

And that was all I had and ever will have.

End of story.

Well not quite.

Britt and Rakel finished six fillets each. Every now and then they would exclaim, “Mmm, vad gott!” (How good [this tastes]!), which made me laugh because it’s a wonder how some consider so heavenly what others find repulsive. This reminds me of people’s attitude towards the durian, or the balut, or even the century egg — either you love it or hate it.

By the way, surstömming is usually eaten with tunnbröd (thin bread — either crisp or soft) spread with butter, potatoes, cheese, onions and tomato, or with sour cream and dill, which we didn’t have that day.

The ladies were thoughtful enough to provide an alternative lunch:

…thin slices of roast beef!

And to cap off our surströmmingspremiär:

…afternoon coffee! Of course.

Thank you, ladies!

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looking forward

Delsbo, October 2007

I Look Forward to the colors and chill of Fall,
for it is The Prelude to Winter,
when Christmas and the new year will Finally be spent
at Home, in The Philippines.

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pavlov and us

There’s a good reason why I haven’t watched Snowdogs or Marley and Me, otherwise well-reviewed, excellent-themed movies. But I heard that a dog dies in each of these films, so I opted never to watch them. I don’t think my heart can take it. I easily mentally substitute dogs in film to the ones my sister and I have.

Cherie and I have four. Or rather had four, because we lost one yesterday — our eldest, Pavlov. He died of kidney failure, at a little past 9 in the evening, Philippine time. This handsome Japanese spitz was part of our family for twelve years. He celebrated his last birthday in May.

When I moved to Sweden two years ago, I feared then, yet hoped otherwise, that I won’t see him again, so I kissed and hugged him for a longer time than I did the other dogs. Yesterday as he lay dying, my sister put the phone near his ears and I cried my final goodbye. I could write about him now, when the tug at my heart doesn’t feel as heavy as yesterday. I pity my sister, who faithfully cared for our sick dog, and who wasn’t spared from the pain of watching him slowly die. I admire her devotion and strength, that she endured to stay with him, for hours and hours, until the end.

Pavlov was a gift from my father’s best friend’s family. They named him after the Russian psychologist who used dogs to prove the “conditioning” phenomenon. Before he was given to us, he had his first brush with death when a large trunk fell on him. He was just a few weeks old then. He miraculously survived but was left with an uncontrollable shaking of the head. We are grateful that this gradually disappeared over the years, and would manifest only when he got excited or focused on something.

When Pavlov was a few months old, before he could be vaccinated, he got sick of parvo. I really thought we would lose him then, but Cherie did not lose hope. One night, she made us lay our hands on him and ask the Lord for healing. We got our second miracle. The next morning, his health immediately improved. We became more careful after that and took him — and later, the younger dogs — to the doctor for regular care. Pavlov stayed healthy and gave us years of wonderful memories.

We will most miss him:

• shaking his head when he’s focused on something;
• pushing the food tray with his nose before he eats;
• drinking his milk in the morning;
• greedily eating sweet bread in the afternoon;
• running up and down the stairs;
• sitting always at our feet during meal times;
• getting “violently” excited over car trips
  and sticking his head out of the window;
• gnarling at Yayay when it’s time for his bath
  yet becoming overly-playful immediately after she dries him;
• barking loudly at anyone who arrives;
• scratching at the door, and would not stop until you let him in;
• jumping onto beds
  and trying to jump back again after you push him away
  or giving you that intent look, asking that he be allowed back on the bed;
• licking our faces to greet us good morning;
• standing by the ac and letting the cold wind blow on his face;
• getting angry when we pretend to attack Cherie;
• coming over to us when we pretend to talk behind his back;
• happily hopping on the grass in the school campus;
• lying contentedly while the younger dogs lick his ears;
• chewing on toilet paper cartons;
• playing hide-and-seek;
• following us everywhere in the house;
• and welcoming all of us, with that uber-excited wag on his tail, every time we come home.

Pavlov wasn’t merely our “dog”, he was our “baby”. Mine and Cherie’s. But it was very evident that he was more hers than mine. He was loyal and fiercely protective of her. I had his attention only when Cherie was absent. He loved her more because it was she who loved him most.

We thank God for the gift of loving a dog. Pavlov made our memories even happier and moments even sweeter. He brought my sister and I closer, and brought out kindness and compassion from those who loved him.

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Good boy, Paffy.

Mommies love you.

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cinnamon buns, finally

It is said that “when in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

When I moved here in August 2007, one of my earliest observations of Swedish culture was that “when in Sweden, learn to make cinnamon buns!”

After two years, I finally did it.

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A big thanks to Joy for her recipe and Angie for her instruction.