There are two things I’ve heard while in Sweden that I just love:
One, from outside a café where the walkway to the door was an ice luge, an American said jokingly to an old Swedish man carefully taking his time walking out, “You should salt the walkways here.”
The old Swedish man stopped, looked up, and said, “Salt is for food.” Then walked away.
MY FAVORITE. (They throw rocks on ice here, fyi)
Then, there was the time that Matt’s coworker asked a Swede why the town’s giant Christmas tree had lights that only went 3/4 of the way down the tree, and the Swede said, “This isn’t America!”
Which makes me laugh because…well, Sweden has their act together for Christmas time. It’s so beautiful here and the decorations are immaculate! Not to mention, every single other town’s Stora Torget Christmas trees were decorated perfectly, Linköping’s just looked neglected and sad. Americans blow up plastic snow globes on their front lawn for god’s sake.
But, ever since then, everything ridiculous that we could ever wonder about can be answered with, “This isn’t America!”
This isn’t America, you know?! How could we forget?!
So, when I get a food craving that I’ve never had before but just because I can’t get it here I seem to want it these days, I reason with, “THIS ISN’T AMERICA, KATIE!” Like, ranch dressing. Everyone talked to me about ranch dressing before I left the States, “You want me to send you some ranch?”. I hate ranch, I don’t eat it and I’ve never wanted to. I’m a bleu cheese dressing gal, if I go for a creamy dressing at all. But, that American gene rages its ugly head after a while and creeps in and says, “you know, some ranch would be really good right now”. Then I question if I’ve become schizophrenic and this is my food-junkie second personality coming to ruin my life.
Neither here nor there, we have actually been disappointed when not able to buy things like massive jugs of white vinegar (for laundry/cleaning purposes), vodka sauce (who knows why I wanted vodka sauce one day), decaf coffee (but that has been found!) and frozen yogurt.
Frozen yogurt, until this past weekend.
You see, after a big grocery shopping trip, I look in the ice cream freezer just before check-out. I love me some Swedish ice cream, but sometimes a girl just wants some fro yo, yo! Never can we find any. Only the full-fat, full-sugar, full-flavored ice cream that is never too hard to scoop out of the tub. And lactose-free stuff, but that doesn’t apply to me. Mama needs the calcium.
This weekend, though, after a shopping trip (filled with Swedes making sure I felt as if I was in their way – in the public aisles of the grocery store – as usual), cranky pants Katie needed to make sure there wasn’t any ice cream type of product that she needed. I had to look around a group of 6 people just standing and chatting in front of all the ice cream like the freezer was some exclusive club for only tall gorgeous blondes, but they couldn’t stop me, I saw it…an unidentified container. A paper one, resembling the shape of take-out Chinese containers, with a beautiful font that read:
Each pint of fro yo only cost somewhere between a Bentley and your first-born, but Matt couldn’t stop me from putting a regular one and a chocolate one in the cart.
And he’s a good man for it. The chocolate one, I can report, is so amazingly tangy and delicious. Oh, how I’ve missed frozen yogurt!
It’s like a ray of sunshine, even during this snowy week that makes me hate winter because the sun was out last week teasing me into thinking the worst was over.
I don’t know anything about who makes this frozen yogurt, but whoever is responsible for putting it in the grocery store here, JAG ÄLSKAR DIG, SÅ MYCKET!