I found Stockholm's best ice cream at Stockholms Glasshus. 

The end.

---

So maybe you're thinking, wait, how can you have already found the best ice cream if you've only been to two places? Here's why:



On top is fläder, or elderflower, sorbet.  Not too sweet, fine fine ice crystals, a touch of perfume, a kiss of citrus.  I love all things fläder, and I love the word fläder.  Ask a Swedish person to say this to you and just TRY to not crush out on Swedish. 

Under Neat that is Teheran gelato.  That's right, it's called Teheran, as in Tehran, Iran. 



And it's made of vanilla, pistachio, squiggly threads of saffron and rosewater. I detected a hint of orange as well. It's eggy and smooth, like a shorn mink for your tongue. Surely this is what the most devout teetotaler Muslim virgins get served in heaven.

Jealous much?  Hate me now!  

In the interest of journalistic integrity, I may try more ice cream places.  But I will probably resent them for taking up space in my arteries that could otherwise be occupied by Stockholms Glasshus glass.  But the reportage will continue -- you know it's true, everything I do, I do it for you.    

I remember fawning over my friend Helen's bread the first time she made it for us.  "Everyone in Denmark can make this kind of bread," she said, bewildered at my enthusiasm.

I like that attitude.  Why has bread become this special occasion thing?  I would never buy pre-made rice.  Why should I buy pre-made bread? 

Look, this is not some slender, golden Parisian baguette with slashes and leaves, or a ciabatta with holes big enough to put your fist through.  But it's a sturdy, honest bread, the kind of bread your body would be happy to wake up to.

When I was in Copenhagen, I asked Helen to teach me to make her bread.  No measuring, no kneading, no chopping, and she can make the dough after partying until 8am.  I've seen her do it.  And now I can do it.

Now that I understand how it works, I can make as few or as many buns as I want to at a time.  I can make it in metric countries or in non-metric countries, whether I can read the food labels or not.  The world is mine.



Ingredients: flours, water, yeast, salt, honey/sugar, whatever hippie flourishes you want in the bread.

Equipment: A bowl, a spoon, parchment paper, a rice paddle, a baking sheet, a dish towel, an oven



Take 1/8 of a block of cake yeast.  That's a little bit of yeast.  And drop it into some warm water.  Like a couple of cups.  Add a generous teaspoonish mound of salt and a tablespoonish squirt of honey.  Mix it all up until everything dissolves and the honey smell blooms. 
 


Add nuts, seeds, dried fruit and a glug of oil.  Whatever you got, that's fine.



Add enough spelt flour (or rye flour, or wheat flour, whatever alternative brown flour you can find) until you get the consistency of pancake batter.



Sprinkle in some muesli.



Add enough regular flour so you get a wet bread dough.  It should be kind of elastic and pull away from the sides of the bowl.



Cover with a well-wetted clean dish towel and go to work.  Or go to bed.  Or set it in a warm place and do your laundry.
 


The dough will be twice the size.  Preheat your oven to 200 degrees Celsius.  (That's 375ish Fahrenheit, or 3/4 to the top of the dial on a home oven.)  Use something like a rice paddle to plop bun-shaped mounds onto parchment paper.



Bake until brown and crusty.  I don't know how long this takes.  Use your nose.  When your kitchen smells like bread, take a look at them.  The buns should be brown, and the exterior should be crusty.  



Enjoy with sliced cheese.

This is the bed I sleep on here.  It's a nice bed, but it's not my bed.
 

My bed back home has a dip slightly right of center where I sleep, as though someone were sleeping on the inside, next to the wall.


I watch my neighbor across the courtyard cook for himself everyday.  When he's finished cooking and he's ready to eat, he turns off the overhead lights and turns on a small lamp on the kitchen table.  He always eats alone.


The flowers are going nuts out there, especially the cherry blossom trees.  The pink petals were everywhere, swirling around in the fountain, turning the water pink.  Reminds me of April in New York, when the cherry blossom petals whoosh along Park Ave. by 42nd St., swept into blushing piles by the wind.
 
Not to be all emo, but what other flower is as pretty as it's dying? 
 

This weekend was Valborgsmässoafton and Labor Day.  I love these random Swedish holidays.  Valborgs involves a big bonfire.  I went to Rosendals Trädgård and Skansen on my day off.  I thought I would stay for the bonfire, but I got bored.



I did stay for the Stockholm Academic Male Choir (Stockholms Studentsångarförbund), though.  I loved them.  At the end of the set, the old men helped the older men step gingerly off the risers.
   

On Sunday, after a texting my friend at the wrong number, I wound up on a boat to the Stockholm archipelago by myself.  I went to an island called Sandhamn.  The boat ride was 2 1/2 hours.  Luckily, I brought a book. 


I walked through the woods until I reached the sea.


The ocean, the scene of so many feminine demises, pastel silk floating around willow wrists.  Virginia Woolf, Kate Chopin's Edna Pontellier, the real little mermaid.  But water can also enlighten.  Think of M.F.K.'s Sea Change, Helen Keller.  W-A-T-E-R water.  After a long walk along the rocky beach, I nearly missed the boat back to Stockholm.  I had gotten lost in the woods, so I used the iPhone GPS to try and make the blue dot (me) connect with the little ship icon on the map.  As I ran down the hill, I had to laugh at the lesson -- nobody's going to save me but me. 


To celebrate having caught the boat, I treated myself to a cheap mazarin (my favorite) and a cup of tea.  I think I have to lay off the coffee.  It's giving me acid reflux.  


Tonight, La Doug and I ate ice cream together over Skype. He had Haagen Dazs vanilla chocolate chip. I had Ben & Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk with sliced strawberries. We both finished the last of our tubs.

Name: Anne Skoogh

Occupation: Politics - and food blogger

Neighborhood: Nacka

Relationship status:  Married

What did you eat today?

Just breakfast so far - rye bread with Swedish liver paste and sliced cucumbers, a glass of vitamin-c, coffee, and a fruit salad with orange and raspberries.

What do you never eat?

Despite having a food blog and all, I'm surprisingly un-adventurous in food. I won't call myself a picky eater, but... let's just say there are many, many things that I have no urge to try.

Complete this sentence:  In my refrigerator, you can always find:

Pepsi Max. How embarrassing to admit - but it's certainly true.

What is your favorite kitchen item?

I really do love my Kitchen-Aid!

Where do you eat out most frequently?

I don't eat out all that much, but  I do meet friends for "fika" quite often. Vurma is one of my favorite cafés - great sandwiches, and nice coffee.  [I got a pretty great falafel sandwich on sesame bread from the one next to Hornstull Strand last weekend, but it took a full hour from the time I got on line to the time I got my cold sandwich. That is too long to wait when the sun is out. --Ed.] 

World ends tomorrow.  What would you like for your last meal?

My mom's chicken in mild curry sauce.

Anne blogs (in English!) at annesfood.blogspot.com.

I've decided to stop and take pictures of the flowers whenever I see them.  (At least, whenever I see them and I'm not on my bike in the middle of traffic.)  Not to bash you over the head with the obvs, but I just have to remember to stop and notice them and smell them or whatever.

 

From commenter Richard:

not a comment on this post (I do that later), but have a look at these, if you haven't seen them already, from ABD and Jon Stewart:

http://abcnews.go.com/print?id=7438955
http://www.thedailyshow.com/video/index.jhtml?videoId=225113&title=the-stockholm-syndrome
http://www.thedailyshow.com/video/index.jhtml?videoId=225126&title=the-stockholm-syndrome-pt.-2

Yes, all this US chatter about socialist Sweden is hilarious.  Those clips are making the rounds over here, too.

Here's another reason to fear socialist Sweden.

When you own a bike shop, you and your shop buddy can be open Monday through Friday from 12-6, and be closed for lunch from 1-2.  That means your shop is open 20 hours a week; and if you split those hours with your shop buddy, you are working 10 hours a week.  10 hours a week, people.  And you never have to worry about healthcare, or day care, or education.

Of course, this is not terribly convenient for certain people who have to work regular office hours and need to get their bike fixed, but can't hate the playa.
 

People speak incredibly fluent English here.  That's why it's easy to pick up on the Swedish language idiosyncracies being translated over. There are certain phrases that seem to be popular in Swenglish (or svengelska).  Lately, I've been hearing a lot of "for example" in the middle of a sentence:

She likes to eat fruit, for example, pineapple, cherries and raspberries.

I've also been hearing a lot of "among others":

She likes to drink cava, Pimms' Cup, and red wine, among others.

I asked my co-worker Niklas what the Swedish equivalent of these phrases are.

till exempel = for example
bland annat = among others.

Niklas speculated that the proliferation of till exempel and bland annat may be a linguistic manifestation of the Swedish dedication to fairness, inclusiveness and equality (*cough* socialism *cough*).  The phrases act as a tiny disclaimer in the middle of a sentence.  Their presence helps to make it clear that the items listed are just a few of many, and that they don't necessarily take precedence over those not listed. 

So a Swede might say:

He has expensive taste.  His closet is filled with shoes from Dolce & Gabbana, Bloomingdale's and Martin Margiela, among others.

And an American might say:

He's got expensive taste.  He owns shoes from Dolce & Gabbana, Martin Margiela and Bloomingdale's. 

I don't know about you, but I tend to front load my lists with the heavy hitters, the point-provers.  In the Americanized sentence above, I wouldn't assume that the man in the sentence only owns shoes from those three designers.  And as a writer, I wouldn't deem it necessary to explain that there might be other kinds of shoes in the guy's closet.

I don't think I use "among others" much, if at all.  And I only use "for example" at the beginning of a sentence, when pointing out a single item in order to illustrate a point.

Is the sentence better with or without the explanation?  Which tells the story more accurately?  Depends on who's listening, I guess.

 

I've decided to make it my mission to find Stockholm's best glass, aka ice cream.  Copenhagen's Paradis set the bar pretty high.  Oh, sure, there are articles I could put through Google translate, but I don't know which critics to trust.  Besides, it'll give me something to do with all my free time.

Anyway, we start today with Glass on Dalagatan near Kungstengatan in Vasastan.  There are about 25 flavors, advertised as "importerad från Venedig" (imported from Venice).  This boggles my mind.  I don't want to know that my ice cream sat on an airplane for several hours and had to pass customs before it got to Stockholm.*

I got two scoops on recommendation from the cashier -- croccantino and hazelnut. 

Croccantino was a kola (caramel) variant, and it was awful -- like a gritty cross between those penny candy butterscotch discs and hard water ring around the bathtub.  My burps taste of cheap vanilla Glade.  Hazelnut was alright, but I kind of hate hazelnut flavored things and I don't know why I agreed to get it. 

I like my ice cream either eggier or ice milkier, and this was in that boring in-between place, with a couple too many ice crystals for that classic velvet gelato mouthfeel. 

The verdict: Fine to scratch a glass itch, and there are probably better flavors, but I think I'll save my calories for somewhere else. 

*This baffles me almost as much as this sign advertising "Bagels direct from London" does.
 


The locavore movement has not hit Stockholm yet.  In fact, there are no farmer's markets.  No farmer's markets!  I don't know where to get real deal produce.  People keep telling me about the wonder of the new potatoes, and the local strawberries, but where are the farmers?  I can't very well trust Daglivs and ICA to provide access to the most loving farm fresh food.  Stockholm, have faith in your own abilities to grow and make food!  Go local!

UPDATE: Commenter Anne says there is a farmer's market!  If my translation is correct, it's only open 3 Saturdays in May and 2 Saturdays in June until August.  But I'll only be in town for two of those days.  And then my job here ends on August 14.  Blerg!

I spent my weekend on the bicycle, trying to hunt down the flowers in Stockholm.  Where are they?


I rode up through Hagaparken all the way to the motorway.  I saw little white flowers dotting the green carpet of ground cover.  But not much color.

I rode back down Norrtullsgatan and met some friends at Hornstull Strand for a picnic.  Not many flowers there.

I rode past Kungsträdgården, where there were some pretty spectacular pink cherry blossom trees, but the square was clogged with tourists on the borrow-a-bikes.   

I rode out to Djurgården, up to Rosendals Trädgård, which was lovely, but no flowers, really.  Where are the flowers?  The apple tree garden is budding up.  I bet by the end of this week, they'll have flowers.


The sign says "Apple garden closed!  Please let the grass grow" or something.  As you can see, many ignored the signs in order to lay out under the trees.  I can't decide if I want to chide or admire their irreverence for the grass.
 
I don't know why, but I'm craving a big explosion of color and scent.  I'm obsessing over perfumes and candles.  Maybe I want confirmation that the city is alive.  I'm hoping the exuberance of nature will spur me out of this mild depression, which I totally hate myself for.  And then I hate myself some more for my lack of compassion.  It is a vicious cycle.

This is my time of year.  I love spring!  I only get it once a year.  Such beauty, such scale.  I have friends now, and I'm actually meeting up with them from time to time.  So why can I not kick myself out of this funk?


Look!  Coffee, a chocolate cookie, sunshine, a garden bench in the sun, an iPhone, a pen for my tortured slambook...good god, you ungrateful bastard, what more could you want?

I hate feeling like a total cliché.  I've done this before.  I knew I'd hit a rough patch.  I just figured I'd be able to pull myself out of it faster, having experienced living abroad before.  Here's how I might characterize the stages: 

Stage 1.  Fascination
They're blond and tall!  They eat food in tubes!  Look at the pretty latch on this window!  The coffee is soooo delish!  I've had a cinnamon bun before, but this one is different!

Stage 2.  Alienation
I'm not blond or tall.  I don't eat food in tubes.  I've had those cinnamon buns, but they don't fill the void in my heart.  I miss my nightly decompression talks with La Doug.  Wait, give me back those cinnamon buns.

Stage 3. Internalization (current stage)
Okay, kid, I guess it's just me and me.  I'll catch up on my reading.  And get better at cooking.  Do more yoga.  I'm not such bad company, when I'm not being mean to myself.  Except that I will probably be alone for the rest of my life and never know love and get even fatter and have a cat named Pebbles and I should just accept this loneliness as the period at the end of my sentence.   

I'm trying to remember what's next.  Participation?  Navigation?  Emancipation?  Uh oh, I'm not sure I got past this phase during my year in London.  Because I was definitely a much better cook by the end of the year.  If I can push through this part, what's next?  Anybody?

Dear guy in red station wagon,

So you know how the other day I yelled as you pulled out in front of me, "YOOOOOOOO!!!  ASSHOLE!"?  And then I rode up alongside you just so I could stick my head in your window and give you the evil eye?  And you know how you said something to me in Swedish, but I didn't respond?  And you repeated it but I still just kept giving you evil eye because I didn't understand?

Well, after you pulled away, I thought maybe you said "viktig" or "riktig".  And then I thought, hm, I think that means "right".  Maybe you were saying "right of way"?  But then why would you be saying "right of way"?  Weren't you cutting me off?  Or was I cutting you off?

And then I rode past that intersection again, and sure enough, there's a light there.  Which is weird because I didn't notice it before.  There's only construction work going on on your side of the road.  But I probably ran a red light.  Or did I?

So, um, listen, I'm really sorry I called you an asshole.  You probably weren't used to being called an asshole in English by an angry Asian cyclist in a stupid helmet and stupid aviators.  And I probably ruined your day. 

I always think that getting a good expletive out will be better than the slow burn of l'esprit d'escalier.  But it didn't help. 

And then I thought about how I maybe made you hate cyclists a little more.  Or Asians.  Or women.  Or Americans.  Or aviators.   

So if it makes you feel any better, the guilt eroded me and totally ruined my day, too.  And I have no way of unburdening myself of this guilt because I don't know where to find you.

But if you see me again, if you could please not run me over with your station wagon, that would be cool.

Förlåt!
Ganda