Three fat ladies

Nigella and I were clearly separated at birth, not only from each other but also from our spiritual mother. However, I have finally found her! Just look at her! I could be her in 15 years time. She was fat, a cook, a country woman and rather mental – as am I! I´m, of course, talking about Clarissa Dickson Wright

You see, in the eight years that have passed since I last worked on this blog I have gone from atypical suburban wife in the northern parts of Stockholm to living in the deep woods outside of a tiny village in the north of Sweden. When I say tiny, I really mean tiny. Less than 300 people live here, a third of which are – shall we say – characters. It´s OK for me to say that, cause I am definitely one of them. We´re also a remarkably international bunch. Down our end of the lane there are more English spoken than Swedish. Three of the only four permanent households here are English speaking (and one is made up by a half-irish chap with his Swedish girlfriend), and three of the five holiday homes are too.

At the centre of village life is the shop. It´s one of those little village shops where you can get pretty much anything – what they haven´t got, they will get for you within a day or two. They also deliver. 

- Want bread, eggs and milk? Great! We´ll be with you in an hour.
- Want crocodile steak? It´ll take a bit longer. Say day after tomorrow?

Should you have your way around our neck of the woods (literally), do nip in, have a natter and buy something locally produced!

The shop is owned by Tommy, who knows everyone. He´s the equivalence of the landlord in a country pub – knows the business of everyone and can point you in the direction of whatever you may need. Sometimes the shop staff knows what you need before you do yourself – which is handy.

It´s easy to feel close to nature and a bit “prepperish” here. Every year we buy 20 kg of moose meat from a local hunter, we buy beef from a farmer in the next village and veg from another. At least I can pretend to be self sufficient.

We originally bought the house to use as a holiday home, but we fell in love with the area and the house so after just a year we upped sticks and moved here. In the garden we currently have red currants, rhubarb and damsons, but true to myself I am obviously planning a massive kitchen garden where we become self sufficient in fruit and veg. Last year we bought an apple tree and we´re already reaping the rewards of our caretaker´s efforts. One (1) apple is the ample crop this year.

A daemon named Demeter

It's been a few days since I wrote last. During the weekend I was busy being Harvest Goddess in the woods, picking mushrooms, and then I've been in bed with a bit of a cold.

The Long Suffering Husband has been at his most heroic, running and fetching hankies, and extra blankies and pillows for me. In our family there is no such thing as ”man flu”. It is usually I who feel so terribly sorry for myself when I get ill that he'll pick up all the slack and take care of everything. He's very nurturing, LSH.

So, since Sunday I have been in bed, squealing like a birdling, demanding hot drinks and cuddles. I'm worse than the cats when I'm ill! LSH has done what he always does when I'm poorly, he's looked after me with the dedication of a Florence Nightingale.

The only thing that will solace me when I have a cold is blackcurrant tea and crumpets. Can't get crumpets here, so toast will have to do.

Autumn is my favourite time of year – the time when the urge to become a Domestic Goddess is at it's strongest. I emerge myself in mushroom picking, jam making and baking. The fact that we don't eat cakes or jam is neither here, nor there. It isn't the eating, it's the making and baking which empowers me.

Given half a chance I'd move out in the country and have my own herb garden. I'd have to win the lottery first, cause I'd need a gardener – I absolutely detest gardening! It's worse than ironing, and that is not to say little.