Twelve days of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas Julia, Pontus and I went for a wonderful walk along the river. It was warm and sunny. In the evening we watched Gremlins which is just the right sort of Christmas movie.

On the second day of Christmas we did nothing much, except that we discovered that there were no trains to Stansted that day, and the kids had to take a bus and have a good margin. When they had left, I assembled and tested the new colour printer I got for Christmas.

On the third day of Christmas I graded student papers.

On the fourth day of Christmas I graded more papers, read and ranked postdoc applications and responded to zillions of urgent emails.

On the fifth day of Christmas I read a Norwegian PhD thesis on ethical values in Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter. When I got sick and tired of it, I read more postdoc applications for a change. In the evening I made some miniature knitting books for my yarn shop room box.

On the sixth day of Christmas I finished the Norwegian thesis and wrote my report; wrote a recommendation letter and a conference abstract.

On the seventh day of Christmas, which happened to be the New Year Eve, I made lobster thermidor in the morning and set the table. I read some more postdoc applications. We ate far too much for dinner and watched An American in Paris. We celebrated the New Year by Swedish time, listening to church bells from the thirteen Swedish cathedrals. I was fast asleep by the New Year GMT.

On the eighth day of Christmas I was still slightly behind my schedule. I finished the last batch of postdoc applications and spent the rest of the day making a miniature cabinet that I had got from Julia and Pontus for Christmas.

On the ninth day of Christmas I finally started writing my new book. I spent the day going through two years' files: initial, intermediate and final drafts of articles and conference papers, notes, reviews and bibliographies. It is a most ungrateful task, and I always warn my students against keeping multiple drafts because then you have to go through them all in case there is one stray clever sentence hiding somewhere (usually there isn't). My first surprise was that all in all I had more text than I had expected. My second surprise was that the text was in less completed state than I had remembered. In the middle of the day I went for a walk. A lady came toward me just as I was leaving the gate, saying: “It's very muddy in there”, meaning the park. Nice of her, but I knew it already and thefore walked toward and along the river. In the evening Staffan and I watched the first part of the three-hour documentary about Olof Palme.

On the tenth day of Christmas I continued working on my book. I merged several papers into two chapters, which felt highly satisfactory. Then I started on a very difficult theoretical chapter which I had thought was finished. In fact in was all in bits and pieces and yellow highlights with notes to myself in caps: DEVELOP! We watched the second part of the Palme documentary

On the eleventh day of Christmas I went on with the chapter and came up with an idea of exactly how to DEVELOP it. We watched the third part of the Palme documentary

On the twelfth day of Christmas I worked hard on the chapter. I went for a walk along the river.

I allowed myself to finish early and made some more miniatures. In the evening, I watched Werner Herzog's Into the Abyss. It isn't exactly a cheerful movie, but very thought-provoking.

Now the Christmas season is over. I am working on my book. I have set up a goal of walking 150 km and have already done 7% of it. I have four exciting room box projects. Stay in touch.

Christmas horrors

Christmas is not about peace and quiet and family values. Christmas is a trial, an ordeal, and a matter of anxiety for any family. You start preparing long in advance. You make lists so as not to forget anyone. You swear over all those relatives who have everything. You try to remember what you gave them last year not to give the same again. You try to remember what they gave you last year not to give it back. You decide not to give any presents to adults, only to children. You consult the in-laws not to give the children the same thing from the wish-list. You see some things you really want to give someone and then have to give something to everyone. You try to remember what kind of wrapping paper your in-laws use so as to not use the same. You realise that you won't have time to write all Christmas cards and decide that this year you will just send an email greeting. Then you get lots of cards and feel bad.

If you host the Christmas meal you start worrying a month in advance that your new in-laws won't like your very very special inescapable all-time family favourite salad. You realise that your new in-laws have a completely different schedule for the holidays. That they exchange their presents on Christmas Eve morning/afternoon/evening/Christmas Day morning/evening while everybody knows that it must be done on Christmas Eve morning/afternoon/evening/Christmas Day morning/evening (delete as required). That they open all presents at the same itme, when they must be opened one at a time and admired. That the label should say who the present is from – or just say Merry Christmas from Santa. That wrapping paper should be immediately disposed of in a huge black bin liner, or smoothed out and saved for undefined purpose.

You realise that they decorate the tree together on Christmas Eve morning while in your family it is always decorated on the day before – or perhaps has already been decorated for a week. That they put all their decorations even on a minimal tree and hide it completely under tinsel. That they actually have an artificial tree and believe that a real tree in unecological. They won't tell you, but there will be a tension in the air, or a young innocent child will declare it in the middle of present-sharing.

You realise that your in-laws have their meal punctually at one/two/three/four/five/six and cannot imagine anything else. That they cannot imagine a Christmas meal without homemade meatballs/jellied fish/mashed turnips, and they would have brought their own of they had only known that there won't be any.

You worry that you haven't cleaned your house well enough for their keen eyes, that you haven't got special Christmas curtains, tablecloth and napkins, that they would have brought their special Christmas plates if they have only known...

You realise that they never watch your favourite Christmas programme, but have their own that they cannot live without. That they think that mulled wine is wrong for Christmas, but how can you image Christmas without Christmas pudding? That they always go to Evensong on Christmas Eve, right when your family watches the indispensable tv-programme, which, God forbid! cannot be recorded and wacthed later. That they sing their carols rather than listening to that wonderful CD. That they go to visit great-Aunt Drusilla on Christmas Day morning. That they have their special songs they sing over their herring, and you don't know the words. That they spend all Christmas Day doing a jigsaw puzzle. That they go for a walk even when it's freezing cold. That they feel offended when Father withdraws after the meal for his traditional Christmas nap. That the youngest child, and not the oldest female lights the candles. That the father of the family, and not the youngest child dives under the tree to share out presents. That you don't count how many presents you have got and compare to your sibling. That you don't open all presents on Christmas Eve morning so that half of the family have no presents under the tree. Sorry, I seem to have gone full circle.

For many years we tried to escape the anxieties of Christmas by going away. However, before going away we still had to invite the rest of the family to exchange presents and have a meal, and the whole nightmare was just shifted a week earlier.

You are bitter, upset and disappointed. You know that the way Christmas was celebrated in your family when you were a child is the only right way. That is, if your family celebrated Christmas at all.

Christmas cooking Russian style

I am preparing food for Christmas hoping that there will be guests to eat it. Right now the perspectives are unclear. Among other things indispensable on my Christmas table is Russian pickled cabbage which is unlike any other pickled cabbage. It is made without vinegar for the simple reason that historically there was no wine production in Russia and thus no sour wine to make vinegar. True, there was no wine production in Finland or Sweden either, and they still don't make the Russian style cabbage – presumably influenced by Germany. Nowadays I only make a little jar of cabbage, as much as we can reasonably eat within a reasonable time. I used to make a huge 20-litre earthenware jar and keep it cool in the cellar. This is how it was done in Russia when I was a child. Fresh cabbage was available in the autumn, and the only way to save it for the winter was to pickle it. You had to be a team to slice all this cabbage, grate the carrots and then rub it with salt until it became juicy. Then you put something heavy on top, a big stone wrapped in a piece of cloth, and left it for some days to ferment. Yum.

I have shared this repeatedly on food pages of Swedish newspapers, and I have a special chapter in Masha's Russian Cookbook (which incidentally is my best-selling publication).

If I were to make a 20-litre jar of pickled cabbage today I wouldn't know where to keep it. I don't have a cellar. And why would I do it when I can make a small jar any time I want it? Just one of those many things from your childhood you took for granted but only make sense in their own context. Pickled cabbage was essential for survival in Russia when I was a child. Today, it's just a nice addition to my Christmas table.

The joys of Christmas

There was a Christmas lunch at the Faculty yesterday. Last year I missed this occasion because I was stuck in a snow storm at Copenhagen airport. Two years ago I was also busy elsewhere, don't remember why. The mere number of people attending was impressive. The tables were gorgeously decorated with crackers, balloons and what not, and everybody put on the crazy paper crowns and shot around and blew the whistles and had fun. Then there was entertainment, coordinated of all people by the Head of Finance Office (I am apparently prejudiced against finance people as being bores by definition). There were tremendously funny sketches, a guitar and banjo trio, poetry recital, Bach partita for violin, all preceded by hilarious comments on Christmas carols from the point of view of Health and Safety regulations. It is a hazard to use open sleighs, pointing at someone's red nose is discrimination, and of course, to rock a baby's cradle you need to be approved by Crimial Record Bureau.

I couldn't help thinking back on my previous workplace. Can I imagine any of my professor colleagues in Stockholm playing banjo in front of the staff? Or anyone at all doing a standup performance? I feel privileged belonging to a community that allows itself to enjoy life. And nobody cared that singing Jesus praise might hurt the feelings of Buddhists or atheists.

Un-Christmas shopping

My flight home is at 10 pm. I have booked this flight because it goes to Stansted rather than Heathrow or Gatwick. The alternative would have been seven in the morning, and given that I got to bed at half past midnight, as expected, it didn't feel attractive. So I have a whole day in Oslo, without any special plans or obligations. I have negotiated with the hotel to keep the room at a reasonable cost, and I have brought student essays and other work, and I even have a book.

I have eaten far too much the last two days, beginning with a light, but delicious lunch on Thursday, a sumptuous dinner at the most posh restaurant in town (thanks, University of Oslo), another extravagant meal at other fancy place between the sessions and then the doctoral dinner yesterday which was not only plenty of food, but also plenty of speeches. Hence late bedtime.

Yet, full as I was yesterday, I still have to eat something today, which means I have to go out. It is very crowded, there are demonstrations, street musicians, Christmas shoppers, and outside one shop a huge sign: “Guaranteed no Christmas music”. I don't know Oslo well, so I walk down Karl Johann Street till I find a place that looks good and have a nice mixed grill at a price that would buy a three course dinner with wine in Cambridge. Then I spot a hobby shop and binge. It's the same chain where I used to buy stuff in Stockholm, but I know my needs better now. I take my time. I tell myself that I don't really need four plastic angel heads, but myself replies that, painted gold, they would fit nicely over the door in the big dollhouse. Then I consider going to a bookstore, but decide that I've done my shopping for this year.

Christmas shopping

My GP thinks I have high blood pressure. I know that with considerably lower blood pressure my mother would be flat on her back in bed, and I am still running around. I have received a blood pressure tester from my surgery to take blood pressure morning and night for a week. It is, however, pointless to take blood pressure during Christmas season. It's bound to be superhigh.

I have just spent FOUR HOURS shopping Christmas gifts online. I had this revelation yesterday: rather than asking Anton to carry presents for his nephews and nieces on a Ryanair flight, and rather than going shopping in a mall and then taking the whole lot to a post office, I would shop online and get it all neatly dispatched. This, however, does not solve the big problem. Our grandchildren have everything. They have more toys than they can play with, and they have all the gadgets imaginable. I hate giving presents that will be admired for five minutes and forgotten among a pile of other stuff, I like giving an experience, like going to a movie or a theatre or a museum. But it is hard to explain to a four-year-old on Christmas Eve that she will get her present when granny is in Stockholm in three months' time. So it has to be a little something under the tree.

Last year we loaded Julia's suitcase with presents when she visited in the beginning of December, and the kids received them for Easter. It wasn't Julia's fault: they are all just too busy to meet up. Perhaps it was just as well; they got too much for Christmas anyway.

This year we will be clever and send the gifts from an online shop, dispatched to three addresses in Sweden... Do you see my blood pressure go up? First to find ten different reasonable gifts for five boys and five girls aged between two and fourteen. Checking with the parents that they haven't already got it. That the small girls still love glittery stuff and the middle boys still love building models. Sorting the carefully, lovingly chosen gifts into three bunches. Searching my non-existent electronic address book for postcodes. Filling in the addresses, only to receive the message: "We are sorry, we cannot accept your address". Bother! All over again. Shall I give up, take the car, go to the centre, wait an hour in line to park the car, negotiate crowds, browse five different shops - no! Back to the screen. Counting frantically, adding labels (once upon a time, when we sent gifts from California, Amazon mixed up all labels, so a two-year-old got a biography over the Pope and her mother Raymond Briggs' Snowman). No, I don't have a gift card. No, I don't have a promotion code. Yes, I want to use my very special unique Christmas discount for this particular order. Yes, I am quite sure that I want to send to these addresses. Oh, I see, I cannot use this card for these addresses. All over again? No, I don't want to send all these items to the same address. I have clicked "multiple addresses". Yes, I am quite sure...

Click "Place your order". Take a deep breath. Sorry, kids, if you get wrong gifts. By Easter, you may have time to meet and exchange them.

Blog challenge Day 24 – Something that makes you cry

The safest way to make me cry is to sing or play Silent Night.

Since I have read so much cognitive science recently I know how it works. Our memories are stored somewhere in ours brain, in fragments, all mixed up. Somewhere in my brain there is a memory of me sitting under a Christmas tree and listening to a bunch of elderly aunts and uncles singing Silent Night in German, which I sort of understood, but not quite, so it sounded like a magical incantation (which it is in a way). If I just think back about it, I remember it clearly and rationally, and I can state that all these uncles and aunts are dead, which is sad, but inevitable. This won't make me cry. But if I hear Silent Night, even played in a department store, the sound of it evokes the emotional memory: exactly how it felt to be a small child under a tree covered with real candles, the smell of honey buns, anticipation of presents hiding behind the tree. The brain says: this is something lost forever,it triggers a complex chemical process which makes me cry.

On the other hand, someone has said: you can only own forever something that is lost.

Trendsetting

I went back a year in my blog to see what I wrote about my glögg party and was disappointed to discover that I didn't. I have a clear memory of having a party in this house, with the fire burning, candles, saffron buns and gingerbread that Julia and I had baked during her visit the previous weekend, but apparently it wasn't reflected in my blog. There is, however, a post from two years ago, when we were still living in Chesterton, and the guests were crammed in the tiny living room, but presumably enjoyed it anyway.

Lucia party was my first encounter with Sweden and its traditions - goodness, twenty nine years ago in a few days. Our friend Dalia had her traditional Lucia year after year, and we never missed it except when we lived in California.There, however, Lucia had been claimed by Anne-Charlotte Harvey, Professor of Drama at SDSU, who maintained her Swedishness that way. It feels therefore highly satisfactory to have set a tradition here in Cambridge with a Swedish glögg party that, I think, has now been imprinted in people's minds. This year we have moved it a week because I am away next weekend, and after that everybody will be away. Nothing wrong with it: it is actually Second Advent Sunday tomorrow. For the first time in my life I am making a non-alcoholic glögg for the non-drinking friends. Hope it tastes ok. Otherwise I discovered that I was out of genuine glögg spices and sent Staffan to get cinnamon sticks and dried ginger while I rummaged cupboards in search of cloves, and of course found a bag of Swedish glögg mix that had been hiding. Staffan also bought mulled wine mix to be on the safe side, but that's beyond my dignity.

Closed and open

Today we went to Peterborough to see its magnificent cathedral. It was closed. By contrast, the shopping mall was open.

A spooky city

My daughter and I take a walk in the city. It is dead. Everything is closed, not even a place to sit down and have a cup of coffee. The colleges do not allow visititors. The stalls in the Market place are abandoned. The buses do not run. Almost no cars and still less cyclists. No boats on the river. The streets are empty, save a handful of tourists who obviously don't celebrate Christmas.

Christmas is saved!

There is one thing about Christmas that is more sacred than food and presents. Take the ham from a Swede, and he will sigh and comply. Take his Christmas Disney from him, and he'll kill you. Over forty years running, a Disney medley has been shown on Swedish television on Christmas Eve, at 3pm. All family activities are arranged around this important moment. No child, however impatient, would dream of opening a present before Disney. This is the only cultural heritage all Swedish people, young and old, share. The quotes, the songs, the jokes.

So how shall I survive? (I must admit that we survived in California).

Thanks to my clever daughter I now have a link to YouTube. If you want to share the most Swedish of all Swedish traditions with me tomorrow, click here.

A horror story with a happy ending

It is "the day before the day before the day", as the Swedish saying goes, and it is the day to get a Christmas tree. Some people might say: what's the point of having a tree when you have no small children. But we have always had a tree, except maybe some years when we went to warmer latitudes for the holidays. So after we had loaded for Christmas dinner we crossed the road to the garden store, where Staffan some days ago had investigated local supplies of Christmas trees. But, what a chock! - not one single tree. "No sir, sorry sir, we're out of trees, no we are not expecting any more". Unbelieable. We checked the B&Q nearby. Not a tree. "Sorry sir..." I have never been so disappointed since my parents did not give me a dog when I was small. We had a couple of days ago seen a flower shop with a gimmick outside used for wrapping Christmas trees, and I also remembered the farm where we occasionally go for meat. However, I envisioned all the food we had just bought and that I had to cook, so I entrusted Staffan with the task of tackling the tree issue. I did suggest that he might ring before going there.

Off he went, leaving me with ham and red cabbage and beans. It takes a lot of time to cook a proper Swedish Christmas dinner, and somehow it takes just as long time to cook for three as for twenty. I forgot the time, but when it had gone two hours I wondered whether I should start worrying. I know Staffan well, and I know that he is stubborn, but in two hours you can almost go as far as Manchester. I didn't really feel a Christmas tree was worth the trip.

He called some time after, could not explain where he was, but asked me to check an address on his computer screen. Two hours later he came in triumphantly, and I must admit that it is one of the prettiest trees we've ever had.