Playing dress up at the mohippa studio.

We are so groovy. That's the bride on the right, by the way.

Meeting people I would not ordinarily have the chance to meet. That’s one of the best parts of living as an expat. On Friday night, I went to a möhippa – a bachelorette party. While I knew the bride and a handful of the other guests, I had never met most of the women before. But with that common link of being expats in Stockholm, we all connected during the course of the night and I had a blast. Plus, I met some amazing women.

Much like in the US, a möhippa is a big excuse to have fun with friends. We started the night at Mohippestudion, a party room designed for hen parties. While the bride got a makeover, the rest of us drank champagne and chatted. Then we all went into a giant closet where we got to change into outfits, shoes and accessories to pose in for a photographer.

Fueled by champagne and playing dress up, we had so much fun. I went for two groovy 1970s inspired outfits and one Marilyn Monroe dress. Next was dinner and American-style shower games. And we ended the evening at a local dance club. I was exhausted by the time it was all over. But I had a big smile on my face.

The möhippa group.

It’s snowing buckets out there and it has been for hours. There are several inches of snow on the ground and it looks like more will be accumulating. And you know what, I love it. I am not minding this springtime snow for the moment. Or at least not while I am snugly tucked inside the house.

On another surprising note, I had good customer service yesterday. In Stockholm. As this tends to be the exception and not the rule, I will share my tale. I called my local Systembolaget (the only place you can buy wine and alcohol in Sweden) to order a bunch of wine for an upcoming party. First, you need to realize that my Swedish is slow. Instead of ordering a wine by its order number as most Swedes would – number two thousand, two hundred and twenty one – I spell out each number separately so as to make sure that my Swedish is clear and leaves no room for miscommunication. On top of this, my clerk was a fast talker. So in my slow Swedish, I repeated everything he said back to him to make sure I was understanding what he was saying. “OK, what you just said was…”

It was a long conversation. I thought for sure that this guy would lost patience with me. But he didn’t. Not even when I ordered  several bottles each of seven different kinds of wine. When I was done, the clerk complimented me on my excellent taste in wines. That was my next shock. Such small talk niceties, while common in the US, aren’t the usual in Sweden.

So I told him that the wine was for an upcoming wine tasting party. And he said that it should be a really nice evening for my friends. And then he thanked me, telling me that taking my order was mycket rolig or very fun for him. I about fell off my chair as I am pretty sure that it was a tortuously long order for him to take. On top of it, he then told me that he looked forward to meeting me when I came to pick up my order. The whole conversation left a smile on my face.

Easter witches looking for candies of any sort.

Easter feathers.

Today is långfredagen – long Friday – or good Friday as it’s known in much of the world. It’s a public holiday here and as with any weekend holiday, many people had a half work day yesterday and will also be off on Monday. We were out at Adam and Marie-Louise’s new house last night and just after we arrived, the Easter witches above came looking for treats. I’ve written before about the Easter witch and feather branches, so I won’t go into it again here.

It’s quiet in town. Not much is open. And it’s snowing buckets. Kind of nice.

A semla from Tössebageriet.

You have to give me credit for trying. I have never been a fan of semlor, but every year I feel this strange obligation to eat one again. So this year I thought I would up the ante and go to one of the best-rated semlor bakeries in town – Tössebageriet – and try one again.

A semla is a wheat bun spiced with cardamon that is filled with a mound of whipped cream and almond paste, looking very much like a pastry hamburger. Traditionally eaten on Fat Tuesday or Fettisdagen, semlor are now typically available in mid January. I ate my annual semla today as I will be in Sydney by then.

As for what I thought of this semla, I really do like the idea of Swedish semlor, but I am still not a fan of the cardamon or the wheat bun. And all that cream is just way too rich. So I ate half my semla. Maybe I’ll do the rest later.

By the way, I’ve written of my trials with the semlor before, comparing them to king cake and to a cream-filled hamburger.

There are few events more spectacularly over-the-top American as the Super Bowl. Even though I would by no means call myself a football fan – I played soccer, basketball and softball – I always watched the Super Bowl. Correction. I was in a room where the game was on and I at times watched the game. More often than that given the social person that I am, I just enjoyed the spectacle and the party. When I was a kid, my Dad always barbecued steaks and we would have snacks throughout the game. Later, I went to parties with friends. I’m not sure when salsa, guacamole and chips became the must-have snacks. Nor can I really say when the commercials became THE thing to watch. But I do know that they are all as much a part of the tradition as the game itself.

Even though the game time here in Stockholm was after midnight, I watched for a while. And it did make me laugh to hear the Swedish commentators talk about the game in Swedish. But I fell asleep on the couch before halftime. So I just watched the Madonna performance this morning – it seemed like a fine performance and very visual, but nothing as over the top as I might have expected. I watched a few of the commercials and while I have not seen them all yet, I did love the Ferris Bueller ad for Honda and the VW one with the dog getting back in shape. I’ll have to get back in touch with my American heritage and watch some more later.

The colorful changing huts on Brighton Beach in Melbourne.

It’s snowing here in Stockholm, so I am distracting myself with thinking about our upcoming trip down under. And as today is Australia Day – Australia’s national day –  I pulled out some photos from the archives. I chose the one above because what could be more Australian than going to the beach and enjoying the sunshine and surf? And then I couldn’t resist adding the one below because if you are going to spend the day at the beach, than you want the famous lifeguards there to save you, of course, than that led me to thinking of the budgie smugglers. The budgie smuggler is a Speedo type swimsuit that was given this illustrious name as the “bump” in the front is said to resemble a budgie or budgerigar, better known to most of us as a parakeet.

The Australian Budgie smuggler.

Finally, I had to add in the photo of the meat pie and beer, a classic meal combination in the land down under. Now I have to thank my Australian husband Robert for leading me down this road of Australiana. He will try to deny this, but he did play me a number of classic Australian songs from the 70s and 80s last night, including Eagle Rock by Daddy Cool. Oh my.

A meat pie and Tasmanian beer. Yum.

Robert's salmon and fish soup.

When I first moved to Stockholm, I did not like salmon. At all. But salmon is extremely popular in Sweden and was served at EVERY dinner party we went to. I didn’t want to be rude, so I would ask for just a small piece and force myself to eat it with copious amounts of potato to mask the taste.

Salmon made me feel like that annoying kid that I was who refused to eat just about everything: fish, peas, lima beans, hot dogs, hamburgers, bananas. The list of my dislikes was endless. Dinner was an ordeal that I tried to get through by creatively hiding peas under my mashed potatoes and by taking a big mouthful of something disgusting and then spitting it into my napkin and dropping it on the floor for the dog to eat.

I longed for a dog to sit by my side on those salmon nights. But then at some point over the years, I realized I could tolerate the salmon. It’s not one of my favorite foods, but I actually like it now. I especially like it in fish soup and Robert makes an amazingly good one with chunks of fresh salmon, mini shrimp and vegetables.

I guess you could say that eating salmon is just one of the many ways Sweden has had an influence on me.

“Lagom is driving me crazy.” When a Norwegian American woman said this last night, the entire group of 20  laughed. I was at an event for the American Women’s Club welcoming newcomers to Sweden. Introductions were being made and everyone was sharing where she was from, how long she had lived in Sweden and how she was doing in her new homeland.

We all laughed, because we all got it. Even if you’ve only lived in Sweden for a few weeks, it’s likely that you’ve run into lagom. Pronounced LAW-gohm, the word has no exact equivalent in English, but is typically defined as “everything in moderation.”  Basically, everyone has enough and no one goes without. It’s a cultural philosophy and a code of behavior all at once. At heart, the word connotes restraint. There is an appropriate balance for all things.

For immigrants to Sweden, lagom effects them in all sorts of everyday ways: there are not as many brands at the grocery store, there are only two or three selections to choose from on a dagens or daily lunch menu, portion sizes in restaurants are smaller. In the office, it means decisions are made not by individuals but as a group and that a Swedish employee wil leave at 5 because their work is done for the day even if there is a big deadline to meet.

Most Americans are hardwired to NOT be lagom. We strive to stand out, to be the best, to make our mark. On my first day on the job in Sweden, a Swedish coworker asked, “Why are all Americans so loud? They hurt my ears.” She then quickly followed up with, “You’re not like other Americans!”

When you move to a new country, you tend to spend a lot of time learning the new language in an effort to fit in. But fitting into a society also requires understanding the cultural rules of a society and how to behave.  You have to know that when you visit a Swedish home, you are expected to take off your outside shoes at the door. If you don’t, you can be thought of as rude.

As for me in Sweden, I’ve had a long love/hate relationship with lagom. I like the concept of lagom in some ways, but it also gets on my nerves. Over the years, I’ve written about it many, many times before on this blog, exploring it from how others define lagom,  how Swedes define it and  jantelagen and  also from how I am not so lagom.

I’ve been back in the US a week now, but I’m still getting adjusted. Quite simply, I’m not used to all the customer service and causal friendliness. Free refills on drinks, waiters checking back at the table to see if I need anything else and chatting casually about the weather or the holidays or whatever. At the movies yesterday, there were even free popcorn refills. At lunch, the waiter brought me a cup of soup to try because my friend had one too.  When I’m out walking in my parent’s neighborhood, just about everyone I pass either nods or says hello or comments in some way. Working in their yard on Saturday, passersby waved or said hi. It feels like home. But also because I’m just not used to all this attention and service in Stockholm, it also gets overwhelming. And that feels weird to me.

The turkey was 22 pounds.

I had to put a little of everything on my plate.

It was a classic Thanksgiving. Of course, there was turkey. We had a 22-pounder. And there were mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberries, sweet potatoes, gravy and stuffing. Pumpkin and pecan pie. There was family too – my parents, brothers and their wives and kids. Football was on the television and also tossed around in the yard too.

There was a lot to be thankful for, including being surrounded by family and having a lovely meal. I forgot to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, but I did see the Charlie Brown special. Perhaps not surprisingly, I did have the usual turkey hangover. I think we all did. Well, except for my nieces and nephews. Nothing seemed to effect their energy and ability to run around the house.

My nieces drew hand turkeys for everyone.