Sometimes I think my husband’s life would be a lot easier if he had married a Swedish woman (though, of course, if she were Swedish it is highly unlikely that they’d be married). If he had a Swedish sambo, he probably wouldn’t have to listen to her complain about him bringing home pickled herring and horsemeat, and she wouldn’t find the smell of a half-dozen or so hard-boiled eggs in the refrigerator at all disgusting. She would think that a kebab sandwich from the local fast-food stand made a great impromptu supper on a Friday evening and she would never run screaming from the kitchen at the smell of frozen meatballs re-heating in the microwave. She would think it altogether fitting and proper that most of the food on a holiday smörgåsbord be served cold. She would take a thermos of scalding coffee to the beach on the hottest day of the year and she would never dare serve potato chips alongside a sandwich. She would know, too, that sandwiches are meant to be open-faced and would never think to suggest that peanut butter OR jam belonged anywhere near a slice of bread.

And she might, if he were really lucky, have a deep love for surströmming.