Tussilago – a sign of spring
I took my mother’s old bike out for a real round of the countryside where I live.
Horses were running, tractors were humming and birds were fluttering over the mudded fields and the first signs of spring; a stream of melted snow murmuring in the ditch, the smell of damp hay, reminded me of my youth.
On the farms and front yards of the red wooden houses, children were out playing in dirty overalls and colourful gumboots. The same boots that will make stains on the hallway carpet as they rush in for supper.
Just as I had rolled down a long hill and got to a crossroad I slowed down and caught a glimpse of something yellow in the other so dull grass. There it was.
A perfect Tussilago.
It was so Swedish I almost got a tear in my eye.
Another thing Swedish is having Easter dinner with my family. The home made pickled variation of herrings (to which we all agree that the balance between sweetness and sour is the key) mom’s gravlax (marinated salmon) in thin slices with her own dill sauce, eggs with roe, potatoes and crisp bread. And Påskmust of course.
I realize now, even trying to translate, that it is impossible. Because tradition never is.