The taste of home made
Going home for the weekend was a sweet treat, albeit with a few bitter pieces and a recognizable after taste. Personally, I couldn’t live there right now and probably not in the future either but you should never say never. Just possibly not.
It was the normal routine:
I arrive late on Friday night. My mom and our fellow neighbor Bosse come pick me up and in the car they ask if the trip went well and if all snow is gone in Stockholm. They say, it’s different in the big city of course.
At home we prepare some sandwiches and tea and my mom lit candles and we sit and talk until we admit that we are exhausted and hug each other good night and I crawl into my old, much too small, squeaky bed.
Saturday morning we have a big breakfast and usually the sun lit up the kitchen. After that, I am on my mother’s bike as quick as possible. It is just the best bike ever.
I meet up with friends. In this case, my best guy friend Fredric although I’ve always called him by his last name, Persson, which is strange these days since he has a new last name and a fiancée, a kid of 1 year and another on the way. His mom who saw me grow up was there too while we had coffee and ice cream in the spring sun.
They say, but after Lofoten you must be done with traveling?
I say, I’m just getting started.
In the afternoon I ride around on the bike. I decide to pop into another childhood friend’s house. Pernilla is cleaning. I totally mess up her routine but because she knows me and through all our differences, likes me, we have a life 2010 update and promise to call each other more often.
Saturday, me and my brother are spoiled kids again, arriving at a set up dinner table with a perfect roast, veggies and red wine. We compliment mom on her excellent cooking and although we are stuffed, she persuades us to try her home-made meringue ice cream with raspberry sauce. We slouch down like two bags of potatoes on the kitchen couch.
Saturday night I can either join my brother at some mutual friend’s house party, but knowing where it will end up, I decide to dodge into bed with a book.
Sunday is family time and that includes my Italian teacher so I walk to the other end of town (takes about an hour – that should give you an idea of how small it is) where he lives in an old red wooden house. He greets me on the porch and offers me a coffee – unless, he says with a sneaky smile, you prefer a glass of wine? I smile to agree to his offer.
Lofoten! he exclaims, then I must come visit! I have come to return Italian books that has been laying on my shelf for a year, still he manages to send me off with two new ones.
I promise to keep the Italian up.
Off to more family time, I meet up with my uncle who is doing much better now and the rest of my family. After a precious dinner, with great talks and hugs, my mom once again, takes me to the station, making sure I have something to snack on.
I snack on the bittersweetness that is home.