On My Way to The Arctic Circle

Umea, Sweden: Gourmand Cookbook Awards, Hallbars Sustainability Conference, Umea Food Symposium

When last we left off, I was headed to The Arctic Circle for the Gourmand Cookbook Awards, Umea Food Symposium, Food Culture Summit and Sustainability Conference. My manuscript, Tasteless, a memoir about losing my sense of taste/smell and what I had done to reclaim/re-create it, how I had done it, what worked, what didn’t, how it impacted me (hugely, as it does everyone unlucky enough to fall victim). In manuscript form, not yet published, it was nominated for an award). This nomination: I felt nearly speachless with…gratitude.

Gourmand Cookbook Awards is that unique combination of 1. awards, and 2. venues/locations that you otherwise might never get to in this life. In this case: The Arctic Circle.

First, though, I had to get there. And getting there meant nearly endless hurdles of summer 2022 airport travel and passport-stamping misery. Checking into Heathrow Terminal 2 was long and slow, but I was excited; it was early morning and I was still fresh. I wilted pretty quickly from there on; first was Security and departures; the queue snaking out the doors of the terminal, into the sunshine, around the cars, and around and around then back into the terminal headed for Departures. It moved so slowly, it felt like it wasn’t moving at all. Absolutely no one was happy.

Luckily, one of my “quirks” is to get to an airport 3-4 hours before I need to. Usually I take something to read, because I mean: its a (usually) ridiculous amount earliness. This time, though, every moment counted, though as I sprinted through the corridors past the gates to the waiting plane, I did manage to pick up a sandwich.

I hadn't had breakfast, having left for the airport so early, though I stashed an emergency apple into my green polkadot handbag. Now it was lunchtime and while I getting hungry, I wasn’t too worried—I anticipated getting into Umea around dinner time when I was sure I’d eat something wonderful. Even so, it would be good to have a sandwich in my bag, “just in case”. I got cheese and pickle on nubby whole grain bread. British sandwiches are thin: thin bread, not too much filling. That was fine, since I'd be in Umea for dinner. And eat something wonderful.

On the plane to Stockholm, I ate half the sandwich, breaking off bits and inserting them between my mask and face, hopefully reaching my mouth. I was probably the only person on flight wearing a mask; no way was I taking it off. I’d somehow get the food and drink into my mouth.

In Stockholm, Arlanda Airport, things went unexpectedly hellish. The Immigration Hall was packed: unmasked people, huge queues, no directions or signage, just masses of people, winding their way towards two little windows, each with a uniformed person wielding a big stamping thing.

I was afraid I would miss my flight—and would have if it hadn’t been cancelled, though I knew none of this at this point. After finally getting past the passport stampers which took hours, my phone pinged: a text from the airline: "Your flight is cancelled; we'll get you on the next one. Go to such and such a gate".

At the gate, waiting for the same flight I saw Nimi Sunilkumar, resplendant in her brightly colored sari. Me, flying in from the UK; Nimi flying in from Kerala. We were both bubbling over with excitement: Imagine, we were going to the Arctic Circle! Imagine, we were each nominated for an award!

Nimi: a wonderful cook, author, teacher and spice goddess immediately tucked a sachet of cinnamon bark from her spice company into my hand as part of her greeting.

We yabbered on excitedly, about seeing our Gourmand Family and friends, the presentations we were each planning on giving, the excitement of others' presentations, the awards (fingers crossed, fingers crossed), and what discoveries and adventures were waiting for us.

Meanwhile texts from the airline flooded our phones. You're booked on next flight; go to the gate. The next flight is delayed. Delayed flight is now cancelled . We were sinking in spirits. I was panicking; it was getting towards evening and I really didn't want to sleep in the airport. I cut my emergency apple with a plastic knife and gave half to Nimi.

She was on her phone: her luggage was missing. Now, if my luggage had gone missing, maybe no one else would notice. Even if my suitcase never arrived, I’d cope. I'd wash my leggings and dainties, maybe turn my dress inside out so that the clean side showed, that sort of thing. I always have the important things with me on board: ie my red lipstick. So I would be okay.

With Nimi, though, her luggage contained the most beautiful saris. Locating it was a big deal. She chewed on the apple half while she tracked her luggage.

Then my phone pinged again: Go to such and such a gate, such and such a flight number, at such and such a time. Your plane will be there. But when we got there everything was correct, as expected and instructed, except for one thing: the destination. It didn't say Umea, it said something else (unpronouncible). We teetered at the edge of giving up.

"Its okay, just get on the flight" said the airline woman behind the desk. "It goes somewhere else in the Arctic Circle, but we'll drop you off in Umea". So we got on the plane; an hour later we came in for a landing, looking out the window over a charmingly bucolic area, so green (spring/summer, so green!) with red roofs, and small meandering streets. It looked more like a kibbutz, or a Mediterranean village than an Arctic settlement. ( lets not forget: its summer)

As we touched down, the Captain announced: "Those going to Umea, please get off here. Everyone else--stay in your seats, we'll continue on".

Within minutes of grabbing my backpack and heading out the door and down the stairs, I was sitting in a taxi, moving as if in a dream, sailing through the short distance into town from the (little) airport. Through forests and hills, we passed over a large river with ice still floating from the winter. Though it was June, the weather was still cool, and drizzly.

I--actually, husband Alan—had booked my hotel online. He loved the price--ever the devotee of a bargain--but I was a bit apprehensive about its distance into town where the Symposium events were to take place. In any event, the hotels in the center of town were all booked up. So the Hotel Bjorken it was.

As it turned out, though, the Bjorken was perfect. Located in a grove of trees, at the edge of the countryside, part of the university and next to the hospital, it felt like it was part of the forest. In ambience it was part posh hotel and part student hostel, and it was soothingly comfortable, welcoming, and unpretentious—I loved it.

My room was the most Scandinavian room I had ever been in: spacious, with spare sleek lines, shades of grey and white and a small single bed against the wall. I felt as if I had walked into a showroom at Ikea, or perhaps stepped into the pages of a book on Hygge. A huge window overlooked trees, the sky, a lake, and... a parking lot. I was exhausted; it was soothing. On the desk was a kettle for making tea; all was perfect again.

I noted it was still light (ha ha ha, it would be light for awhile still--maybe 4 or 5 months). The sunlight made me feel like staying awake; I was not yet used to the fact the land of the midnight sun means just that. It might look like afternoon but it was somewhere around midnight.

I showered, brewed a cup of tea, crawled into bed with my steamy Earl Grey. The scent of the tea engulfed me like a warm cloud, I began to feel like I was drifting off on a warm stream of beautiful, nourishing, reviving scent. Also, I probably was in dire need of liquid.

Feeling better, I unearthed the other half of my sandwich from my green polkadot handbag; it was a bit worse for wear, and yet: far more delicious than the first half. The ingredients had spent much of the day pressed together: paper thin slice of Cheddar, layer of sweet-spicy pickle delish, slightly soggy bread was a symphony of perfection, mealwise. Had anything ever tasted this good? Lets put it this way: I was really hungry.

I climbed into the white sheets, feeling awash with the perfume of tea, and full of teeny tiny sandwich, then fell asleep in this new land, looking forward to whatever adventures would come my way.

---

My friend, professor Ulrica Soderlind Phd at Stockholm University as well as The University of Umea, was staying nearby. "Meet for breakfast? We can go into town together, on a bus."

This was wonderful news. 1. because I looked forward to seeing Ulrica, and 2. I was learning that English is surprisingly unused; if it hadn’t been for her, I’d probably still be riding the buses endlessly around the Arctic Circle.

I’ll tell you all about our adventures: the awards, seeing old friends, the presentations,food shopping, and Fika. But first, first, first: We must discuss salad!

It was a wonderful if surprising discovery to find most meals involved salad. In the Arctic Circle this was the last thing I expected.

Day 1 lunch, in a nearby cafe, Ulrica and I, sitting outdoors on the terrace, eating: salad (as well as a savory tart made with the local cheese, Vasterbotten Ost). The salad was delicious: super-fresh, dabbed not drenched in vinaigrette; a dab of spicy hummus on the side, and scattered throughout: artichoke hearts. Of course! Who goes to the Arctic Circle and doesn't eat artichoke hearts? (In all fairness, it is summertime, even in the Arctic Circle). Ulrica and I, lunching outdoors, on salad and cheese tart.

Second day lunch was in the chic, airy restaurant located next to the auditorium in the Folkets Hus where the symposium was taking place. The menu: choose between fish soup, Arctic char, or…salad! I asked Ulrica if salads were popular in Sweden, especially in the Arctic Circle. I hadn't expected it. "We love salads" she said. "When we get lovely fresh things, we make salads".

I noticed also there were salads on the Bjorken breakfast buffet—shredded carrots, cherry/grape tomatoes, strips of peppers, thinly sliced cucumbers. And, at the after-awards party was the finest, freshest, potato salad imaginable next to a pile of green salady leaves. A bit like an American potato salad, a French one, or even Italian. Diced still warm potatoes, a bit of onion, herbs, and really: memorably good. The thin, rare, meat on the plate is elk: Per-Johan Pelle Agorelius hunted, shot and butchered the beast, his wife marinated, cooked and sliced it paper thin. Wild animals of the forest, such as elk, are a favorite meat throughout the area.

I was beginning to think of the Arctic Circle as the land of salads. Lunch day 3 was the same salad that had been on the menu before. It had beets, mixed mesclun-like greens, a local blue cheese, and CHIPS--that is, vegetable/potato chips. The dressing was based on blueberry juice. Truly, only of the best salads anywhere.

It was on the menu the next day as well, so we ate it again! And then I came home and made it for Alan, adding handfuls of our garden’s cheerful (and oh so nutritious) nasturtiums.

4-5 heaped tablespoons blueberries

2 tablespoons red wine vinegar

Several big handfuls young mixed greens such as mesclum, salad mix, spring mix, or, in my case: from the garden. My garden gave me mizuna, baby red leaf, arugula/rocket leaves; in Umea, the mixture was a bit more hearty. Both made terrific salads.

About 1/4 red onion, peeled and thinly sliced

5-6 ounces cooked, peeled, beets, cut into bite sized pieces

6 ounces or so, as you desire, blue cheese--or in this case, green. A rich, but strongly flavored cheese such as English Stilton, Scots Lanark Blue, French St Augur

Several handfuls of sturdy crisps/chips: root vegetable chips, or your fave potato chips; I had truffle potato chips on hand and used those. We they good? of course.

Nasturtiums, for a pretty and high vitamin C garnish. Since its early summer, we also have chive blossoms, which would be lovely in the salad too.

Since I didn’t have the blueberry juice the Umea salad dressing was based on, I ad-libbed by pureeing fresh blueberries with a little red wine vinegar. Its also great. Luckily I had the cheese, purchased in Umea. Spectacular cheese!

4-5 heaped tablespoons blueberries

2 tablespoons red wine vinegar

Several big handfuls young mixed greens such as mesclum, salad mix, spring mix, or, in my case: from the garden.

About 1/4 red onion, peeled and thinly sliced

5-6 ounces cooked, peeled, beets, cut into bite sized pieces

About 6 ounces blue cheese--or in this case, green. Use less, or use more. Its up to you.

Several handfuls of sturdy crisps/chips: root vegetable chips, or your fave potato chips; I had truffle potato chips on hand and used those. We they good? of course.

Nasturtiums, for tasty high vit C garnish. Its early summer, so we also have chive blossoms, which would be lovely in the salad too.

Whizz the blueberries and the wine vinegar, then set aside while you assemble the salad.

On a bed of the greens, scatter the red onion, the beets, then the cheese.

Dot the top with small spoonfuls of the blueberry-vinegar mixture, then scatter the vegetable crisps/potato chips on top, along with the nasturtiums and/or chive blossoms.

Me, buying the cheese. The happiest cheeseshop in the happiest town, and as you can see, i’m the happiest cheese buyer imaginable. Truly, this cheese is amazing.

This is the cheese. Its a blue/green veined, tangy, rich, complex cheese. Named Tant Gron, meaning “Auntie Green” for the veins running through it, it is, alas, a local cheese, and not one you’ll find elsewhere. Not even in Stockholm. Oh how I wish I had bought more!

This is the blueberry juice—its fantastic: not sweet nor tangy exactly, it is more like a smooth rich dry red wine. Its also interestingly sold in vintages, and I tasted on that had the slightly smoky scent of something that had been aged in wood. When I asked the owner, Per-Johan Pelle Agorelius, if I were imagining it, he replied: “Not at all, that was the year of the forest fires, and we had to rescue the berries from the fires’ ravages. It left a subtle smell of smoke.” Its truly exceptional.