The smell of Swedish meatballs greets me as I walk through the door. I hastily stomp the snow off my boots and follow my nose into the kitchen. My mother is stooped over a sizzling cast iron skillet, carefully placing each meatball morsel in the pan. She has on her typical green paisley apron, which is covered in grease stains, her hair is falling out of her loosely knotted bun and her glasses are covered in steam from the pasta that’s bubbling happily beside the skillet. Others might think she looks like a mess but to me, she’s never looked more beautiful.
“Hi honey! How was your morning?” mother asked, with a toothy smile. I respond with a noncommittal answer, while tiptoeing towards the large bowl of already cooked meatballs. I’ve just managed to reach my hand into the blue and white striped bowl before my mother’s spatula smacks it out of the way.
“But I’m hungry mom! I was shoveling snow the whole morning,” I exclaim. My mother fixes me with a stern look and informs me that if I eat the meatballs now, I won’t have anything for dinner. Instead, she shoves a bag of Goldfish into my empty hands, and insists that I keep her company while she cooks. It’s agony sitting there; the aroma of my favorite home cooked meal wafting around the kitchen. I plunge my hand into the half empty bag of Goldfish, trying to satiate my grumbling stomach.
I try to pay attention while my mother talks about the Christmas present she bought today for my sister. I sit beside the rusty radiator in a vain attempt to warm my frozen toes. The kitchen looks festive with our annual decorations dotted throughout the room. Our Swedish lineage is well represented from not only the cooking food, but also the adornments that are splayed on the kitchen table. Swedish horses, delicately painted with small orange flowers, sit alertly by the sink. A paper chain of little Christmas elves hangs from the ceiling fan.
I’ve always been proud of my roots; the Swedish side comes from my mother and her parents. When I was really little my uncle would call me his “little Viking princess”, the term would just about make we burst with pride. I remember hearing stories from my grandfather about “his people”, the Swedes, fighting fiercely against the other inferior European armies.
“Are you listening honey? I need your help,” my mother said. I was snapped back to Earth, by the sound of my mother’s voice. She was gesturing madly at the pasta, and I realized she wanted help straining it. I hopped off my stool, and grabbed the pot holders. Mom picked up the big pot and brought it over the sink, it was far too big for my little hands but I held the strainer steady below. The rising condensation fogged my glasses as the spaghetti fell into the colander below.
“I look just like Mom now,” I thought with a smile. My mother always teased me about the fact that, although I inherited her empathy, and sense of humor, I also got her bad eyesight. She had deemed it a fair trade off and I didn’t mind my glasses.
A disruption came in through the back door at that moment, in the shape of my father and six month old puppy, Scarlett. Dad looked as cold as I had when I’d returned from the snowy outdoors. He took my seat beside the radiator with glee.
“Hi honey how was the walk? Did Scarlett behave?” my mother chimed. Dad was in the process of removing the many layers of protective clothing that enveloped him. His bright eyes roamed the kitchen, landing on the blue and white striped bowl, now filled to the brim with Swedish meatballs.
“Oh, same old same old. Honey please tell me those meatballs for dinner,” Dad asked. A hungry glint had entered his eye. Mom assured him that if he could wait 15 minutes he could have all the meatballs he wanted.
“Not all the meatballs! I’ve been waiting way longer than you have,” I protested. A typical little kid pout clouded my facial features, upon hearing my mother’s words. She amended her previous statement to “almost all the meatballs”. I grinned at him, satisfied. He came over to me and shook his head like a wet dog. Droplets of melted snow hit me in the face, I giggled.
“I guess we’ll just have to pay you for shoveling the walk in meatballs if you love them so much,” Dad said. I jumped up and down and assured him that was completely fine with me. My sister emerged from her room at the sound of dad’s entrance. She plops down on the floor beside Scarlett, rubbing her miniature belly and bestowing kisses. I joined her on the damp rug, glad for a distraction from my hunger.
“Alright everyone it’s time! Get out some plates, the food is ready!” my mother exclaimed. Her exclamation seemed to be the magic words, my sister and father raced to the dish cabinet. Dad got there first, pulling down four ceramic dishes. I let out a whoop of approval and ran to sit down at the table. I couldn’t help myself, I picked up my knife and fork and began a chant for the highly desirable meatballs. Once everyone was seated, mom started to ladle out huge portions of spaghetti, tomato sauce, and the coveted meatballs. Luckily, no one was cut short by an inadequate number of the meatballs; my mother had made the perfect amount.
There was a long moment of silence while we all gorged ourselves. I don’t think I really ever appreciated my mother as much as when she made me her famous Swedish meatballs. To me the meal was the best thing on earth. It was a major component of Christmas time, as well as a family tradition.
“This... is your best batch yet Mom!” I practically yelled at her. She thanked me sweetly before telling me that under no circumstance could I only have meatballs and spaghetti for dinner. She pushed the bowl of green salad in my direction. I ate the green leaves without complaint. If salad was my mother’s one request in exchange my beloved dinner, I would eat it gladly. Everyone’s spoons dove into the bowl for seconds, Dad even managed to get down thirds.
After dinner, we relocated to the family room for milk and cookies. The twinkling Christmas tree stood serenely in the corner. It’s branches hanging heavily with ornaments. The angel, perched on the highest branch, had been passed down from generation to generation on my mother’s side. It was, of course, of Swedish descent. Her blond hair and blue eyes provided the typical stereotype most people associate with the Swedish race. I eyed the cookie tin, not sure whether there was room in my stomach for dessert. I watched my Dad’s hand descend into the container, retracting it’s prize; a perfectly shaped chocolate chip cookie.
“Well if Dad can do I can do it!” I thought to myself encouragingly. I dunked the cookie into my glass of milk, and crammed it into my mouth, little kid style.
“What a perfect end to a wonderfully snowy day,” my Mother said.
