Cows and Feet (Or a Short Story Ending with Free Wine)

When I was a freshman in college, there was an older guy in our group of friends.  

You know the type.  

He was on his 42nd major, in his late 20s and liked to explicate the intricate symbolism and mystery in Bob Dylan lyrics.  Cigarettes were too banal, dipping was his choice of tobacco use, but it was strictly ironic.  

He also had an off-campus apartment and a valid driver's license. So of course, he was not only the key man for the purchase of many refreshments, his home was the location for many a shin-dig of sorts.

"Mi Casa es Su Casa!"

On one particular evening, the regular group gathered.  

We visited, sipping on our refreshments of choice.  The room was smoky from the cigarettes in every hand. The coffee table in the middle of the living room was slowly getting crowded with cups and cans.  

At some point, I put down my cup and eventually came back to retrieve it.

As I reached for it, think the slow motion that happens right before a car wreck.  

One friend from across the table said, "Nooooooooooooooooooo." Others just got wide-eyed.

Instead of my own refreshment cup, I grabbed the party host's dip cup.  

Instead of a cool cool sip of cheap beer, I had a giant gulp of tobacco'y warmth. 

It took me years to fully recover. 

At least I thought I had until about three days ago.  

In these parts, boxed wine is big.  And I don't mean the typical Riunite or Peach flavored Rose'.  I mean the pretty good stuff.  

Booze is so expensive* here that if you are the type that likes to have the occasional glass of wine with dinner,** often you get a box of really good wine. Then it doesn't go bad---as a bottle of wine might if it's not all consumed over the course of a day or two---because the spout reseals.

(In this house, we call it The Happy Box.)

But I don't know much about wine.  

I know what's good and what's bad.  I also know the particular kinds of grapes I tend to like, but that's about it. Also, my Norwegian vocabulary isn't so extensive that I can read the descriptions.

I tend to choose the Happy Boxes based on the box design.  

I like to assume if they cared enough about the design, then they cared about the wine.** Ridiculous perhaps, but it's always worked before.

Until last week.  

I choose Foot of Africa.  

I know, I know.  Why would I choose to drink anything that called itself foot?  Probably because I am constantly sleep-deprived and the box is red.  I like red.  Also, I like feet, particularly mine when they are rubbed by someone who is about to paint my toenails.

Whatever.  

When I took the first sip of it, I reverted back to my freshman year college self about five seconds after that fateful giant gulp.  

Foot of Africa does not taste like foot and it does not taste like Africa (as I may imagine either of them.)

About five seconds after it hits the tongue, it tastes like nothing less than strong strong tobacco, unlike anything I've experienced since that night.

We won't be finishing this particular Happy Box***.  

It's back to the cows of Argentina.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*A basic every day bottle of okay wine is about 120NOK (about $19 by today's exchange rate). And it's much more for a bottle nice enough for a hostess gift or to pour at a dinner party. The boxes usually start at about 299NOK.  Foot of Africa was 350NOK, about $55 US.

**Yes, I realize that a person could also make the opposite argument, "They spent all the money on the box and none on the product." Though, that is not what I have found in my experience.

***Would you like it?  I am serious.  If you live in Stavanger and are a fan of wine with intense notes of tobacco, send me a note and you can have it. This will tell you about it, though you'll have to translate from Swedish.

 

Goin' Back to Cali

It's been a busy few weeks.  

First I got on a plane last minute to head to Gainesvegas for my Nana.  After ten days there, I headed home.  

Three days after coming back to Stavanger, Husband signed a new contract keeping us here until the end of next year.  

So that evening we bought tickets to California  and took off the next morning to see his family for Thanksgiving.

We've been back for three days, but I still don't have my head around the correct time zone...

In the meantime, here's a few glimpses into the big fun in California.   

We flew into San Francisco and spent one night passed out in our hotel, wiped from the time difference.  The second night we met up with dear Andrea for some seafood.  Husband ordered crab.  The waiter came over and tied this giant bib around Husband's neck.  It was so dramatic and flourish-y that we couldn't quite tell if the waiter was overly serious or totally kidding.  Either way, it was awesome. 

Andrea did not need a bib.

The next day we were off to Roseville (right outside of Sacramento) for Thanksgiving with the Durel fam.  (Yes, those are collard greens on my plate.  The only thing that could have made me happier would have been fried turkey.) 

This was the grown-up's table.  Husband, me, Jim, Belva, Grandma Margie, Tim. Contrary to the fact that Jim is wearing the apron, Tim was the super-chef. 

Grandma Margie has spent the past few months cross-stitching our names and wedding date, then had it framed.  We love it.  Not only is it really lovely, but the effort and thoughtfulness behind it make it even better.

Then a few nights later, we all went for pizza and bowling. (Matt, Audrey, Tim and Joe) Audrey is grinning because her pizza and beer was like rocket fuel and she knew that in a very short time, she'd be smokin' all of us.

Sweet Joe is consoling Husband as he laments the fact that bowling shoes, while updated from the traditional brown and red lace-ups, still fail to meet his sartorial standards.

Belva promises she has no idea how to fix the electronic scoreboard, but for them, she would if she could. 

This was my actual birthday, so I brought cupcakes and blew out a candle, too.  

Yep, just because I am knocked up, doesn't mean I can't knock them down.  (Which I really didn't all that often.  The ball was the lightest one in the whole alley and I wasn't throwing very hard. But still I wasn't dead last, so that's something.)

Husband has mad skills.  Check those moves, too. 

The whole crew.

Then Matthew practiced the art of paparazzi.

But then I caught him catching everyone else.

The next day, we headed back to San Francisco for a night with Andrea and Deena.  Andrea, always the best hostess, guide and font of limitless information gave us a tour of the city as it spread out before us. 

Deena had to work a bit late and met us at Foreign Cinema, where they hosted us at one of the best birthday dinners, ever.  (Plus I was sitting between two of my favorite smarties.  Husband was to my left and this guy was to my right.)  Seriously, if you ever get a chance, be friends with Deena and Andrea (or even just one, if that is all you can manage.) They know good food and wine.  And they are better fun that a barrel of monkeys. 

I forget whether Deena is trying to count how many glasses of wine she's had or is vainly trying to demonstrate "L" for left. Husband is smiling because he knows the answer to both questions. 

All of us, courtesy of Andrea.

Happy birthday to me!  Notice the yummy swanky cake.  It was chocolate, chocolate and oh so good.  (It was soooooooo good, I actually carried the last three pieces alllllllll the way home with me.) And of course, Andrea hunts down the best place in the city for the cake.  

It's always an event with these two. How lucky are we?

Then the next morning, I got cleaned up in the world's tallest shower and we headed home. 

Ski Porn (or Why I am Home Alone)

Our friend Rich loves to ski.

He has about 9,000 different pairs of skiis. There is one for deep powder. And another another for light powder. Another if there may be fat snow. Another for moguls. Another for valleys and yet another pair for short runs. (I exaggerate, but not by much...)

In the basement of their house in Atlanta, there was a room set up with the skiis and a table kitted out so he could clamp the skiis down and wax them and then scrape the wax off of them again.

On the wall next to the door, there was a bottle opener because skiing ---or even just getting ready to skiing--- and beers go together, natch.

Along one side of the room was a couch.

Most importantly, situated with a perfect view from the ski prep table, the couch and the doorway was a television where often some form of ski porn was kept on a constant loop.

And by ski porn, I do not mean snow bunnies getting busy to a boom chicka wah wah soundtrack, though there usually is some kicky horn based or electronica music soundtracking the footage.

I am referring to the kind of film that fills the dreams and wide screen televisions of diehard skiers everywhere. For the rest of us that do not fall into that category, this particular genre of porn usually involves a high-level skier, a helicopter and a mountain inaccessible by foot or ski-lift. (Or a snow-covered set of stairs)



(Also, to be clear, I am not kidding in the least...google "ski porn". At posting time, I clicked through the first five pages. And in those there was not one that contained anything other than fairly wholesome sports videos. I can't vouch past page six, but would bet it's pretty safe as well, though, kids, don't try it at home...)

As frequent visitors to the household, Husband and I would occasionally watch some of the ski porn with Rich and Kathleen. (Or more accurately, Kathleen and I would drink wine, gossip and sneak a cigarette or two after the kids went to bed while the guys watched the ski porn and discussed skiing or snowboarding, which is Husband's winter sport of choice. )

On one viewing, Husband recognized the location as Roldal, which is where we go skiing in Norway. It's the highest peak in the country and along with some great slopes, there is alot of "off-piste" (off peeeeste, which means off trail) area.

And that is where Husband is on his way right now to snowboard with friends and to take in the Roldal Freeride Challenge, which is much like a slightly smaller X-Games.

Again, nothing too too risque, just some guys doing flips and jumping off the sides of mountains. I think there is a rating system involved as well, but cannot be exactly certain.

We've been there before. Depending on how you catch the ferry, it's about 3 hours to the north of Stavanger into the fjord.

These are some of the scenes on the way....







(It's really amazing that over the course of a four-ish hour journey it's possible to see so many different landscapes. Norway is a gorgeous country and if you haven't been here, you really should pop over.)

This is where his journey will end...



I was supposed to be going along, but Lillie got rejected from the kennel because we've misplaced her shot papers. We suspect that she needs a few updates in any case.


She didn't seem really regretful when I broke the news to her this morning.

And Husband cares more about snowboarding than I care about skiing, so he loaded up and headed on out the door. It's the last weekend of the year, so there's no more boarding for a while, at least until the glacier opens next month.


Also sharp-eyed readers may note the sleeping bag in Husband's left hand. The hyette (cabin) is going to be stuffed with eight other people (That is the math after you subtract me.)

Let Them Eat Steak

Dear vegetarian readers,

You may want to leave for a minute or two ...

Please come back soon.

Kthanxbai.

Love,
Elizabeth

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


I miss steak.

Other than key lime pie, there is no food I love more than a hunk of red meat.

I am an unabashed carnivore and suspect that it just is in my genes. (Seriously, I come from a long line of meat-eaters.)

I love it rare and just about five minutes past breathing.

I love the smell of it cooking and the smell of it on my plate.

I love to marinate it and to eat it plain.

I love it hot right off the grill or cold from the refrigerator the day after.

I love filets and rib-eyes and over the course of a few days, I'd bet I could do some serious damage to a porterhouse.

Mmmmmmmm.

And not only does steak taste good. (mmmmm steak....), somehow, it's always wrapped up with goodness, too.

(To wit: When Husband and I were first dating, I'd come over and while the meat was marinating, I'd chop up vegetable to put on the grill and we'd visit. And for as long as I've known him, we've eaten some form of steak at least twice a week...mmmm steak...)

Up until now...

Here it's mega expensive and the cuts are just not that good. But lately, we've been having such sunny weather. We have a slightly rusty grill on our tiny little back deck. And, Husband invited one of his colleagues home for dinner.

So last night, when the three happy coincidences merged, so we decided it was time for steak.

When looked at piece by piece, the evening was a slight disaster.

I misplaced the lettuce and bought blocks of lighter fluid instead of actual fluid lighter fluid. The timing of the fire in the grill was a little off, so the steaks were a little overcooked and the grilled veggies were a little undercooked. The roasted potatoes could have used less salt and about ten more minutes. And when it was time to make the brownies, I forgot the egg.

When looked at as a whole, the evening was a complete success.

The food was okay, but the company was good. We had loads of beer and a nice bottle of wine with dinner. Kenneth, our guest, lives in a hotel for the work week and was longing for a home visit. Conversation was lively and for most of the time, borderline hilarious. And the men and the dogs walked around the corner and got me an egg.

It couldn't have been better. And did I mention the steak? mmmmmmm...steak

And afterwards, Husband and Kenneth got out Husband's latest toy...*

Kenneth appreciating Husband's sick beats



Husband trying to share, but really longing to get back in the driver's seat.



And then there's me...




*For those of you who don't know, Husband used to be a DJ with these guys He's old school in that he usually works with turntables and vinyl. He pretty much skipped the next level ---abandoning the vinyl for CDs--- and somewhat reluctantly, he moved to the next generation, which is all digital. Right before we left the states, he bought himself a schmancy machine that produces the same effects as working on a turntable as well as working with CDs, but uses MP3 technology... (No, I don't totally understand, but it's cool. Kenneth is a DJ, too and wanted to check it out...)

Shin-dig in Storhaug

Last night Husband and I went to an inflyttningsfest (literally a "moving party" Flytte=move or relocate, Fest=party), which is a housewarming party.


(We're in their kitchen.)

But before we went into the kitchen, we stopped at the door to take off our coats and our shoes.



Please see name of blog above. That is why. Socks are important here. Shoes go off practically the moment you enter a house. So good looking socks and clean smelling toes are of paramount importance. Especially if you are popular, I suppose. Which I also suppose would only be the case if the socks and toes were in order...


Our friends, Erin and Kyrre, are new to their home in a neighborhood just up the hill from our house. Because most of the boxes were unpacked, it was time to have everyone over. Erin is American, by way of Brussels, and Kyrre is Norwegian, so the inflyttningsfest guest list was an international mix.


(That's Erin on the right. If you'd been around, I'll bet she would have invited you, too. She's friendly like that.)

If you can bear the 8 seconds of this, listen closely and not only will you hear English by way of me thinking I was taking a photo, you'll also hear Spanish and Norwegian as well.



This is the photo I was trying to take...




Packed into the living room, kitchen and most of the house were, among, others:
1) Kyrre's Norwegian colleague from Stavanger University who bikes to work everyday, even in the rain. When she had to take her children to nursery school, they rode in a cart attached to her bike. Thankfully it was mainly downhill. Now they walk. The children, I mean. She still bikes. Every day. Even in the rain.

2) A consultant from Maryland who works at NATO (whose offices are housed in the middle of a giant hill. He doesn't get to work in the middle of the hill. He has to work in a rickety temporary offices outside. Which I guess is okay because he's a temporary worker.)

3) Hilarious Norwegian friends of friends who attempted to explain some fact of Norwegian culture to me.



It was completely mixed and was not quite English and not quite Norwegian.



I am not sure I understood it. At least not completely.

4) A group of Spanish and Mexican couples who moved to Stavanger because their husbands work for the oil companies. One husband looked a lot like Alfred Molina, the actor. (But not as the scary Dr. Ock, more as the kindly Dr. Ock. But still tall and friendly.) The Spanish woman made a tortilla, which is kind of cake made of onion, egg and potato. Another one is slightly sassy. (Scroll up to group photo. Sassy is in blue shirt. She's the one you want to stand next to at parties and hope you're lucky enough to hear one of her slightly wicked comments. And that's a compliment.)

And that's just who I talked to in the first hour or so.

Loads of fun.

I can't wait for ours.



Small aside....
Right now, Husband is in the living room, pretending to work, but really watching a Discovery Channel show on poots. Apparently poots fueled by brussel sprouts will ruin a dinner party because they will (now please read the following out loud in a posh English accent) "thwack you in the face, if you know what I mean."

A Masters in Expat Housewifery*

Though we just got here eleven days ago and we've only been hitched for a little more than three weeks, I'd been researching the Expat life for months.

I'd been reading blogs written by Stavanger wives who had moved here for their husbands' careers...(look to the right for Victoria's Guide to Norway, for example.) I'd researched the Norwegian lifestyle. Husband had been prepping me and we came for the house-hunting visit. So I thought I was pretty versed up on the Expat aspect.

Then there was the marriage aspect of it all. I have been a bridesmaid 14 times, so that should count for something. I've been talking to my friends about it for years and finally found someone I wanted to marry.

And,most importantly, even with all the unknowns, I'd been gathering advice from all sorts of sources. And, the best advice of all, came from the infinitely wise DaAnne...

A few weeks before the hitching, she and I went shopping for the skinny jeans immortalized in the title of this blog. We were sitting in some restaurant outside of some giant mall outside of Atlanta, having a few glasses of wine, engaging in a little pre-shopping strategizing.

And, feeling a little sentimental, I said, "Mom, do you have any marriage advice for me?" It must have surprised her because she started laughing, even spewing a bit. Finally, after several long moments and attempts at humorous deflection, she said, "Why don't you two just try to always be nice to each other. Then see how it goes."

So, armed with my jeans and a resolve to always be nice, I thought I was about as ready as possible.

And, for variety of reasons, both personal and professional, I intended to take good notes about the experiences along the way.

And of course, I knew there would be challenges ahead, but that no matter what, Husband and I will handle it happily and well.

And we have and we will. It's been a great amount of fun, with more to come...

But just based on the sociological discoveries thus far, I suspect this experience is really the structure for a Masters Program...

Some planned core courses:

Get Your Mind Right, Girl 601
The Psychological Economics of Work In and Out of the House

Conversion 702
It's Not Just Fahrenheit to Celsius

Cultural Ideology 601
Just Because Your Bra Size is Now 75D Does Not Mean You are Fat

Anti-Math 508
You Just Might as Well Quite Converting Kroner to Dollars

I'm still working on the rest of the curriculum.


*hous wif-uh-ree, preferably pronounced with a Middle English accent.