He dried my tears with stale bread
Erik turned (honorary) American last Thursday.
The Americanization of Erik has been happening for a while. When we first met, his British accent was nearly flawless. But, after being with this New Jerseyan for five years, he now speaks a mutt English: a mix of British, American, and even, occasionally, a lil' bit of Swedish (like when he referred to Hurricane Katrina as an "orkano"). The longer we're together, the more surprising the Swedish slips become and the further the Briticisms recede. Just the other day Erik announced that he was officially making the switch from vitamin to vItamin.
That change was pretty symbolic, but it has nothing on last Thursday--the day that Erik saved Thanksgiving.
First, he stayed home sick from work and, despite his cold, accompanied me on a trek through the city to find pecans. When I was finally forced to pay almost twenty dollars for them, he didn't even act like I was crazy.
Later, when I really wanted to go crazy, he kept me sane.
About an hour before I was going to start cooking, I found out that I didn't get a job that I was really close to getting. Already fragile from the loss of Klemens, I crumbled, and all thoughts of pecans and stuffing disappeared. I curled up on the couch and declared Thanksgiving over. Erik got me a blanket, he made me a cup of tea, he fetched my cabbage patch kid for comfort (yes, I took her to Sweden; you got something to say about it?) and then, he convinced me to let him cook dinner. I said it would be too depressing to celebrate; he countered with how depressing it would be if we didn't. He knows me well, that boy.
So he went to work. He peeled and boiled the potatoes; he turned a stale loaf of bread into stuffing; and he followed the recipe I had chosen for roasted brussels sprouts with apples and pears. Touched by his commitment, cheered by an affirmative email from the people who didn't hire me, and warmed by a mug of glögg, I joined in on the cooking, cautiously. I mashed the potatoes, marinated and baked the tofu, and threw my expensive pecan goop into a pie crust (the first and last time I use a frozen pie shell, by the way).
When we sat down to dinner, I was shaken but saved. We moaned over the food (my god! The brussles sprouts!), toasted repeatedly, and laughed. And, feeling the lowest I've felt in a long time, I was more thankful than ever for this Swedish honorary American who let me cry, and then gave me back my holiday with a bowl of bread, celery, and sage.
The Americanization of Erik has been happening for a while. When we first met, his British accent was nearly flawless. But, after being with this New Jerseyan for five years, he now speaks a mutt English: a mix of British, American, and even, occasionally, a lil' bit of Swedish (like when he referred to Hurricane Katrina as an "orkano"). The longer we're together, the more surprising the Swedish slips become and the further the Briticisms recede. Just the other day Erik announced that he was officially making the switch from vitamin to vItamin.
That change was pretty symbolic, but it has nothing on last Thursday--the day that Erik saved Thanksgiving.
First, he stayed home sick from work and, despite his cold, accompanied me on a trek through the city to find pecans. When I was finally forced to pay almost twenty dollars for them, he didn't even act like I was crazy.
Later, when I really wanted to go crazy, he kept me sane.
About an hour before I was going to start cooking, I found out that I didn't get a job that I was really close to getting. Already fragile from the loss of Klemens, I crumbled, and all thoughts of pecans and stuffing disappeared. I curled up on the couch and declared Thanksgiving over. Erik got me a blanket, he made me a cup of tea, he fetched my cabbage patch kid for comfort (yes, I took her to Sweden; you got something to say about it?) and then, he convinced me to let him cook dinner. I said it would be too depressing to celebrate; he countered with how depressing it would be if we didn't. He knows me well, that boy.
So he went to work. He peeled and boiled the potatoes; he turned a stale loaf of bread into stuffing; and he followed the recipe I had chosen for roasted brussels sprouts with apples and pears. Touched by his commitment, cheered by an affirmative email from the people who didn't hire me, and warmed by a mug of glögg, I joined in on the cooking, cautiously. I mashed the potatoes, marinated and baked the tofu, and threw my expensive pecan goop into a pie crust (the first and last time I use a frozen pie shell, by the way).
When we sat down to dinner, I was shaken but saved. We moaned over the food (my god! The brussles sprouts!), toasted repeatedly, and laughed. And, feeling the lowest I've felt in a long time, I was more thankful than ever for this Swedish honorary American who let me cry, and then gave me back my holiday with a bowl of bread, celery, and sage.
posted by Amylou at 10:07 AM
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