In September, 2001, I was in Sweden, teaching a class at the University of Göteborg and living with my good friends, Maren and Lasse. One day we made plans with a mutual friend, Sven, that he would cook dinner at our house on the evening of September 11. I was home alone in the house that afternoon, reading student papers, when Lasse burst through the door, saying, "Terrible things are happening in your country." He turned on the television. Together we watched, horrified, the images of the terrible things that were happening in my country.
In the following days I experienced what many Americans in foreign countries were receiving at that time: an outpouring of sympathy for America's grief. Wherever I was—at the university, in the grocery store, among friends—people who knew me or who recognized my nationality through my language communicated the deepest compassion in their words and through their eyes. Swedish flags flew at half staff. At the concert of the Göteborg Symphony Orchestra on September 12, the conductor opened the program by telling us the orchestra had debated how to respond to this tragedy. "We considered canceling the concert," he said, "but then we thought that music is an appropriate and important response at such times. It seemed a more fitting tribute to those who lost their lives if we added a piece in their honor." He turned to the podium, raised his baton, and led the orchestra in playing "Elegy," by the Swedish composer Hugo Alfven. Exaltingly sad and beautiful, it sent tears down my cheeks.
On the night of September 11, I, too, was struggling with appropriate responses. Should I cancel the dinner with Sven? And do what? Spend the evening alone, wrapped in grief and fear?
No, it seemed a more appropriate response to be surrounded by people I loved. Sven came over, his hug as sympathetic as Maren's and Lasse's. While he made dinner, Maren set the table and Lasse poured the wine. Helpless in the face of the tragedy so far from me in miles, yet so close to my heart, I was also useless to help Sven in the kitchen. All I could do was watch him prepare, with a touch of elegance and a sureness of timing, a fish stew that raises that fisherman's wife's dish to the fine-dining category. The dinner was exquisite, rich with flavorful seafood, prepared in very short time, eaten around a table with dear friends on a day when love of all expressions—music, words, touch, eyes, and food—proved the right antidote to grief and fear.
Next week: "A Box of Stories: (3) From My Home on Grantchester Meadows"
Next week: "A Box of Stories: (3) From My Home on Grantchester Meadows"
SVEN'S FISH STEW
This is a beautiful stew, quickly and easily prepared. If you aren't careful with the timing, though, it could turn into a mush. The basic rule for cooking fish is ten minutes per inch of thickness, but remember that the salmon will continue cooking as you add the other ingredients. The amounts of the ingredients are given exactly as Sven gave them to me—i.e., use as much in the way of everything as you like. Don't stint on the dill, though.
Ingredients
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| At my house, years later |
Olive oil (only the best, double virgin, though the term puzzles me)
Garlic
Onions
Mushrooms
1 small carton whipping cream
1 small carton creme fraiche (or sour cream)
Freshwater whitefish (or cod)
Fresh dill (lots)
Tomatoes
Salt and white pepper
Fish stock or milk
Preparation
Mince or crush the garlic and slice the onions and mushrooms. Chop the dill and the tomatoes. Remove skin from fish.
Briefly sauté the salmon fillet in olive oil with the crushed garlic in a large, heavy pot, like a Dutch oven. Add the onions and mushrooms and continue cooking. Add the cream and the creme fraiche (or the sour cream). Be careful not to boil the stock. Add the whitefish (or cod). Add lots of chopped fresh dill and the tomatoes. Thin with fish stock or milk, if necessary. Do not overcook.
Assemblage
Before taking the pot off the stove, decorate the dish with a circle of sliced tomatoes and, inside that circle, a circle of lemon slices from half the lemon (or the other way around). Squeeze the other half of the lemon over the entire pot of stew. Serve immediately with rice made yellow with saffron. And when your guests ask in amazement what this marvelous dish is called, tell them it's Sven's Fish Stew, from Sweden.
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