After reading Picperfic (Marianne Cant)'s "Where I'm From" blogpost, I had to do the same. Lots of fun memories, and a few sad ones too.
I am from a happy childhood where we were free to roam, from lingonberry preserve with smoked meat, soured cabbage and medisterkaker (lightly spiced meat patties), from lefse & lompe, from gløgg and aquavit, from split pea soup with ham, and fairy wing-thin pancakes that we knew how to cook by the age of 10.
I am from a land of snow and ice, where the snowdrifts were big enough to dig tunnels, warrens and castles, and you could get lost in them. From the edge of a capital where you could roam the woods, be a part of nature and the wildlife. From picking coltsfoot and wood anemones in the spring, bluebells and hepatica (liverleaf), the red timber farm houses, the majestic white capped mountain tops and the bluey green of the rivers of glacial meltwater. I am from walking barefoot in the lush green grass picking wildflowers in the summer, and picking wild blueberries and raspberries in the fall. (home description... adjective, adjective, sensory detail).
I am from respecting your elders, curtsey to say thank you, a passion for nature, from Vågå and Dovre, from Langdalen and Johansen, from Auntie Astrid who always made us waffles and her delicious soft ginger cake, from coffee and cakes when you go visiting, from grandparents I never knew, from being the youngest of two sisters.
I am from the short temper of my dad, and from mum’s ability to put her foot in it. From Auntie Astrid’s love of cooking, and good, traditional Norwegian farmhouse food. I am from dad’s love of nature, and mum’s creative mind.
From “don’t eat snow” and always say please and thank you. From good manners and try your best.
I'm from Oslo, the capital of Norway, from fantastic public transport, a welfare state to which none can compare, from the best place in the world to live (8 years running). I am also from the deep valley of Gudbrandsdalen, home of Peer Gynt, Hall of the Mountain King, from rich and steep fields that provide for the cows that give us Gjetost. I am from the land of Grieg, the birthplace of the cheese slicer, from the 2nd European country to give women the right to vote. I am from children’s parades on the 17th of May, with bunads and little flags, eating hot dogs, ice cream and waffles until you were so stuffed you could hardly walk.
From hiding behind a rock when dad was in a huff, to make him think we’d walked to the shops. From digging a snowtunnel, falling into it head first and not being able to get back out – finally being rescued an hour or so later by a slightly frantic dad. From sitting in the sandpit sculpting roadschemes rivalling spaghetti junction. From skiing with dad on a winter’s Sunday with hot dogs in one flask, and hot blackcurrant cordial in another.
