gordonzola

Last week my co-workers got a call from a Swedish freelance journalist living in Berkeley. She was trying to confirm that we carried Vasterbotten cheese. She hadn’t seen it since she left home and was amazed that someone in the Bay Area had heard of it. Evidently, Vasterbotten is made in a town of like 8 people, all of whom work at the Vasterbotten factory. A 2000 word article and pictures ill appear next week. I’ll link it if there’s a link.

We started carrying Vasterbotten because one of our favorite customers kept asking us for it. Living up to every cliché, he is a Volvo mechanic with a heavy Swedish accent. He works a block away from our store so he hasn’t weaned himself from those Euro shopping patterns and we see him every day. Unlike I would assume however, he doesn’t drive at all. He’s actually quite a bike activist and politico. I also see him at demos cheering on the Black Bloc while drinking beer.

I brought in a wheel just for the hell of it. Immediately the ex-pat Swede community began rushing in to buy it. I even bought a bunch of wheels one weekend and we sampled it out. The were a lot more mixed reactions than usual with a sample cheese but I assumed there would be because it really is odd. Some loved it, describing it as like a cross between sharp cheddar and Havarti with an extra punch of something. Others said the taste of burnt plastic turned them off.

anarqueso made a sign for it that mentioned our mechanic friend and described it as "indescribable" asking for people to suggest their own adjectives. My distributor began calling me the "Vasterbotten King" since they were only bringing it over to the West Coast for our store.

Thursday the reporter came into the store, interviewed me, the mechanic, and a co-worker who spoke fluent Swedish. That co-worker had called her mother earlier in the day to ask if she had ever heard of the cheese and her mother imediately demanded she bring some the next time she visits. The reporter also brought a photographer who took pictures of Americans eating Vasterbotten and of the display we made extra pretty for the event. A surprising number of other customers and workers also spoke some Swedish.

Everyone was gathered around the cheese laughing loudly, and speaking Oingie-Boingie like the chef on the Muppet Show. The mechanic started rousting other customers, demanding they try the cheese and saying, "It’s good, no?" The cheese counter became a Swedish party spot for over an hour!

magpiesf can verify all of this because he was there.

Friday I went to a memorial for my old friend Ron. He met his wife V in Sweden and visited often. Eight or nine Swedes came for the funeral and they sang a Swedish hymn that had been sung at his widow’s grandfather’s funeral. Ron had told his wife how much he liked that song at the time.

They stood up in front of a crowd filled with iron workers and stiffly funeral-dressed old-Californians. They stood close to each other for support and sang the hmm while crying. It reminded me of movies of the old west where the new ethnic group wins the respect of the other settlers because even though they have their strange ways, suffering and respect for traditions of mourning are universal. One singer, I was told his name but am blanking on many of the day’s details, let out a uncontrollable yelp of suffering as they finished and he made his way back to his seat.. It was an unmistakable sound of pure pain; part wounded animal, part loss, part awareness of how fucked up it is for a 36 year old to die so young and stupidly.

In a ceremony that was mostly about a Ron I didn’t know, that sound alone bashed me over the head with the reality he wouldn’t be back. That sound by itself made me sob.

I told V that I would bring some cheese and bread to her house later in the evening for a small gathering. I of course brought way too much and when I got there, I saw that most of the uneaten buffet from the ceremony had been brought as well. No one was really eating. I put most of what I brought in the fridge so her and her relatives could eat it later. When I greeted her, her eyes were pained and unfocused. "I brought some Swedish cheese," I said for lack of anything better. She likes good food and she looked dubious and a little disappointed. Obviously I wasn’t really expecting it to make her feel better, I was just trying to be thoughtful and struggling for words. "…Vasterbotten?" I continued.

I wouldn’t say her face lit up. There was way too much grief to be lifted by anything that night. But she did get a little animated. "Vasterbotten is like our Parmigiano Reggiano," she said. "You have to tell XXXX you brought it," pointing out a tear-soaked friend with bleached blond hair.

I went over to where she was sitting and introduced myself as an old friend of Ron’s. "V wanted me to tell you I brought Vasterbotten," I said. Like it was a party or something. I immediately felt stupid. She just looked at me not knowing exactly what to say.

There’s a confusing aspect to memorials and grief. They’re part reunion of the living and part pure suffering. During the last few days there were times I was just happy to hang out with people who I hadn’t seen in awhile. But then I’d remember why we were together and that sadness can come back with even fuller weight when I realize I had an disloyal moment of laughter and non-pain.