A few years ago, when I was a visiting PhD-student from Sweden living in Jerusalem, I shared an apartment with a guy with American roots. At the time he worked for a company that imported food from the States, so we’d always have lots of typical American food in the house. He even had a cupboard in the kitchen filled with goodies, and whenever we had other Americans over for meals, he’d open the cupboard to give them a glimpse of heaven in the shape of root beer, pumpkin pie crusts, jell-o and other forms of eatables that would cause our guests to swoon and wax nostalgic about their childhoods in the goldene medine.
I used to witness these scenes with a certain detached cool and (not always sufficiently well-masked) European contempt for the American way of displaying emotions and getting all worked up about something as trivial as food.
Little did I know that less than ten years later, I’d sit here in the wake of a visit from the Old Country, blissfully gorging myself on salty liquorish and tar pastilles.
Entry filed under: Life.