Swedish Coffee Pot and Man

I'm not Swedish. As far as I know - besides my husband - I'm not related to anyone who has an ounce of Scandinavian blood in them. I never even gave Sweden a second thought until I attended North Park University, a private liberal arts college in Chicago that was founded by Swedes. Our school's colors were blue and gold, our mascot was a viking, and dala horses lined the shelves of wannabe Swedes in many a dorm room housed in buildings with Swedish names (Anderson, Olson, Sohlberg...you get the picture).

Don't get me wrong, there are lots of great things about Sweden that I've encountered so far: beautiful land and scenery, fine crystal, wonderful textiles, strong history and culture, yummy pancakes, not to mention its inhabitants aren't hard to look at. I just never jumped aboard the longship. I guess I always somewhat prided myself on the fact that my ethnic background was an Irish, German, and Czech conglomeration and never really concerned myself with the pride of my viking counterparts.

TK, while not obnoxiously so, loves most things Swedish. Being about 95% Swedish himself, there are a few new Scandinavian elements to my life. Lingonberries hold a spot on our refrigerator shelves. We have a special pan and spatula for making Swedish pancakes. Christmases with the Johnsons include korv, Swedish meatballs, pickled herring, and before we know it, Madeline will be a little Sankta Lucia running around serving us gingerbread biscuits. I'm coming to terms with the fact that my future children will rightfully consider themselves to be of Swedish heritage, a thought which had been furthest from my mind while growing up.

And so, there comes a time when one must throw down her arms and accept the reality in which she finds herself. A few weeks ago, while cleaning out a closet full of old kitchen items at our church, I found this Berggren Trayner coffee pot and knew (since it matches a coffee mug he already has and loves) this would be a new-found treasure to TK. Instead of hiding it away so that a limited amount of Swedish paraphernalia would enter our humble home, I caved and showed it to him. He, for course, melted.

While I'm not about to entertain the idea of having a collection of these dishes or any other collection of Swedish goods (mark my words), this coffee pot will do just fine and I am happy to welcome it into our doors. I'm not quite sure what it says, but I suppose finding out could be my first task in my acceptance of my now semi-Swedish self. I say bring on the glögg, full force.