What a year this has been. Nothing like the one any of us
had planned, that’s for sure. And the range of intense emotions we have
experienced has taken its toll. I have no doubt that we will be sharing stories
of 2020, and how we survived it, for many years to come.
For me, not being able to see my children for so many months
has been unbelievably difficult. I’m so used to hopping on a train to London or
nipping up North on the motorway, or waiting excitedly at the station to greet
them when they come home. The house has been particularly quiet this year.
Thank goodness for technology! We have had endless video chats and family quiz
nights, and flooded messenger with pics of treasured daily walks, devoid of the
usual hustle and bustle. And judging by my Facebook feed, the rest of the
nation has been doing exactly the same thing. By April, we were saying, ‘Let’s
have Christmas in the summer when lock-down ends’. By the summer, when it did
indeed end, we were so appalled at the mass invasion to our hometown,
Bournemouth, that all thoughts of Christmas quickly disappeared. The children
stayed put, we stayed put, telling ourselves it would all be fine by December. ‘Never
mind, at least we can all get together as usual for Christmas’, we said by way
of reassurance, knowing full well that any plans made this year have no
guarantee of actually coming to fruition.
Nevertheless, the tree went up early this year in mid-November,
on my birthday. And so a new tradition was born. Whether I actually stick to it
in coming years remains to be seen but it brings a sense of hope, of joy. And provides
me with a new backdrop for video chats and photos. There’s something restful,
magical, about sparkling tree lights and a bit of glitter.
When the children were younger and their joy for the season boundless, I used to follow the Swedish tradition of keeping the decorations up until January 13th - Knutdag - as we had done when I was a child but I got a little tired of well-meaning neighbours pointing out my tardiness and reminding me of the bad luck to follow. So I shifted to the English tradition of Twelfth night and then, as the children grew older, opted to clear it all away on New Year’s Day; welcoming January with a tidy house.
All things considered, I got a good deal at Christmas in my younger years. We celebrated Swedish-style on December 24th with presents, biscuits and glögg; not forgetting the impressive array of traditional food, although to be honest, I tried to steer clear of the jellied pigs trotters and brawn (otherwise known as ‘head cheese’; presumably because it’s made from a pigs head) and the dreaded lutfisk. Once smelt, never forgotten. It’s a hard one to describe; it’s not quite rotting fish, it’s not quite ammonia, but somewhere in-between. Not unlike the smell of fox pee on rusty metal (if you’re lucky enough to have a rusty bin that foxes pee on, you’ll know what I mean). Basically, lutfisk is white fish soaked in lye – because, why not? I remember the bucket of soaking fish would be shut away in a cupboard for days – presumably in a bid to retain the smell in a confined space – and would be checked on regularly by my mother, or her mother when she popped round for a visit. It baffled me as a child; the amount of preparation that went into such a disgusting dish. So I stuck with the sill (pickled herring), meatballs, ham and sausages. One thing’s for sure, the Swedes make full use of a pig at Christmas. And fish. And it was all prepared at home; no chance of nipping out to Ikea to grab a bag of balls from the freezer. The baking alone is a mammoth task and my mother would start the biscuit bakes in November, ready for the first Sunday of Advent, although the celebrations really kick off on December 13th – Lucia dagen. It’s a big day in the Swedish calendar.
The origins of the Lucia tradition can be traced back to the martyr St Lucia of Syracuse (283-304), known as the patron saint of the blind and of virgins, whose name means ‘light’, along with the Swedish legend of Lucia being Adam’s first wife. It’s said that she consorted with the devil and her children were invisible infernals. The custom of Swedish Lucia seems to be a blend of both legends. And it has changed somewhat over the years.
“In
the old almanac, Lucia Night was the longest of the year. It was a dangerous
night when supernatural beings were abroad and all animals could speak. By
morning, the livestock needed extra feed. People, too, needed extra nourishment
and were urged to eat seven or nine hearty breakfasts. The last person to rise
that morning was nicknamed ‘Lusse the Louse’ and often given a playful beating
round the legs with birch twigs. In
agrarian Sweden, young people used to dress up as Lucia figures (lussegubbar)
that night and wander from house to house singing songs and scrounging food and
schnapps.” (source Sweden
se culture & tradition)
The white-clad Lucia first made an appearance
in the 1760’s and by the 1900’s was the more popular tradition, banishing the lussegubbar to the
history books. Lucia and her procession, bearing gifts of biscuits and buns, was
a more acceptable form of celebration and remains so to this day.
Being the only girl in our family, from a very early age I would be dressed up in a long white dress, balancing a wreath of candles on my head and a laden tray of baked goods in my hands, and parade for family and neighbours with my brothers close behind, dressed in similar white gowns, white cone hats and carrying candles. A standard sight in Sweden but quite a novelty for my London family. We sang a small selection of traditional songs, tunefully accompanied by my older brother on his recorder, with a record playing softly in the background to boost our infant voices. Warm glögg was offered round by my mother, and after our singing and biscuit offering duties were done, we too were allowed a small cup of glögg each. Just the one. But we were allowed to eat the raisins and almonds from everybody else’s discarded cups; we were secretly convinced we could get tipsy on the wine-soaked raisins. Maybe we did. I always slept well on Lucia night.
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| The original record is still going strong after fifty years |
One of my favourite memories of living in Sweden was
congregating with my class (and some eager parents) at 6 in the morning to
serenade our teacher with coffee and Lussekatter (saffron buns in the
shape of a curled up cat but more resembling the letter S). Of course it
had been pre-arranged with his wife but he had absolutely no idea. A sound
sleeper, despite having a new baby, he was completely stunned to find 20-plus
children in his bedroom when he woke up. We sang our rendition, then sat
cross-legged on his bedroom floor, talking nineteen to the dozen, while his
wife busied herself with distributing cups of juice – and coffee for the
adults. We were still buzzing when the school day started a few hours later.
Our teacher however, was distinctly groggy for the rest of the morning. The
rest of the day involved a whole school Lucia assembly, a procession down the
street to the local supermarket where we sang for the staff, and an evening performance
at one of the boat restaurants in in the heart of Stockholm. For the latter, we
earnt some money for our pending school trip along with as many biscuits as we
could eat.
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| Lussekatter |
In comparison, Christmas Day celebrations back in England seemed
less exciting, particularly on the food front. For a young palette, sausages
and meatballs outshone sprouts and parsnips by a mile. But I loved Christmas at
Grandma’s in London. What she lacked in biscuits and marzipan sweets she more
than made up for with love and cuddles. As ever, her house was full of laughter
and song as a dozen bodies rubbed shoulders in front of the fire, and the
Quality Street tin did the rounds along with Grandpa’s best whiskey. And sherry
for the aunts.
I’m not sure if my grandma - or her mother before her -
celebrated Nollaig na mBan, the Irish tradition of ‘Women’s Christmas’
or ‘Little Christmas’. On January 6th, the last day of Christmas,
the men take over household chores giving the women a chance to get together
and have a celebration of their own. I hope that with a husband, three sons,
and two brothers who lived with her for their entire adult lives, Grandma took
advantage of it and had a well-earned day off.
Happy Lucia Day! God Jul! Merry Christmas to you all!
The tradition of Lucia features in
my latest novel, The Box. I love to use personal experience when I’m
writing stories, along with using family names. The character names of Majbritt
and Annika are a loving nod to my great aunt and her daughter, with whom I spent
many happy holidays, including Christmas.
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Click here to find The Box on Amazon |