Clothes dryer! What a godsend. I did not need to hang the two
dozen handmade diapers to dry over the kitchen stove the way I had
done in Norway. Baby food! What would they think of next?
By Laila Austefjord
Editor’s note: This essay won the Survival of the Funniest Writing Contest sponsored by the Gilroy Library in conjunction with Silicon Valley reads.
Standing in line at customs in Sea-Tac Airport with Little Man, my six-month old baby asleep in a bag by my feet, I was contemplating how to explain that I should not pay duty on my sewing machine. Even with five years of English, I was not sure of pronunciations. Would logic work? Crew, blew, sewing machine, made sense. I’d try that. I put the machine on the counter and said: “This is my suing machine.” Amid good-natured laughter, I was sent duty-free into my new world.
And new it was. 1960 and the U.S. was easily 20 years ahead of Norway in technology. Doors opened before I got to them, clothes dryers, toasters, foods I had never tasted or even heard of, fashions, everything new and exciting.
My husband had immigrated eight months earlier. He had landed a job, found a furnished studio apartment, gotten a telephone – a first for me – a small black and white TV (also a first) on which we watched Amos and Andy every night after dinner.
Clothes dryer! What a godsend. I did not need to hang the two dozen handmade diapers to dry over the kitchen stove the way I had done in Norway. Baby food! What would they think of next? And it was good … One evening we each had a little jar of Gerber’s custard pudding for dessert.
Yes, life was easy in the United States, but I vowed to work on my communications skills when my husband bought me a frying pan for Christmas after I had asked for something black and feminine.
My husband invited three guys from work and their wives over for appetizers. Nothing fancy, he said, just chips and dips, that’s how it was done here.
He drove me to the supermarket, and he and Little Man waited in the car. I found crackers and tiny rye bread as well as an assortment of cheeses and grapes. I searched in vain for liver pate but instead found ground steak and lamb. Back at home, I made little meatballs adding some cardamom to the steak mixture and frying them with onions. To the lamb, I added nutmeg, and after frying, arranged them elegantly on a bed of soft-oiled cabbage with a sprinkle of nutmeg on top of it … Maybe these Americans could soon learn something from me.
As any good Norwegian, I had cans of fish balls. These I halved with a dollop of caviar paste on top and a toothpick in each. The toothpick was my husband’s contribution. He said they should be in everything – that was the American way.
Cubed cheeses, yes, with the dreaded toothpicks and crackers all around. Then a plate laden with small clusters of grapes. Well, I thought I was adapting nicely to my adopted country.
The guests arrived, friendly and out-going.
The fish balls did not go over well. Once the guests discovered that they were not boiled eggs, they left them alone.
“Ohm Swedish meatballs,” they exclaimed.
I straightened them out “Strictly Norwegian here, these are ground steak and that’s ground lamb.”
“You mean ground beef,” said one of the ladies.
“No, it said ground steak on the can,” I said.
This time I got everyone’s attention. “You bought it in a can?”
“Yes, it was called Apple or Alpo … Yes, Alpo.”
“Alpo???? That’s DOG FOOD!!!!”
They were all scrambling to their feet.
I ran out of the kitchen to get the cans out of the garbage to show them that it was steak and lamb. Dog food, whoever heard of such a thing, didn’t dogs just eat table scraps? I examined the can. “Oh good, it said lamb …” I read on: “190 calories per serving …. 10% Iron … 100% daily requirements to ensure your dog’s healthy coat … ” Your dog’s healthy coat? What had I done??!!
The rest of the evening was a blur, but I think one of the guests asked for a doggie bag.
Author Laila E. Austefjord is currently taking a class in creative writing through Gavilan College and has never written anything but plans to create a book for my nine grandchildren about growing up in Norway. When asked for an OK to print her story in the Dispatch, she said “That would be great fun. It would also let me off the hook to bring appetizers anywhere from now on.”
