A Taste of Iceland - Pickling Viking style

I might be pointing out the obvious here, but when Iceland was colonised, there was no infrastructure, no shops and no resources other than what you were able to take of the land or produce yourself. Food-wise, this means that most families would eat only what they grew and harvested, bred, raised and butchered themselves. Not everything is available all year round though and they had to find ways to make things keep that usually spoil within a few days.

But how did the Vikings preserve their food? With no refrigeration to speak of (insert your favourite joke about the "ice" in Iceland here) and salt being largely unaffordable, this leaves drying, smoking and pickling. Smoking also requires additional salt for long-term preservation and while lots of smoked meats are available, such as the yummy Hangikjöt (smoked lamb), these usually require additional refrigeration or will only keep for a few days, unless further measures are taken. 
One of the things they came up with is pickling in sour whey. This allowed them to store highly perishable foodstuffs such as meat for a year or longer, making it an efficient means of preservation.

Nowadays, we associate whey with athletes' diets and protein shakes, it comes in all kinds of flavours and colours and is generally non-threatening. I have tried multiple products over the years and have usually been quite pleased with the refreshing taste. Therefore, when I learned that there was an Icelandic midwinter festival involving lots of foods that were preserved in whey, I was looking forward to tasting them, being certain that I would like them. Before I go further into the sour whey thing, let me quickly introduce you to this festival. 

It's called Þorrablót and takes place from mid January to February, which corresponds to the old Nordic month Þorri. Every community has it's own gathering where people bring traditional foods and a committee is in charge of the entertainment, usually including speeches, sketches and making fun of the events in the community in the past year. There is lots of merrymaking, drinking, fun and dancing, along with the traditional food. 

Back to the food, there is a large variety of things people will enjoy during the festival and the whey preserves are just one kind, but these made a particular impression on me, so we'll focus on them. My lovely friend Judith brought me a plate of food samples from one of her Þorrablóts which included headcheese, hangikjöt, two kinds of sheep's paté (one of them preserved in whey), sour whale fat and jellied sheep's testicles preserved in whey. As I'd already had sheep's head, the headcheese wasn't a big problem for me to eat (apart from the fact that it was really sour and unfortunately not in a good, gherkin kind of way). The hangikjöt I really like and the sheep's paté was also quite nice, at least the one that hadn't been preserved in whey. The jellied sheep's testicles would have been ok-ish, had it not been for the sour whey taste. At that point I had definitely revoked my former opinion that whey preservation was a good idea and that I was going to try it at home. 

Do not try this at home.

This is another one of those traditions that is celebrated for the tradition's sake and as part of the country's history, not because everyone loves extremely sour food with a hint of ...well... semen.
Everything on that plate that had not been preserved in whey was really nice and I had already established that I wasn't too fond of the sour whey, but there was one more thing to go. A sizable piece of sour whale fat, also preserved in whey. Now this was a bit of a challenge, aside from the fact that I tried to avoid ending up with whale on my plate, who wants to bite into pure fat? I did eat it and I can honestly say that it was the most awful thing I have ever tasted. Gooey, chewy glibber with an extremely sour taste. 

Dear people of Iceland, I love your beautiful country, I'm about to make it my home and I enjoy pushing my own culinary boundaries, but this I.Will.Not.Eat.Again. Bring on the fermented stingray, bring on the sour whey stuff, if you must, but no more sour whale fat for me. Ever. 

Going through the change

No, not THAT change, of course. It's all happening, my life in Luxembourg officially ended last Saturday, everything is boxed up and stored away. I have said my tearful goodbyes and I'm now getting all my ducks in a row for my departure to Iceland on Tuesday. Every so often, I remember yet another contract that needs to be cancelled (today it was TV) or yet another thing I need to take care of and somehow shove into my suitcase. Today, it was a criminal record, an international birth certificate and a certificate that I am unmarried. Unfortunately, nobody seem to be in charge of me. I am a German citizen who is moving from one country other than Germany to another country that is not Germany while not married, surely I cannot be the only one or even the first? Birth certificate and criminal record were ok to come by, but this marital status thing proves to be a bit of a pain. Thankfully, that one's not urgent, so I can take care of it once I have arrived.

So here I am, in my hometown, juggling friends and family while not having enough time for either (plus I already miss having my own place) and struggling with the authorities. Originally, I had planned this as vacation time before starting my new job, but I'll file that one away under Wishful Thinking.

I miss my friends in Lux who gave me my favourite Kindle as a farewell gift (YAY!!!!!!!) and I'm looking forward to ending this Limbo period and diving into a new routine of guests, nature and horses. And guests. And nature. And horses.

I'm carefully optimistic about the apartment we have found and on which we seem to be closing the deal. As soon as this is done and I have a kennitala (a kind of ID number) I can get internet, which is the deciding factor on the date Frankenspouse will be able to come over. If I don't manage right away, it'll be another 3 weeks before he can take some time off again to drive all the way from Germany over Denmark to Iceland, so I'll bend over backwards to make sure he can come earlier than that.

Time is tight these days, so I'll keep it short but I hope to be back with more stories soon and I certainly owe you a few more A Taste of Iceland posts.

A Taste of Iceland - Rotten Stingray

Looks innocent, doesn't it?

Here is proof that I am not the only crazy person out there. The first section of this article is the translation of a post my lovely friend Judith wrote a few years ago. I laughed so hard that I asked for permission to share it with you guys here. 

Skata - the christmas skate

Everyone knows the shark.

The infamous "Hákarl", i.e. fermented shark, that is prominently featured in every travel guide on Iceland to be the king of tastebud killers of the traditional Icelandic cuisine. Admittedly, the shark is an acquired taste, much like beer. You won't like the first one, but you'll get used to it over time. I do wonder, however, why no travel guide ever mentions the stingray. Because in comparison with the stingray, the shark qualifies as mild gourmet cuisine. Maybe none of the authors of travel guides have visited Iceland around Christmas? Stingray ("skata" in Icelandic) is an indispensable component of Advent in Iceland and most importantly on the evening of December 23rd. For many Icelanders, if they don't get skata that day, it won't be Christmas the next. 

Tonight, we had skata. The fish was still frozen when we took it out of its plastic wrapper but even then, the typical smell of ammonia bit our noses. Much like the shark, the stingray has to ferment for a few months. Neither shark  nor stingray are able to pee, they dispose of their urine through their skin. During the fermentation process, this urine transforms into ammonia and stays in the fish. Or this how they explained it to me. 

The stingray is cooked in water. Spices would be entirely obsolete, you wouldn't be able to taste them anyway. On the side, you'll get potatoes (surprise) and fat. You get to choose between molten butter (modern, non-traditional) or the more traditional molten, slightly rancid smelling lamb fat that is also used in western Iceland.

So tonight, the sour ammonia smell typical of Christmas slowly filled the house. I had the presence of mind to close the door to my room. Once the skata is cooked, you take it out of the water and everyone helps themselves to a piece. You peel off the dark skin and remove the meat from the cartilaginous fish skeleton. Tougher guys (like Gisli's father) eat the cartilage too because "it has such a nice crunch to it". You then proceed to mash the potatoes and pour the fat over the dish (a lot, because it softens the taste to a certain extent) and - enjoy. 

Once the steaming fish is on your plate and and the steam hits your face the right way, your eyes will start watering. I'm not lying here, even Gisli's dad had to blink a bit. 

The fish, once in your mouth, will kill all remaining taste buds. My tongue gingerly explored the insides of my mouth to make sure the mucous membranes were not detaching from the walls of my mouth. The skata's taste is extremely pungent and fights its way to even the most remote corners of your paranasal sinuses. On the plus side, your respiratory tract is completely unblocked after this experience. Even I as a lover of strong and pungent cheeses such as Appenzeller and Schabziger had some difficulty finishing my meal. 

Of course the smell had found its way into my room after all, so I lit a sea of  perfumed candles. Unfortunately, I had left some laundry on the rack. Oh well, so the bed linen will smell of "Christmas" when Gisli comes home.

[...]

P.S. Some apartment buildings do not allow the preparation of skata on the premises. Not everyone on  the block wants their living room to smell of rotten stingray, after all.

If you read German and would like to take a closer look at Judith's awesome blog, click here.

After reading her account, I felt that I needed to try this, come what may. I wasn't expecting to like it, of course. So on December 23rd, Frankenspouse and I set out to educate our taste buds. We went to the local shop, which also has a little self-service restaurant attached. Approaching it, we caught some whiffs of the smell and cocky as we were, thougt it wasn't that bad. That's until we were inside the building. Oh boy. There was a surprising crowd, 30+ people, feasting on skata. I even ran into the mail man, whose face was glowing with joyful anticipation. Frankenspouse and I helped ourselves to fish, potatoes, and bread. I also went for copious amounts of molten fat, Frankenspouse didn't like the idea, but while I didn't remember the details from Judith's description, I wanted to have it the way the locals ate it. We found two seats in the crowded restaurants, obviously being the only foreigners. Not only were fear and anticipation clearly visible in our faces, but in such a small community, people know who's new and who belongs. A nice lady next to me put her hand on my arm and asked "First time?" with a concerned look. When I confirmed, she nodded, smiled and recommended "Don't inhale". That was clearly insider knowledge and excellent advice I'll be forever grateful for! While smell and taste quickly unblocked all my sinuses (seriously folks, try this next time you have a cold, you'll scare it right out of your system), I quickly found that if you eat lots of potato and fat with a little bit of the rotten fish, you could get this over with and keep a straight face. Being the only foreigners there, people were watching our reactions with varying degrees of Schadenfreude. See, not many people, including the natives, actually like eating that stuff. It's a tradition and cherished as such, but apart from Mr. Postman who freely admitted to loving it, the more rotten, the better, I can't remember anyone saying that they liked the taste. Traditionally and before you could import everything from the rest of the world, resources were scarce in Iceland and having the skate ferment in its own urine was a way to made an inedible fish edible, albeit not quite palatable. 

Surrounded by a curious and amused crowd, I think we did well and refrained from pulling faces. While we did not go for a second round, we agreed that it wasn't as bad as we had anticipated. Bad, but not as bad. That is until the smell kicked in later. After we left the restaurant and for the next three days, the smell was with us. No shower, no changing clothes, no vigorous brushing of teeth helped. We would smell it on each other and on ourselves, not all the time but in unexpected whiffs. So the taste lasts 10 minutes, what's ten minutes in comparison to eternity? It's the smell that gets you, the smell that attaches itself to your olfactory memory and will haunt your dreams forever after.

It was a great experience. Would I eat it again? Yes. I'm far from eager to repeat the experience, but it wasn't as bad as some other stuff I tried. Look out for the A Taste of Iceland post on þorramatur.  

Inspiration or Insanity?

Be careful what you wish for, lest it come true

After making it public that I was leaving my nice sensible life with good healthcare, a big apartment, a steady and pretty cool job and all the other perks of civilisation to move to the Icelandic countryside and work with horses, quite a few people came up to me to congratulate my decision. They found this a brave step, a motivation to think about their own choices and even used the word inspiration. Wow. I have never been called an inspiration before and feel terribly honoured by everyone's support and I'm so grateful that people would take to trouble to let me know how they feel about this. Because at least in my case, inspiration looks different from the inside.

Did I want to go? Yes.

Was I prepared to actually get what I want? Hell, no!

Ladies and gentlemen, ambivalence in its purest for, do observe the crystalline structure.

Inside, I'm not brave. Inside I'm actually hitting myself over the head with a baseball bat at 60-second intervals. I'm scared that this is a bad move in the game of life, that the costs (not talking financial here) will outweigh the benefits, that I should have made this move at 24, not at 34.

What if I can't do the job well enough, what if they don't like me, what if my body can't do physical labour for an extended period of time, what if something happens to my family and I'm too far away to be there in time, what if I actually do freeze some digits off? And so on.

I love the compliments and I'd like to keep the title of inspiration as long as possible, but please know that "brave" is the same as "putting on a brave face" as a kid. A conscious decision to squeeze your cheeks together and breathe through it. Face and cheeks aside, the rest of me is shaking with fear and I think this is normal in the face of major life changes. Humans are creatures of habit after all and if you are not scared at all, then there's a good chance you either

a) have balls of steel or

b) don't have too much to lose, if you fall on your face.

So why am I doing this again, moving to that distant, isolated place with some seriously crappy weather, seeing that it scares the bejesus out of me and doesn't feel like the smart thing to do?

I feel that I have no choice. I feel that I have to go and live this life and if I fall on my face, so be it. This is an experience I have to make, because the price of not going is too high. The price of that little voice in my head for the next 50 years asking me "what if?" and calling me a chicken.

It's feels better to try and fail than not try at all.

So here I am between a rock and a hard place, it's hard to go and impossible to stay. My apartment is mostly packed, I had a wonderful farewell do on Friday and have only two more days left at work. After that I'm off to live my dream, as they say. 

A Taste of Iceland - Draumur and family

I love chocolate. I love licorice. Never in my life would I have thought that these two love each other. During my first trip to Iceland, my friend and I bought a chocolate bar to test the local "cuisine". To my utter delight, I found it filled with licorice. I looooooooooooooooove licorice! It was then and there that I lost my heart to Iceland (the way to the heart is through the stomach, after all). What a wonderful, wonderful country! Intrigued, we went to a shop and bought all kinds of chocolate bars to stock up before we went up north. They were full of wonderful surprises. We had chocolate filled with licorice, licorice filled with chocolate, gooey licorice chocolate caramel, chocolatey gooey caramel licorice, caramelly licorice chocolate goo... I'm starting to hyperventilate, so I'll spare you further details, before I type myself in a frenzy.

Just know that the combination, as strange as it may sound, is simply wonderful. and you don't just get it in chocolate bars and candy, you get it in ice cream (saving the details on this one for another Taste of Iceland post), cake and who know where else....

Some aspects of the Icelandic cuisine are acquired tastes, to put it nicely, but chocolate and licorice is a most wonderful discovery for many people, including some who don't care much for chocolate and positively dislike licorice.

My favourites to date would be Draumur, Þristur (that's a th in the front) and the sublime, unparalleled Lakkrís Dúndur, in reverse order below:

Draumur (Dream, nomen est omen) is humble, chocolate-covered licorice, very straightforward and fantastic in its simplicity.

Þristur is similar to a small Mars bar, only with small, innocent bits of licorice as a welcome, unexpected surprise.

Lakkrís Dúndur has the same two straps of simple licorice as Draumur, surrounded by rise crispies and covered in a thin layer of milk chocolate to create utter magic.

A little less than three weeks to go, before we are reunited, my loves!