~ Delta Poetry Review ~

Katherine Baskin

The Nordic-American Fridge

                          a meditation on food, expatriation, and love

The refrigerator is smaller here than home,

but it’s big to Swedes, who call bigger ones

“American” as though we invented excess

(perhaps we did).

The assembly of jars and bottles inside

first looks the same, but on inspection

reveals the distance from Kansas to Oz.

The jam—lingonberry, not strawberry—sits

on top of the sill—herring, not window—

and the Nocco—not Diet Coke—is neatly stacked

beside the vaniljsås for the berries,

which are as large as they are back home:

plump and juicy and colorful. But not as sweet—

nothing is here. Except my Finnish fridge-mate.

When I arrived, I found a jar of peanut butter

wedged in the door shelf. “I thought you didn’t like this.”

“I do. Sometimes,” he fibs.

The expiration date tells the true story,

like the unbroken seal: He bought it for my palate,

American as apple pie, treacly

as high-fructose corn syrup, fake and indulgent—

all the things my home does best.

True to his home across the Baltic,

he prefers savory to sweet,

dark rye over Bunny Bread,

and no bunnies for Easter—only mämmi

like thick black roofing tar.

His is perhaps a taste

best described as acquired—

rich, complex, nourishing.

In a cheese box I kept for leftovers

is my chili con carne,

deep red, spicy, and familiar.

He says we should make more. “Is chili

a stew?” he asks. “Yes, of a sort.”

His first bowl, his first slice of cornbread.

I smile while he enjoys

and I let my accent come out swinging,

but only for a moment. Y’all.

In our freezer below, the ice cream is salmiakki:

salt that is at odds with sweet, not over-honeyed

like the lie of salted caramel.

Salted licorice is harsh sweetness, a contradiction

like this place—bitter cold hiding a warm welcome

behind closed doors in a Miljonprogrammet block.

We buy senap made in his home country—

not mine—and we put it on Aitonakki at lunchtime—

not Ballparks, or even Hebrew Nationals.

But the casing still snaps when I bite them,

sizzling from heat—the heat of Illinois summers

that I carry with me across oceans.

It’s enough of home.

Katherine Baskin lived her entire life along the Mississippi river bed, writing about her experiences there before immigrating to Sweden in 2021. Now her work is about experiencing Nordic life as an outsider; a river rat set sail on the Baltic. She holds a B.A. in English from Southern Illinois University and an M.A. in Professional Writing from Southeast Missouri State University. Her work has been featured in Big Muddy: A Journal of the Mississippi River Valley. www.katherinebaskin.com