S.H.A.

I am not Swedish, and I am really ok with that. I am. I promise. But you can't grow up in a Covenant church, attend North Park and have some fabulous friends and family of Scandinavian descent without brushing up against some of the finer features of Swedish culture. Take korv, for instance. We wouldn't have braved those drippy meat juices (I think there are still some remnants on Andrew's shoe) had it not been for our dear friends' gentle coaxing into the world of homemade potato sausage. We're still enjoying it (and probably will through the Spring). So, in the spirit of Swedish Heritage Appreciation, I thought I would convey to you the pleasure I take in a much loved item of Swedish persuasion that I inherited from none other than TK's mom.


I'm not sure what the whole back story is on these, and I can't remember the specific reason why she relinquished them to me, but I'll take them, real wooden soles and all. Whenever I wear them, I'm reminded of the great land of Sweden (and the 70s) and the many traditions it has birthed. And I will admit, I am the better for it.