Four for Þorrablót

Yuletide brought presents and cheer to every Icelander. However, Yuletide was not the end of Yuletide. In fact, Yuletide did not truly end for another month. Thirteen weeks of winter had passed by the end of January. Icelanders celebrated the short days with a festival named “Þorrablót” (Thorrablot).
The Samuelsson’s gathered at the dinner table, ready for Thorrablot. Dark rye bread, putrefied shark fin, liver sausage, blood pudding, wind-dried fish, and roasted sheep’s head were gathered on the table. The were all part of the mid-winter smorgasbord.
After Obadiah Samuelsson led his family in prayer, all but one person proceeded to fill their plates. Freda stared into her bowl, which was shaped like one of the wooden troughs Vikings used for eating their food.
“Freda?” asked father, “Why aren’t you eating?”
“Everything smells horrible,” she replied.
“But it tastes good.”
“Not all of it,” countered Stefan, “I don’t like the blood sausage.”
“Have some dried haddock,” said mother.
She placed the filet in the center of Freda’s trough and poured a tall glass of Skyr for her daughter. Freda flaked the meat from the bone, careful to avoid the crispy skin.
“See? It’s not all bad,” said father.
Freda did enjoy the dried haddock, helping herself to a second filet. Father cut into the sheep’s head. It was brown, like a piece of liver and flat, like a piece of steak. Still, Freda could easily see the shape of the head, jaws, ears, and eyes.
“Why don’t you try some svid?” offered father. He cut a portion of the jaw from the sheep’s head, placing it in Freda’s bowl. Freda grimaced.
“Just try it,” said father.
Freda cut the meat into the tiniest of slivers before placing it into her mouth. She chewed carefully. It was fresh and tender, like a slice of roast beef. Freda cut a bigger piece and ate it, too. She washed it down with a gulp of Skyr before motioning to her father.
“See?” He happily cut a larger piece of svid. This portion included the lips just outside of the cheek. Slowly, but surely, Freda cleaned her plate again.
“I think it’s time to try some Hákarl,” suggested her father as he stabbed a piece of putrefied shark meat and plopped it into her bowl.
“Yech,” said Freda as the smell of the rotten meat filled her nose.
“It tastes better than it smells,” said her brother.
“I hope so,” replied Freda.
‘Just hold your nose until you get used to it.”
Freda pinched her nose as she grabbed her fork. She picked up the piece, which was much too large to put into her mouth.
“Let me cut it,” said her mother.
Freda picked up a smaller piece, still holding her nose. As she chewed on the rotten shark, it tasted like nothing more than strong fish. She continued chewing as she pinched her nose. Stefan motioned to Freda to let loose of her nose.
“Don’t do it,” warned her mother.
Freda unpinched her nose. The acidic smell of rotten shark filled her mouth and nose. Freda spat out the Hákarl and ran for the restroom.
Everything she ate went from her stomach to the bottom of the toilet bowl. Her mother rushed in behind her, carrying a cold cup of Skyr.
“Here, drink this,” offered Mrs. Samuelsson.
“That was perfectly awful,” said Freda.
“Just keep drinking. I don’t know why your father insisted on making you go through that.”
Mr. Samuelsson, who was standing just behind Mrs. Samuelsson, cleared his throat.
“I just think every Icelander should be proud of their heritage and that includes Viking food.”
“I’m okay,” said Freda. She bravely wiped her chin and returned to the dining room table.
“Freda,” pleaded her mother.
Freda, however, had something to prove to both her father and brother. She stabbed a new piece of Hákarl and dumped it into the center of the trough. Without holding her nose, she cut into the meat and ate it, piece by piece. It was probably not her braveness as much the fact that the smell of rotten fish had already filled her nose, making her numb to any additional odors.
After she was finished, she wiped her mouth and set her napkin in the center of her trough.
“See?” she said to her brother, “I can eat it, too.”
Obadiah Samuelsson folded his arms and leaned far back in his chair. Freda glanced over to him. He gave her a wink and a smile. Freda let out a tiny sigh.
“Let’s get going before they light the bonfire,” said Mrs. Samuelsson.
Freda put on the wool coat that Mr. Steinnar. She tugged on her warmest toboggan, too. It was orange and pink and white with a bright red tassel at the top. Freda carefully pulled it over her ears. The tail of the cap trailed halfway down her back.
“Is everyone ready?” asked Mrs. Samuelsson.
“Aren’t we going to do dishes?” asked Freda.
“We’ll do them later.”
In no time at all, the Samuelsson’s took the Arctic Truck to the pier, where a large crowd of people had already gathered. There were street vendors all along the pier. They lined the thin strand of beach, too.
“I think I’m still hungry,” said Freda.
“What would you like?” asked her mother.
“I’m not sure.”
“Here’s a couple of krona for each of you,” said Mrs. Samuelsson to her children, “Use it to buy something for yourself.
Freda turned toward the crowd, but not before her mother stopped her.
“Stefan, make sure your sister doesn’t disappear into the crowd.”
“I will,” promised Stefan.
“And Freda, you make sure your brother doesn’t wander off with his friends.”
“Oh, Mom…” groaned Stefan.
“We’ll see you at the truck just after the fireworks.”
Mrs. Samuelsson wagged her finger at Stefan. That finger meant that what mother said was what mother meant. Stefan grabbed Freda by the hand and led her to the beach.
“Where are we going?” she shouted through the din of the crowd.
“Just follow me,” said Stefan.
They wandered along the beach, careful to avoid blankets spread on the sand. Another pier sat fifty meters or so from the first pier. Stefan searched the pier from end to end.
“What are we looking for?” asked Freda.
“My friends,” replied Stefan.
They continued back and forth along the pier for quite some while. Finally, Stefan found one of his friends, Barth, working at one of the food stands.
“I never thought I’d find you,” said Stefan.
“I know,” said Barth, “it’s been this crowded all night long.”
“When will you be finished?”
Barth took off his apron. “I can leave anytime,”
“Let’s get back onto the beach,” said Stefan.
“We just came from the beach,” groaned Freda.
“But that’s where they’re going to have the bonfire.”
“Can’t we get something to eat first?”
“Do you like Harðfiskur?” asked Barth.
“I don’t know.”
Barth stacked the filets of dried haddock into a paper basket.
“This should be enough for all of us,” said Barth.
Freda carried the Harðfiskur in one hand while holding onto Stefan’s jacket with the other. Barth quickly cut through the crowd as Stefan followed. Freda gripped Stefan’s jacket tightly, sure not to lose him.
As they neared the beach, there was a clearing. In the middle of the clearing, forklifts were carefully stacking wooden pallets.
“That must be fifty meters high!” exclaimed Freda.
“Look at that guy standing on the top,” stated Barth, “He’s about two meters tall, right?”
Freda nodded.
“The wood pile is about five times his height. That means its no more than ten meters high.”
“That’s still a long way up,” said Freda.
“Someone has to help place the pallets on top of the fire stack.”
“When are they going to light it? I can hardly feel my nose.”
“Don’t worry,” said Stefan, “When they light it, you won’t be complaining about the cold at all,”
Freda jumped up and down, trying to keep warm. All the while, she picked at the dried haddock while wearing her mittens. Suddenly, the man on the top of the firestack held his bullhorn overhead and pressed a button. It squelched. The crowd went silent.
“On behalf of the city of Dalvik, I’d like to welcome you to Thorrablot.”
The crowd clapped and cheered.
“Who is ready for a bonfire?” he asked the crowd. The crowd cheered loudly.
“That’s what I want to hear!” he shouted into the bullhorn.
He stepped onto a pallet that was sitting on the arms of a forklift. The forklift operator carefully backed the forklift over plywood arranged along the beach. He lowered the announcer to the plywood.
“On the count of three, I’ll fire an arrow into the heart of the fire stack,” said the announcer. He sat his bullhorn down and picked up an arrow. The tip was wrapped with towels. The announcer dipped the towels into a bucket of kerosene. The forklift operator came over and lit the tip. The announcer drew back the bow.
“One! Two! Three!” he let loose the bow. The arrow curved through the air, landing on top of the firestack. At first, there was only a little flame. Quickly, though, the fire engulfed the pallets.
“It’s getting warmer!” said Freda excitedly.
“Just wait,” said Barth.
And so she did. Within minutes, the crowd moved away from the giant bonfire. Its heat could be felt as far away as each of the piers. Freda pulled her brother toward the pier where her father and mother were waiting.
“We’ll be fine,” said her brother.
And they were. After the fire grew to full strength, it died down again. As pallets burned, bulldozers and forklifts maneuvered the pile, making sure it did not topple.
Beyond the pier, a stream of bright white light soared into the sky. It exploded into a bright red firework.
“Let’s find our parents now,” said Stefan.
“I want to watch the fireworks,” groaned Freda.
“We can watch them from the pier.”
They said goodbye to Barth and returned to the fishing pier. Quickly, they found their parents sitting on a bench near Mr. Samuelsson’s seaplane. Mr. Samuelsson was eating a cup of putrefied shark.
“Do you want a piece?” he offered Freda. Freda didn’t respond.
“I’ll take some,” said Stefan. He poked his fingers into the Styrofoam cup, pulling out a piece of brown shark meat.
“Freda? Do you want some?”
Freda leaned over and sniffed. She recoiled as the horrible odor hit her nose. Still, she bravely dug a piece of rotten meat out of the cup and tried to eat it.
“Obadiah, can’t you see your little girl is only doing this to impress you.”
“Impress me?” said Mr. Samuelsson.
Mrs. Samuelsson nodded.
“Is that true?”
Freda nodded sheepishly. Mr. Samuelsson held his hand in front of Freda. She dropped the piece of shark meat into his hand. He quickly popped the meat into his mouth and gobbled every bit.
“You don’t have to be a great fisherman or score goals in hockey or even eat Viking food,” said Mr. Samuelsson, “You just have to do what you love with all your heart.”
Freda gave her father a giant bearhug.
“Alright, you don’t have to squeeze all the air out of me.”
After the last of the fireworks had exploded, the people of Dalvik returned to their cars and headed home. The Samuelsson’s got into their truck and headed home, too.
Freda sat in the back of the truck and imagined being an ancient Nordic Viking, sailing from Norway to Iceland and then from Iceland to Greenland. She wondered what a great adventure that would be. Then, she thought of rotten fish and boiled sheep-s head.
She was glad she lived in a world where she could buy her Skyr at the store and her fish sandwiches sometimes came in tiny fast food boxes. Still, other times, she was just happy to eat whatever her mother cooked. She thought that the Vikings would’ve been happy to have her mother as a cook.
Luckily, Freda had her mother all to herself. Well, including her dad and brother, Mrs. Samuelsson happily had four mouths to feed. And for Mrs. Samuelsson, that would always be fine.