Birch Twigs

In the latter part of Lent, and towards Easter, it is customary here to decorate bundles of birch twigs with coloured feathers, or painted eggs and the like, and display this påskris in a suitably prominent position in ones household. This year is the first we have observed this tradition. Ours is in a vase on the kitchen table, and is already an object of great fascination for the cats. I read with interest that, in former times:

Easter twigs were used to administer beatings on Good Friday (långfredagen). It was the duty of the master of the house to beat the children and servants with bunches of the twigs, to ensure that they did not forget Christ’s sufferings on the cross. It was to be done while they were still in bed and was practiced until the mid 18th century in many regions.

The weather was glorious over the weekend: fresh and bright and almost warm. The ice over the sea had all but melted, and the water shone implausibly blue under a relevatory sun. I went out for a stroll around town on Saturday morning, buying a glass jug to replace the one I broke last week, a couple of CDs, one of which ‘( )’ by Sigur Rós, I am listening to now, yet another espresso cup and saucer, and a bottle of good olive oil. A little later my wife and I checked out a new out-of-town strip-mall, picking up a few items from a budget homewares store called Rusta. Later we watched Road to Perdition on DVD. There was more shopping on Sunday: an oval mirror, a new bookcase (the other four having all filled up) and three CD/DVD storage towers with a beech finish, very similar to IKEA’s Benno model. We assembled these, and later dined on barbecued pork chops with baked potatoes and some delicious improvised bruschetta. These excursions and chores aside - I did some laundry too - it was one of those weekends when just to be beside my love was the choicest of delights: a comfort and a pleasure and a charm.