The Swede - An Indepth Study (Part VIII): Super Bowl Shopping Adventures

Shortly after the Super Bowl, I think it might be time to continue the series “The Swede: An In-Depth Study”. (Parts I and II are here, Part III is here, Part IV is here, Part V is here, Part VI is here, and Part VII is here)

This post is a bit of a departure from the past, however it does play a bit to the Swede psyche. More than anything this concept simply elaborates on Part I, entitled "Spatial Awareness". Enjoy!

Unfortunately for Sweden, the Super Bowl airs at a ridiculously late 12:30 AM. And since the NFL insists on not playing the game on a Super Saturday, this makes watching the game live a ridiculous chore if you've got a 8-5 job. So, we had to make do to watch it on Super Monday.

With New Orleans in the Super Bowl, I had all sorts of ideas of things I could do to make for a delicious and exciting Super Bowl. There was only one problem, I had to find all my ingredients ... *cue dramatic football music*
It probably comes as no surprise to you that when it comes to a battle of the trenches, Swede’s aren’t known for their offense. Indeed, their success lies in their near impenetrable defense.

So as I entered my local neighborhood ICA grocery store, I saw a rather deceptive defensive front. My opponents were milling about, apparently minding their own business, and seemed completely aloof to my game plan. It was at this point that I made a B-line for the frozen section. Only after over-committing did I realize that it was all an elaborate ruse. They quickly transitioned into a 3 man front, implementing a brilliantly executed 3-Man Wandering Defensive position.

Indeed, my opposition knew that the American knee jerk reaction was to begin firing on all cylinders. Their response was not to stop me, but only to contain me.

The three defenders lazily drifted from one side of the aisle to another, just as I found myself passing one opponent, the person in front of him or her pulled up, apparently to inspect yet another variety of pickled herring. I dart to the side only to find someone hesitating, choosing amongst 10 different varieties of identically tasting crisp bread. It was at this point that I realized that this was not going to be a blow-out. I would need as George W. Bush would have put it excellent “strategerie.”

After a time I found a hole, and burst forth now taking a full on sprint towards the frozen aisle. My goal: Cajun-flavored chicken wings. Upon arriving I paced from freezer to freezer before my eyes finally rest upon an empty hole in one of the freezers. My eyes saw with dismay: “Kykling Vingar”!

Blast! Too late I saw a lone man, 2 hands clutched tightly around the frozen bag of wings, entering the checkout line. The Swede’s were on the board first!

I was going to have to change strategy. This would require some on-my-feet changes. Ahh! A sugar cream pie! A Hoosier delicacy, perfectly appropriate for an Indy themed dish. Off to the baking aisle. All I needed would be sugar, flour, and some vanilla. No problems there.

I get to the aisle, finding sugar (Check!), flour (Check!) … and where’s the vanilla!?!? What is this vanillasocker nonsense? Vanilla sugar? What the hell is that? How much vanilla sugar would one need for the equivalent of a teaspoon of vanilla extract? Do I need to take sugar out of other parts of the recipe to compensate?

It was at this point that I see a young woman, turn the corner down her aisle, wheeling her two-child-seat stroller in front of her. Damn! She’s on her cell phone, and looking the exact opposite way. She’s meandering at a sloths pace, but she’s barreling straight towards me. Any minute now she’d gently run the cart into me, hitting my shins. She’d then simply move the cart around me without even saying excuse me! Not on my watch!!! What to do, what to do!?!

Ahh! Eureka! When my mom visited she brought vanilla extract, right? What did I do with it? Did it make the move? I decide I’m going to have to chance it; I shuffle the sugar and flour into my hand cart and take a step back, narrowly avoiding the completely oblivious shopping mom.

Ok, so I’ve got something sweet, but no wings. Lets see, perhaps some veggies and dip? I hop from behind the multitudes of meandering defenders. Displaying agility that would impress Barry Sanders himself.

Carrots – Check! Broccoli, damn … is all they have this expensive ecological stuff? It’ll have to do – Check! Peppers … WTF? With an outer texture comparable to corduroy, these are all wrinklier than the Emperor from Star Wars. I’ll have to do without. Cucumber – Always in good supply.

It’s time, I’ve successfully planned for half of the ingredients of a dessert, and veggies. Not too shabby, but the healthiness of the latter dish limits my score, and I must be satisfied by still being down at halftime:

The first half was more of a struggle than expected, but now I am back within striking distance, and aside from the early score, the Swede’s have been near silent offensively. However, I find myself with my food unacceptably non-artery clogging. Nothing salty in the least. I don’t even have any ranch for my veggies

I thus find myself approaching things the same as my opponent. Wandering aimlessly, with a bewildered look on my face. I then see the salad dressing and condiment aisle. I pace back and forth; passing several hundred bottles of ketchup, and a wide collection of béarnaise sauce mixes. The dressings are just ahead of me, but someone’s waiting for me.

An elderly woman, situated right in front of the dressings, and her damn hand card she set directly behind her. Effectively cutting of the entire aisle!

A brilliant defensive effort. I am left with several options. To stutter-step, hit the gap and sneak by her and then snag the lone bottle of ranch on the shelf. However she is stepping back and forth, twirling here cane this way and that. It’d be risky. My other alternative is to call upon inspiration from former Tampa Bay FB Mike Alstott. I choose the latter.
She’s unprepared and crumples beneath my might, however in my haste, with my head down, I fail to see a cart, laden with countless kilograms of frozen moose meat and lingonberry jam. I fall in a heap, more concussed than Adam James.
Stars are swirling above my head, and I see the referee’s hands go up, signaling a safety. How could I have been so foolish in my own territory?
I gather myself up, collect my dressing and inspect my vegetables. Thankfully things are intact. However, I am now down 3, and the way things are going I have no interest in taking this to OT. My eyes then rest upon the chip aisle. The tortilla chips are suddenly calling my name. Store-bought chips and dip, hardly a high scoring Super Bowl item … however … my homemade salsa might be enough to push me over the edge, snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. My stomach sinks at the thought of having to brave the produce section again, but I am out of options.

It’s a risk. What if the avocados aren’t ripe? Cilantro also is a big question mark as it is rarely to be found, and even so it’s blander than a Capitol Hill hipster’s musical tastes. It’s a risk I’m just going to have to take.

I sprint, throwing caution to the wind. I juke a pair of young teenagers giggling away in the candy aisle, I stiff arm a young child (where the hell are their parents anyways?), and slide in, gathering 8-10 tomatoes, an onion.
The scallions take a few seconds to find as they always seem placed in a different spot. Today they are thankfully right next to the jalapenos, a time saver. I feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead. I can practically hear the clock ticking. I find that I am in luck; the avocados are oddly in season! I don’t pause to wonder about why you can find ripe avocados in Sweden in February, and run at a full sprint back towards the checkout stand, taking a moment to go out of my way and to stiff arm the same little brat, his parents still nowhere to be seen.

I dive head long into the line, cutting off a elderly couple that seem in a heated discussion amongst themselves over whether the Kalle’s Caviar was a good price or not. The clocks tick to zero as I dive, throwing my items on the conveyer.
There’s no signal from the referees. The play is under review for an agonizingly long time. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, I then see the referee raising his hands, signaling a score! I feel elated as I know my last ditch effort was worth it. My legs shaking from exhaustion, I revel in my last second victory.

The Result:

Confetti falls from the rafters, and Queen begins blaring from the loud speakers. I am asked: “Now that you’ve won the Swedish Super Market Bowl, what are you going to do next?” I naturally answer: “I’m going to Astrid Lindgren Land!”
As the last of the confetti falls to the ground, I find my mind wondering if it’s time to hang up my cleats and retire. That question however, is one for another day.