I didn't know Mads, my Norwegian companion, had a mom. I thought he was asexually spored. But there she was, in our apartment. She wasn't very mom-like: she hated kids with a passion, only watched Baseball Tonight (she was a huge Pittsburgh Pirates fan, go figure), and she made excessive off-track bets on horse races.
The last night she was in town, she offered to cook for us, as a repayment for her stay in our place. Mads insisted she didn't, but I thought he was just being nice, so I said I'd be delighted to have her cook. Mads wasn't just being nice.
I thought things were weird when she brought in tons of apples. Why would anyone do that? Mads rolled his eyes, but I thought it was just some Norwegian traditional recipe. I was wrong again.
She put all of our dishes in hollowed out apples: the fried calamari, the pan seared salmon, the braised lamb chops in Barolo wine sauce. I was shocked. I'd never seen anything so ludicrous in my life. Sir Ian McKellen called to tell me he was coming over and did I want him to bring anything. I told him supper.
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