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Posted on 01/09/2003 9:13:26 PM PST by Maedhros
Christmas in Iceland: Rotted fish, 13 trolls and no sign of Santa
By JIM WALSH
Courier-Post Staff
Oh, those wonderful Christmas traditions! The rotten fish and mushy potatoes. The deadly attacks by a fiendish beast. And late-night visits from a guy named Meat-hook, skulking in your kid's bedroom.
OK, maybe not in your house.
Not in mine, either, I hope.
But definitely in Iceland.
Now, let me digress for readers thinking, "Hey, this is South Jersey's newspaper. Why are you writing about the suburban North Pole?"
Well, today's column started as an exploration of eggnog, which is local enough. How do you nog an egg, I wondered - and why don't you nog anything else?
But that has to wait.
An Internet search led me to nog expert and food writer Nanna Rognvaldardottir - oh, say it however you want - in Iceland.
And she quickly steered me in a new direction.
For instance, Nanna told me in an e-mail, Icelanders actually celebrate the holiday on Christmas Eve. That means today - St. Thorlak's Day - is a frenzy of last-minute shopping, followed by one weird meal.
"The fish of the day has become putrefied skate," notes the author of Icelandic Food and Cookery.
And ho, ho! The fish really stinks as it ferments for several weeks. Then the ammonia-like fumes worsen when you cook it - often on a gas burner in the garage.
So how does it taste? Oh, Nanna writes assuringly, "Not nearly as bad as the smell."
And although reindeer run wild in Iceland, there's no sign of Santa.
Instead, the island's children await visits from 13 trolls known as the Yule Lads. Each night through Dec. 23, one of these guys sneaks into children's homes, sticking small gifts into shoes left on bedroom window sills.
Sounds cute enough, if you catch Shorty or Gilly Oaf in the act.
But what about Door-Slammer, Sausage-Pilfer or their pal, Meat-hook?
And would you rather wake up to Sniffer or Peeper?
Plus, if you're a brat, they leave a rotten spud in your shoe, according to an account on the Web site for Iceland's U.S. Embassy.
Even that's better than a brush with Iceland's fiercest fashion critic, the Christmas Cat. He's supposed to eat anyone who doesn't get new clothing for the holiday.
But to me, the strangest thing is that Iceland's stores - all of them - close at noon on Christmas Eve.
Heck, traditionally, that's when I start shopping.
Instead, the island's children await visits from 13 trolls known as the Yule Lads.
They sound like some English football club's crew of "hard men", skinhead soccer hooligans, complete with braces (suspenders) and Doc Martens.
"Oi! Me mates want to wish you a Merry Christmas! No, thanks; we've already eaten..."
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