licorice and cardamom

I've never been picky. I was the model child for cleaning your plate and good table behavior (except when we sat at booths at Red Lobster). And even the things I used to spit out as a kid (whole pieces of ginger, bitter melon, peppercorns, yellow mustard), I eventually learned to relish.

But black licorice. I'm still coming around. 

I don't hate it. Star anise is essential in some Chinese braised dishes, and I love the exotic bite of fennel when you least expect it (like in Jade's Irish soda bread). And the Ouzo from Old Sugar Distillery, mmmm. And root beer floats, duh.

So I entered Sweden with an open mind, knowing they love their licorice. Did not find the licorice ice cream though.

Verdict - chocolate covered salt licorice ain't bad. Salt licorice in general ain't bad. At Lakitsroten, you can fulfill all your licorice needs including spice blends and sauces.
By the by, TSA stopped me for the chocolate licorice balls. And I was about to lose my cool, waiting for them to tell me I can't take my fancy candy into Chicago with me. It's a gift! Don't punish me for trying to be nice! I wanted to scream.
"That's chocolate covered licorice from Sweden." Not all unfamiliar things are dangerous.
"But what are the balls?"
"The... licorice."

I missed Audrey the entire time I was there because I was drowning alone in cardamom and dill and elderflower.. and licorice. In a good, but lonely, way.

I fully embrace the part of being feminine that probably means I adore streets lined with overpriced but well-curated boutiques and bustling food establishments and at least one antique-y smelling bookstore. I can't help but walk into a store with a lovely window display. And if a sketchy white van pulled up in front of me with a sign that said "CUTE AND FUNNY GREETING CARDS HERE", I would climb in without hesitation to read every single one, debate buying all the ones that remind me of someone, and take a picture of it to send instead. And then my face would be on the news and maybe someone would worry.
Haga Nygata in Gothenburg is one such street where I almost walked passed Cafe Husaren. I say almost because I didn't walk pass it. How could you if you saw what I saw pressed right up against the window?

Giant disks of cinnamon rolls larger than my face in a pile. This is the kind of pile I'd like to jump in.
Like seriously, what the fuck. I couldn't immediately processing what I was seeing. And then that I could have one all to myself for $5! If this is what heaven is all the time, then I believe and I want to go to there. I practiced the most self control for the rest of my 2.5 days in Gothenburg, so that I could start and end every day with a couple bites of this fluffy cardamom and cinnamon-y with-course-sugar-on-top beauty.

Nordic cuisine, I'm a little late to the party, but I am a fan.