Half of my household is Icelandic, and I suspect generations of falling down glacial crevices and inhaling volcanic ash has done funny things to these people. (Bjork?)
Let's take Christmas traditions, for example. If you think a jolly fat man in a red suit creeping through your house on Christmas eve is a bit weird, spare a thought for the Icelandic children who have thirteen santas to contend with.
And what dastardly santas they are. Check out these dudes (with English translations; sourced from jolamjolk.is):
|Spoon Licker (Dec 15) and |
Pot Scraper (Dec 16)
|Sausage-Swiper (Dec 20)|
|Window-Peeper (Dec 21)|
|Doorway-Sniffer (Dec 22)|
|Candle-Stealer (Dec 24)|
Every night for the thirteen nights leading up to Christmas, a child (i.e., my daughter) leaves a shoe on her windowsill (i.e., a stocking hung next to the Christmas tree), and agonizes over whether she's been good enough to earn a small gift each morning, or naughty enough to earn a... potato.
This year, since I can't keep these critters out of my house, I'm joining in the Icelandic Christmas spirit for the thirteen days before Christmas. If I have been good, that is, if my day has been productive and I have been busily rewriting or writing, the scary santa of the day will reward me, probably with something bad for my teeth. If I have been bad (i.e., lazy), I'll be checking out potato recipes.
So far, my daughter has two cool gifts, and I have two potatoes.
The santa for Dec 14 is Stubby, an abnormally short dude who steals pans to eat the crusty bits off them.
I don't want a potato from Stubby. I'm sure I can get an hour or two of editing in. I just know I can.