Matters Most Swedish

  We say hello to the Swedish Chef, famous for in his regular gastronomic appearances on the Muppet Show, which somehow did not always go to plan. He was not helped in his culinary application by his clumsy and unfeasibly large hands, allowing him to drop pans and failing to grasp utensils. No doubt Gordon Ramsay would have had a field day with him.  A tirade of excitable Scottish angst and disbelief would have swept over the poor Muppet puppet, as he clearly did not speak coherent English, and most of Gordy’s abuse would have travelled over his chef’s hat, only to hit the wall and fall into a pot of meatballs cooking on the stove.

However when he did speak the over emphasised Swedish gobbledegook interspaced with the odd word of English were just sufficient for the viewer to understand and get the gist of the action, such was the genius of the Muppets.

More Swedish genius and accented English from those other SuperSwedes…

No not IKEA,

No, not those Swedes either...

 

Oh for goodness sake, NO

(Remind me to sack the picture editor)

A musical clue perhaps.......

I dont wanna talk, about things we've gone through

(not strictly true as opening up in a blog is pretty akin to talking and pretty public)

Though its hurting me

(Well not any more it doesn't, but it was very sore for ages)

Now its history

(Yes true, it has been 5 months since my transplant)

Ive played all my cards

(I don't actually play cards)

And that's what you've done too

(since when, may I ask?)

Nothing more to say, No more ace to play

(Do you mean tennis ace Bjorn Borg?)

The Winner takes it all, The loser standing small

(McInroe wasn't that small)

Beside the victory, that's a destiny

(That should be the Vasa surely, not HMS Victory?)

Oh the Swedishness of it all………

What is interesting (well to me dear readers, to me), and relating to not just meatballs, but dumplings, lingonberries, fishballs, potatoes, indeed a veritable smorgasbord of almost ALL food, is an inability to eat properly. I don’t mean that I keep missing my mouth, or dropping the food like a cherubic toddler, but rather that I seem unable to masticate properly. This is because I have developed a rather aggressive strand of heartburn. This means that eating, mostly warm or hot food, but sometimes even salad, can be racked with pain. Not unlike feasting on burning Gravadlax mixed with glass, sipping on a glass of Absolut Magma, or eating herring pickled in sulphuric acid. Mealtimes now resemble a struggle between the inherently good and evil demons lurking in my esophagus, as if Alfred Nobel himself was inventing dynamite in my throat. No sign of any peace yet...

This daily torment continues to endure since the date of the operation, where in hospital they prescribed daily doses of antacid and omaprezole to aid with the burning throat pain. It introduced itself to me like one of the modern day horsemen of the apocalypse; Pestilence, Checkout Queues, Politicians and Annoying Throat Complaints.

The source of the pain is twofold: During the operation various breathing tubes were inserted down my throat, causing some abrasion and much soreness which have yet to heal completely it would seem. The other cause of the discomfort is of course my drugs. The anti biotic regime which were prescribed to ward off infections and pneumonia, which can turn nasty with a reduced immune system.

So the previous antibiotic was performing rather well, like the Swedish entry in the Eurovision Song contest of 1974, until it had a bad reaction with my transplanted organ, and ended up more like the Norwegian entry with nul points. Ergo the medical wizards replaced it with a different drug, Ranitidine, which is less traumatic for the organ, but not quite as effective at combating heartburn. 
In Swedish musical terms, supergroup Abba has been replaced by the less successful and bargain basement Ace of Base.

So each day is a trial and a torment as I attempt to eat the bare minimum without too much discomfort, hoping my malign throat doesn't cause too much reflux. The whole process can be quiet tiresome, as each mouthful is nervously eaten and the repeated pain is nervously and anxiously awaited. My whole throat at the moment seems to be taken hostage by the expectation and esophageal paralysis that is sure to follow. Perhaps I will develop Stockholm Syndrome towards my epiglotal captor.

Indeed it is clear that eating has become a rather tiresome chore, and like an exhausted Swedish Chef, tired and spent from his efforts slaving over a hot meal, I too grow tired around mealtimes, for when it comes to energy levels......

The Dinner takes it all......................