There’s a backlog of headaches I’m waiting to sift through. Most people would describe them as Christmas cards. But most people don’t have overzealous Scandinavian relatives who insist on overnighting them packages of lutefisk and handpicked lingonberries they’ve tried to jam.

When I first left to the west coast, I thought I’d be free of Aunt Ida’s culinary concoctions.
I was wrong. Horribly, miserably wrong. At first I was able to pawn the mystery dishes off on my newfound friends, but as they wised up, they learned to steer clear of my outstretched, gift laden arms.