Recipes. A half dozen of them. I can't believe it. My father actually sat down to write a few recipes for me! Hm .. goulash .. potato dumplings .. meatballs. Simple. Hearty. Good. It feels a bit strange to look at these hand-written pages. His handwriting. His words. Swedish and German. Sometimes mixing languages within a single sentence.
These are the notes from a professional chef. There are hardly any measurements. Only suggestions to add a little of this or that. I remember watching him cook a few times almost 30 years ago. He never followed any recipes — everything was in his head. Sitting here in my apartment, thousands of miles away from him, I'm trying to picture him writing these recipes, perhaps sitting at his kitchen table in his apartment in Stockholm. I wonder what he was thinking? He must have thought that this was a rather strange request.
