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.

The Birthday That Wasn't

— Photos by ML

The day wasn't supposed to turn out this way. Not this day! It was the 6th birthday of my younger daughter, and it was supposed to be perfect. She had been looking forward to this day for so long, or, as she would put it, "foreeeeeever!" We all had. She couldn't wait to be another year older.

Like every "little" girl, my daughter wants to be a "big" girl, and every birthday gets her one step closer. Naturally, there are also many other reasons why she absolutely loves birthdays (what kid doesn't?). She gets presents and a big cake with lots of frosting (would be nothing but frosting if she had her way). But most importantly, it's her day! She dresses up in a party dress and gets to decide pretty much everything.

Looking Forward to Days Like This

— Photo by ML

My initial thought was to write about the decade that was. After all, so much had happened, and so much had changed. Good things. Bad things. Strange things. Exciting things. Mundane things. In short: life happened. This was the decade when I won it all, and then lost it all.

OK. Stop! Yes, I lost all assets and my finances will remain a total mess for years to come. But during the last half of the last year of the decade I also got my life back. And what was otherwise a very difficult decade, actually ended on a tremendous up-note. Therefore, instead of looking back, I will look forward!

I'm looking forward to lazy summer days with my girls. Sure, they'll remain in Greensboro for the foreseeable future, and I won't be able to see them as often, or even whenever, I want. But I'll keep going there on a regular basis, and I'll find additional ways (beyond phone, email, IM, etc.) to stay in touch with them several times per week.

At the Greensboro Children's Museum

— Photo by ML

There are about 450 miles between my girls and myself. They live in Greensboro, NC, and I live smack in the middle of Philadelphia. Or, looking at it another way: it takes about 7 hours to get there by car, or a little over 1 hour to fly there. In other words, it's not around the corner, but it's also not on a different planet.

How this all came about is a rather long and painful story. Now, several months after the battle officially ended, the dust is starting to settle slowly, and all parties involved are again trying to get used to the realities of everyday life.

Not too long ago, we all used to live together in a house in a small town in Connecticut. It's strange, but that life seems so distant now, that even I sometimes wonder if I dreamt the whole thing. Regardless, I am determined to stay close to my girls, and I make it a point to speak with them on the phone a few times per week. I also visit them as often as finances and work schedule allow, which currently means that I get to see them every 6 weeks — a very big change from seeing them everyday!

Father and Son

— Photo by Justin Knol

I remember the first time I met my father. We met at some small third-rate restaurant in a suburb south of Stockholm where he worked as a cook. It felt strange to finally meet him, especially after all the effort that had gone into finding him. But there he was, right across the table. Up until then I had only seen one or two photographs of him, both taken sometime in the early 1960s, and I remember that I thought he looked old.

We were now trying to catch up with each other, both trying to play our designated roles: he the "father", and I the "son." It was very awkward. Fortunately there were a few other guests in the restaurant, so, from time to time, he had to get up and take care of them. We managed to mangle through a bit of smalltalk, and after a short while he went into the kitchen to cook for me — I remember that it was a something called "plankstek." We were both trying to reconnect. We both wanted to. But how do you reconnect with someone who you don't know and who you haven't seen since you were a little kid?