Magnus Nilsson is a refreshing surprise for the summer talkers. The chef’s small neddyk in food history, pastures and dialects, are immensely interesting and never tedious.
Sure, it may not be quite stringent, our host very true also points out. But no one has ever asked of a collection of short stories, or a book of essays, that there should be a common thread – and that is how the small scenes taken from his childhood home in Jämtland feel, as well as the short inhoppet as student chef in France and the future restaurant owner introductory words from a Jämtlandic stump, surrounded by gnats.
Sounds poems are adorned (or perhaps spicy seasoned) with interpretation. It smells of cabbage rolls on Nilsson’s grandparents’ home, a relative’s orange work boots can be heard echoing against the stairs and is then replaced by a stationary duttande of raggsocksbeklädda PETTITOES, bright red autumn leaves cut in the vision and aching teenage pimples draws us into recognition by the public.
latter, funnily enough the same function as Marcel Proustsk almond macaroon. Magnus Nilsson will find in the introduction of blood stains on an old high school essay about future career choices, remember his tonårsalteregos pill spirit of facial Finn when he nervously went through the teacher’s notes.
Teenage Alter Ego would in future operate the world’s best restaurant, tells the sweat smeared pencil text he holds in his hands. Apparently he could just as well pursue a career as a writer – despite the teacher’s disgraceful comment that the essay was unreadable.