In Iceland, Christmas is observed the evening of December 24. The day before that, there is a pre-Christmas tradition that some daring folks observe: Eating rotten fish.
One day a year, folks get together and eat putrid skate, accompanied by bread, potatoes and little else.
Throughout the country, wives, husbands and even entire apartment buildings forbid the practice. Few restaurants cook it.
As the 82-year-old company begins the liquidation process, analysts say that some of its most iconic brand names will likely live on, getting scooped up at auction and attached to products from other companies.
Everything tasted better when my grandma was around.
Growing up, we didn't get to see my dad's side of the family all that often, but I noticed at some point that all the food we ate in Grandma Kinsman's presence was exponentially more delicious. Later on, I came to realize that it wasn't due to some special grandmotherly mojo, but rather that she used real butter rather than margarine, and my family shopped accordingly when she was in town.
No matter the ingredients, I was predisposed to enjoy her cooking. I loved her and she loved me, her weird, short-haired, misfit granddaughter, even if the rest of the world wasn't inclined to. Seldom did I feel that love so strongly as when her yearly shipment of holiday cookies arrived.