Shall we take Fika ?

As you turn the beautifully moulded brass doorhandle and enter the small red house, the warmth and scent of freshly brewed coffee wrap you in their welcoming arms in equal measure.

To the left stands a wooden staircase, at the foot of it a purring cat sleeps soundly amongst mittens, snow trousers and boots that have fallen where they have been hastily taken off. Straight ahead a warm glow emits from behind a rustic, painted door and as you reach out to push the door open, the soft, friendly voice of your neighbour soothingly calls you in, welcoming you to their home.

Today, as happens every day, fika is being served at the long wooden table, surrounded by old mismatched wooden chairs, beautifully embroidered cloths adorn the surface of the table and sitting atop of them is a beautiful red coffee pot, steam spiraling upwards from its short, proud spout.

A stirring in the pit of your stomach wakens your appetite with a low, rumbling growl and you laugh with this kind woman who has taken the time to invite you over. Her children are playing on the floor, taking it in turns to stack old, match boxes and see who can create the tallest tower. It is at that moment that her husband enters the kitchen, pats you on the shoulder and greets you with a gentle smile and tired eyes. He has been out since early morning preparing wood for the fires and the old stove that still stands in the corner of the kitchen. A small door at the front of the stove is opened every now and again and pieces of wood are offered up to it, much like the cake that is offered to you from the spread of delights now placed on the table.

Cinnamon buns, sticky, rich kladdkaka, marzipan tarts and little vanilla biscuits with a jewel of raspberry jam await your picking. A bowl of silky, whipped cream sits with a silver spoon plunged into the middle of it and a little jug of vanilla sauce nestles next to it like two little ducks.

You take a seat and allow your eyes to tumble over the cakes on their mix of china plates, none quite matching the next one, but all with pretty floral patterns.

A small coffee cup sits on it's saucer and a stream of strong, black coffee waterfalls in to it, you take a little sugar, and ask, a little embarrassed, if you may have a splash of milk. You don't yet have the constitution for the dark Swedish coffee that your native counterparts do.

As you settle in to your chair, taking bites of deliciousness you share stories with your new friends and laugh at the misunderstandings between two different cultures, the mispronunciations that each of you put into the conversation accidently while trying to muddle your way between English and Swedish, often falling into Swenglish and lots of enthusiastic hand gestures as you try to communicate the word you cannot think of.

The time you spend in this cosy kitchen, not only warms your tummy but also your heart. It gives you the strength and encouragement to grow new roots and find your place in this beautiful new land.

Thanking your hosts for a wonderful time, you wrap your scarf around your neck, pull your woolen hat down over your ears and set off home in the now gently, falling snow.

You feel like you are standing in a Christmas card ... How lucky you are to have found such wonderful neighbours.