Dried Sheep—It’s What’s For Dinner

Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.

Where we are: We’re hanging out in the Faroe Islands. I am enjoying the delightfully cool weather, hiking and ogling the scenery and watching the Tour de France on television. It’s my idea of the perfect way to spend July. Lee is a bit chilly.

Dried Sheep—It’s What’s For Dinner

Lee and I spent our first two days in the Faroe Islands wandering around mumbling to each other about how weird it was that we could be in France, get on a plane, and two and a half hours later wind up here, on a little island in the North Atlantic. This peripatetic life we live is full of whiplash moments, but this one was particularly surprising.

A big part of our shock was the food. Obviously, coming from France, we had gotten very accustomed to having easy, constant access to some of the best food in the world. That’s why I first fell in love with France: there’s a deep appreciation for quality food. At any market, in any little town, you’ll see carefully grown produce, picked at the right moment, beautifully arranged. People wait in line to buy from their favorite vendors; they talk about what they’re buying, how to prepare it, what to serve with it. Even ready-made food from the local ‘deli’ is mouth-watering—far more interesting than mass-produced potato salad and cold cuts. We were spoiled by excellent pastries and freshly made chocolates in even the smallest towns and villages. It was all too easy to slip into complacency and start taking the-best-of-the-best for granted.

Then we got to the Faroe Islands.

On our second day here, our Airbnb host knocked on our door to apologize if we smelled something strong. Her son was coming for a visit, and she was cooking a traditional meal to welcome him home—dried sheep. We never smelled it, so that was fine, but it got me thinking about how dried sheep comes to be the traditional meal of celebration.

There are three grocery stores in Klaksvik, the little town we’re staying in. They’re pretty good-sized, but the fresh produce is truly appalling. Like, I don’t even know how to describe it to you. Large sacks of potatoes or onions, leeks and carrots, some cabbages, and a pile of green bananas—those were my choices when I went yesterday afternoon.

I am in no way implying that this is what we might call a ‘poor’ country (whatever that means). It’s not. The Faroes are affiliated with (but not part of) Denmark, which is a wealthy Northern European country. The infrastructure here is amazing—we’re talking undersea tunnels with roundabouts, artistic lighting, and a musical soundtrack you can play on the radio. People live in solidly built houses and drive better-than-average cars, the public transportation system includes helicopters, and our little town (population 5000) has a surprising amount of public art.

So of course there’s plenty of food here—it’s just mostly non-perishable, like canned and frozen stuff.

The Faroe Islands don’t have a lot of agriculture. I walked past a potato field the other day that had a big rock in the middle—perhaps this ground is just not conducive to farming. Not much seems to be flat, and if there’s a growing season, it’s short and chilly.

I did a little googling, and it seems the staple foods have historically been whale blubber, puffin meat, and … dried sheep. When I say ‘have historically been,’ I mean it seems that’s actually what people eat now, if our Airbnb host is any indication.

I’m used to having more choices. That’s the beauty of coming from a state like North Carolina, which has a rich agricultural tradition, or a country like the US, which is big enough and wealthy enough to grow pretty much anything.

Lee and I have been to a lot of little island countries over the years, and they rarely have diverse fresh food options. When your environment is not conducive to growing lots of things, you make do and learn to love the food that’s available. You also become entirely dependent on shipping. Once, back in the early 90s, we went to a grocery store on the Hawaiian island of Molokai. There was no milk (or much of anything else), because the boat hadn’t come that week. That was the first time I’d ever considered such a possibility—that there are places in the world where basic food staples have to be brought on a boat that might or might not arrive.

In a place like France, it’s easy to forget what a marvel it is to have access to things like out-of-season tomatoes, or imported avocados. Or really, anything that isn’t, y’know, dried sheep.

Take care,

Lisa

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