Toasting the summer

Yesterday was Labor Day here in Iceland, another day of café sitting with the added excitement of a parade. Unlike the US Labor Day, this one was really about labor, so the parade was a procession of Icelandic union flags and the usual trail of people following behind. After a stormy mid-day, the sun broke out so I took a walk along the beach, and then J and I set up the barbecue on the porch and grilled lamb steaks. After supper, the fire was still glowing, and like good America-raised kids, we thought of marshmallows. J headed over to Nóatún 10 minutes before it closed and found a bag in the candy section. It was sadly squashed from an ocean voyage from Pennsylvania, its packaging a blaze of American tricolor patriotism.

We peeled them apart carefully, skewering them on metal chopsticks, since the fetch-a-stick-from-the-woods option of my childhood is so very unavailable in our treeless area. Stirring the coals with a fork, we each hunkered down on an end of the grill and toasted patiently. This is one activity that has definitely gotten better since childhood, when I remember impatience ruining many a marshmallow as they went up in flames from overzealous heat application. This time it was toast after toast of perfect golden crispy caramelized outside, the insides gooey and liquid. We ate them gleefully in the blazing sunset, huddled over our tiny barbecue as the seagulls sailed past the balcony.

Ship Sighting: Eldborg is finally back at sea, and Sóley the sand-dredger is back in the drydock. She was there almost three months ago too- did they forget to screw down a bolt properly? We also had the same mysterious drifting boat-of-the-four-yellow-cranes yesterday afternoon. Two weeks ago it was there as well, and spent the same long time hovering below Esja on a Monday. Must find out what this is about...