The Swedish Table

“Although I never physically fit in . . . being the sole tall, awkward African American among a sea of beautiful blonde, blue—eyed Swedes, it was my home. When I tasted the first potato of the summer, just dug out of the ground, or when I picked the first ripe cloudberry and popped it in my mouth, or when I took in the scent of seawater and we grilled salmon just off the boat, it didn’t matter what I looked like—I was Swedish. I was home, and I did belong.”

Drawing on her fondest childhood m...