At Ikea, I Found The Meaning Of Christmas—And Myself
Over a plate of meatballs, I began connecting to my ancestral identity and grappling with what it means to be Canadian.
Tessa Vikander
Updated
(Illustration: Katie Carey)
Last year, right before Christmas, I took a trip to Ikea—not to buy furniture, but to eat at the cafeteria. I had meatballs with lingonberry sauce, gravy, steamed vegetables, potatoes and a slice of Daim caramel cake. I’ve spent my adult life disconnected from my Swedish ancestry, foods and celebrations. For a long time, Ikea was my antidote.
The trip was a remedy for a particularly bad bout of Christmas blues. I had been home alone lying on the couch, limbs heavy with sadness, watching daylight fade into darkness. My partner and I had been talking about having kids and what traditions we wanted to pass on; now, the hidden grief of my loss of culture was surfacing. I have so little to share, I thought. After a good cry, I ventured out to Ikea two hours before closing on a Sunday.