#maid in sweden

[oldmanpeace]

[liquid-clorox]

[sissymike80]

Pride festival here in Sweden 🇸🇪 and I’m going too nights party like a maid

[idyllcy]

but I know how these things work out

word count: 3.5k

Warnings: death, mild smut, blood, a servant tries to kill reader

summary: vamp Komaeda

"Is that all?" You bat your lashes at him innocently.

"Mhm. That's all for this week." The vampire smiles a delirious smile. "You taste divine as usual, doll."

You wrap your leg, tightening the gauze to your skin to stop the bleeding. You wonder how you got here. It was amusing. It was hilarious. You were just trying to fetch water at the well, and you fell in love with a pretty little prince. Oh, he looked so pretty. His pale skin glistened under the moon, his smile enticing. His hands rivaled the coolness of the ocean. He was so kind, helping you lift the water back to your village before wishing you goodnight. He was so gorgeous. His white hair glowed under the stars, his voice breathy with passion as he talked to you.

Oh, and when your village chased you out. He was so kind. He helped you to his castle. He feeds you. Oh, he even hired servants to take care of you! You bathe in the cleanest of waters by the day, flowers spread out in every path you take. Komaeda is an angel. He adores you to pieces. He pleases you whenever you ask. He soaks your body in his delicate kisses. His lips are always so cold, yet it was such a welcoming contrast to the warmth he spread through your body.

Oh, his hands were always on you. He adored you to pieces. He bit and sucked and gripped your skin, yet his bites were always so gentle. They flooded warmth through you. He made you feel pleasure beyond what you had before. He never lets you go without coming once or twice. Hell, he could dine on you for days. He held your body like the expensive china in his home. He traced hearts on your skin like you were made of the finest porcelain. He adorned your body with kisses like gems and jewels from exotic places beyond exploration.

But he only does so because he sucks you dry nearly every month.

You stumble onto your divan, draping yourself over it like a sheet. It hurts to walk as usual.

Komaeda adores you to pieces. You acknowledge that. Yet, as you stand there in the center of every maid and servant's eyes in the castle, you don't feel it's love. You're just another dolled-up damsel in distress who's been picked up to feed him until he grows bored of you. Soon, you'll be nothing more than a doll on display in his faux ballroom. You stare at the other girls. Some of them have skin that looks paler than Komaeda's. Others have beautiful gold skin that would make even mother earth jealous. You stare at the next mannequin. It's nice and empty, almost as if it were welcoming you with open arms.

Komaeda appears behind you with a breath of air.

"My doll," He bows lightly. "I thought I told you not to visit this room anymore. You know how sad it makes you."

"I know," you mumble. "But I wonder if you'll forget about me like these girls."

"You know I won't," Komaeda holds your hand, tracing the back of your hand gently. His fingers are cold against yours. "I told you, I love you more than them."

"I bet you say that to everyone," you sigh. His fingers dance against your skin. Komaeda adores you. You acknowledge that. He places his coat on your shoulders, smiling. 

"I don't," Komaeda presses his lips to your neck gently. "Believe me."

"It's hard to," You smile.

Komaeda could love you forever. He loves you so much, that you're shielded every day in his castle, staring outside. He loves you so much that every room is lit up by the dazzling moon and never the scorching sun. Komaeda rests you in the finest silks from China, the prettiest gems from India, the most dazzling of gold from the African countries. Komaeda spoils you rotten. He coats your skin with the softest linen from Rome, the gentlest of fur from Sweden. Oh, Komaeda was enamored with you. Leaving the village was for your own good! Your mother was the one to suggest they burn you at the stake. Oh, when could you see that there was nowhere safer than his arms?

He, however, does not love you.

"It's not that hard," He smiles, leaning onto your shoulder. "You just close your eyes." His hand glides over your eyes. "...and give yourself to me."

You sigh, nudging him off delicately. 

"My doll," His hand lingers on your forearm. "let me die the moment my love dies. let me outlive my own capacity to love. let me die still loving, and so, never die. I could never part from you." He pulls you into his arms. "I adore you. You could keep me enamored for ages..."

You still don't believe him.

Komaeda swallows, you feel his movement against you. Oh, he's so pale. He's dressed exactly like a villager. The dress shirt hangs loosely from his chest, his collarbones out. He's so pretty. His hair was always so soft to touch. He never complained when you pulled and tugged at it when he drove you to the edge of the universe. Your blissed-out face was so pretty to him. Oh, the way you chanted his name like at mass. You were so pretty when under him. He could worship you for hours on his knees. Oh, and your blood. You taste so good when you come undone on him. The taste of metal mixing with your sweet release could keep him under you for centuries.

"I shall retire for the night," You bow gently. "My lord."

The vampire smiles, pressing a kiss to your eyes. "Rest well, my dove."

Komaeda loves the faces you make when he pleases you. No matter how much you deny his affections for you, he can always tell you're touched. Even as you're crying for him to stop, you don't mean it. You love the way his fingers feel in you. Komaeda knows you're always whining for more on top of him. Faster. Harder. One more. Oh, he could taint you for hours. And when you're leaking his pearly white cum down your thighs onto the bed. He just wants to keep you with him for eternity.

You can't deny that he worships you.

The servants stare at you with envy each time you open the door to your room in nothing more than a pretty satin robe, purple and bite marks all over your body, and his remains trickling down the inside of your thigh. You don't walk with shame. You did at first. It was scary when he had first railed you. The servants whispered at gossiped about how you would be out in no time. Just like the other girls. They talked about how you would be sucked dry like everyone else and then stuffed into a doll's dress and put on display in his ballroom. 

Once turned to twice.

Twice turned to four times.

And eventually, everyone lost count.

You walk about the mansion with no problem after he feeds now. You open the door to call any passing servant for food and bandages. Eventually, they install a bell for you to ring when you finish. Komaeda never overfeeds on you. He keeps himself from you when he goes through a mania episode. He only feeds when he's sure he can take it. It's fallen into a rhythm of life. He feeds on you every week, sometimes two or three times, but he always checks to see if you can take another of his feeding. He wants to keep you with him. He loves you.

Komaeda loves you.

You know that. 

Oh, hell. You know he loves you, but you don't admit to it. Why would you? He's a vampire. The two of you are in a mutually beneficial relationship. He feeds on you while you bathe in the riches from centuries before. You walk about the castle like you rule it. In a way you do. You're the owner's lover. Lover? Doll, perhaps. Komaeda worships you. 

"Doll," He smiles, entering through your window.

"Ah," You mumble, tying the ribbons of your robe. "Is it feeding day?"

"No," He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer. "I just missed you."

You let him nuzzle his face into your neck, and you sigh. "I'm tired, my lord."

"You may rest," He smiles. "I shall stand guard for the night."

"Thank you, my lord," he tucks you into bed, blowing out the candles. The night's breeze spins through the air. Komaeda stands next to you, eyes red. Full moon meant red eyes. He stares at you, hand on his chin, staring down at you. His fangs glisten, and he runs his tongue along his bottom lip. Oh, you look so delicious right now. He wants to dine. But you're asleep, and you'd get angry at him if he were to dine on you while unconscious. He closes the windows behind him as he leaves, glancing at your resting figure one last time. 

You open your eyes as soon as he's out of hearing distance.

"Ah," You stare at yourself in the mirror. "I'm still here."

There's a bubbling fear in the back of your mind of being turned one day. Komaeda loves you enough to do that, you're sure of it. You don't know if it's reached limerence. You fear that it will one day. Maybe it has already. You don't know why you stay. Maybe it was a sense of love or belonging he gave to you. or...

The moon comes out from behind the clouds.

You could worry about that another day.

Your eyes grow heavy with the lack of rest, and you let yourself succumb to the need.

In a way, you've grown used to living with Komaeda.

After months with the vampire, the servants have grown to realize that you aren't just a temporary throwaway of their lord. You aren't just some young maiden that their lord picked up anymore. You're pretty much the mistress of the house with how much Komaeda adores you. Most of the servants like you. most of them. There are always the few who wonder why not them. You know who the few are.

"My doll," Komaeda smiles, opening his arms to welcome you. 

"My lord," You let him wrap his arms around you in adoration. 

"How have you been?" He mumbles. 

"The servants are playing pranks as usual." You smile. "nothing harmful."

"Let me know if it gets harmful," He mumbles against your skin. "Please. I will punish them as you deem fit."

"Of course, my lord."

Komaeda spends more time with you now that the winter has come. The two of you stay curled up by a fire he has the servants light for you. He can't stand too close, but you let him stay in the room. Had it been a few months ago, you would have told him to leave. You trust him a little more now. He has a lot more self-control than you thought. It's grown too cold for just a robe to wander around in. He has the servants prepare you a fur coat from the Russians. You look divine when you walk about in it. However, your room is the only warmth in the palace. Komaeda doesn't stay too long in fear of anything happening. He worries it'll burn your room down sometimes.

Then, a servant steps out of line.

Komaeda had just finished feeding that night, and you had pulled on the bell after he left through the window. No one answered. When you felt a little more energized, you had tried to open the door. It was locked. You wonder if they want you to freeze to death. You can't move the windows by yourself. The fire would eventually burn out after a while. They didn't even put proper wood into the fire this time. You amuse yourself by thinking about all the possible servants who could have done this. It's true. They could lie that you had locked the door from the inside. 

You stare around the room for anything to burn, and you stare at the hatchet on the wall and then the legs of a chair. You could make this work.

Komaeda visits you four days after feeding. He had gone through another episode, and as he opens the windows to your room, his eyes meet yours. You're staring at him with a hatchet raised into the air, eyes the most dead he's seen in a while. Then, he sees the legless chairs. Komaeda has no clue what's going on until he spots no wood or coal in the bin that's supposed to feed the fire. Something clicks.

"Oh, they stepped out of line," He frowns, voice strangely calm. "Oh, I thought I already warned them enough times..."

"It was funny," You hum, a smile cracking on your face. "It was actually hilarious. There are only so few servants, and only two of them hate me. I wonder if she's aware of the fact that it is winter and without your pay, her family would go homeless..."

Komaeda smiles. "Is that what you want, my doll?"

"Not quite," You smile to no one in particular. "Say, my lord. Would you be willing to ask them out for tea in about a week? I want to have tea with them."

"I shall set up a room for you," He smiles, his fangs visible. "Shall I unlock the door for you?"

"No," You glance at the fire. "I'm going to have some fun... oh, and do bring me some food, will you? I feel as though I'm going to collapse."

The next evening, Komaeda dines in the hall alone. The room is strangely silent without the sound of you cutting into the steak or drinking. He misses you. He calls a servant over, curious as to why you were missing.

"Say, I haven't seen my doll in a while. Are they alright?"

"They're fine, my lord," The girl bows.

He smiles. "Get another plate ready. I'm going to visit them."

The girl does as told, and when she tries to turn the knob, it doesn't open.

"They locked it?" Komaeda raises a brow.

"Yes, my lord," The girl mumbles. "It's been locked for the past five days. They won't eat or anything."

Komaeda hums. "Get the head maid. I'll wait here with the food."

She rushes off, and Komaeda watches her leave. He pulls the key out of his pocket and unlocks the door. You stare at him, biting down on a steak he brought you through the window earlier. Komaeda wants to laugh at how childish you look. He supposes it isn't his place. He hands you the key to your room, and you stare at it. Komaeda transforms to put his key back into his room, and rushes back before the maid can. He places the new steak on your table, and you smile at him.

"Thank you, my lord."

"My lord!" The maid rushes back with the head maid. Komaeda glares at her.

"You lied to me?"

"h-huh?"

"The door was unlocked," Komaeda frowns at her.

Her eyes widen in horror. "No! My lord, I would never do something like that! The door was locked! You saw me turn it!"

You cut into the steak, and open your mouth to take a bite. Everyone turns to stare at you.

"My lord, I do not possess the keys to the room. I can't lock it even if I willed to." You bite into the meat. damn, that's a good steak

"Head maid," Komaeda grimaces at the girl. "Do me a favor and remind her what happens to people who touch my dolls?"

"Yes, my lord," The elder bows. "Let's go."

She yanks the girl off, and you wipe your mouth with the napkin. You hear the girl's shrieks in the background as you slice into the meat again. Komaeda stares at your pale figure, and his eyes droop. "My doll."

"Yes?"

"I know you don't want to, but it could be avoided if we turned you."

You stare at him. "I don't really want to."

Komaeda stares at your sickly skin from being starved for four days. He rests his palm on your cheek, and you stare up at him. He runs his thumb along your bottom lip. You part your lips as he rests his thumb on your tongue. The two of you pause in your movements before Komaeda pulls his thumb from your tongue, swiping over your bottom lip, coating it with your saliva. You stare up at him, doe-eyed. Komaeda smiles, leaning down at you.

"Aren't you tired, my doll?"

Your eyes soften at him, and you smile. "But you'll help me rest well, won't you, my lord?"

Komaeda's fangs hover over your shoulder. "Last chance."

"Same response."

Komaeda doesn't fuck you. He's significantly less rough than when he first met you and slept with you, yet he still makes sure you're pleased. Even as his fingers cramp from how many orgasms he's pulled from you, he makes sure that you've had your fill before allowing him to rest. Sometimes you wonder if he did that with all of his other dolls. The feeling leaves your mind as soon as you're trembling under him. He loves you. 

He loves you as Hades had cherished Persephone. He wants to lock you up in the underground and marry you. Oh, the things he would do if you let him turn you. He wants you to swallow the pomegranate seeds. He'll let you run this hell above him. You can have anything. He doesn't need it as long as he has you. He doesn't know what keeps you from falling right into his arms.

But he supposes he'll hold onto you for as long as you need him to.

Komaeda tucks your hair out of the way. You, fast asleep on the bed. Komaeda doesn't sleep. He doesn't need to. He presses the antibiotics to the places he bit you, and he wipes you down after each session. You're never awake to witness him do it. You always wake up in a new change of clothes after a night session, and you're always nice and clean. Komaeda is gentle with you.

But as Komaeda watches your eyes widen at the sight of blood dripping out of your mouth, a newfound sense of pure horror fills his body. He catches you before you can take any broken bones and the castle doctor is called nearly immediately.

He sits next to you, praying that you would recover as the doctor checks.

"Mild poisoning."

Komaeda knows which maid it is. You had wanted tea with her? He'll do it for you.

"Let's have tea," Komaeda smiles at the young maid. "As an apology for thinking the door wasn't actually locked."

The girl is elated. OH, did he finally see how much of a wrench you were and wanted to give her a chance? She's so excited. She can barely contain her excitement as the two of them sit down for tea. Komaeda engages in light talk with her. His words are smooth, alluring, enchanting. Komaeda's always had a way with words. His vocabulary is bewitching. He's gorgeous.

He's so bewitching that she doesn't even realize that her vision is growing fuzzier by the second.

thud.

Komaeda stares at the maid as if she were no more than a thorn in his side. No. She's not dead. How could she be? There's nothing fun about that. You still wanted tea with her. She couldn't die just yet.

You wake in four days. 

"My lord?"

"Ah," He stares at you, shoulders relaxing. "You woke up, my doll. Are you hurt? Is everything alright?"

"I'm fine, my lord," You smile. "Did you deal with the culprit?"

"No," He shakes his head. "You wanted tea with her."

"Right," You smile. "I did. Shall we have it today?"

"Ah?" Komaeda's eyes widen. "in two days, doll. You just woke up. I was considering..."

You stare at him. "I'd like to turn, but I want to kill the rat in the house."

"Of course," He smiles.

Komaeda watches you poison the girl with the same poison you fainted to. You hadn't moved as the girl fell over, blood seeping out of her eyes, her lips, and everything else. You stare at the way her blood gets the marble all dirty, and the head maid cleans her body. The final doll to the ballroom. Komaeda had never considered you to be a potential doll no matter how much he called you the name. You stare at her in the dress. You suppose she had wanted this all along.

"Doll," Komaeda forms behind you again. "Staring?"

You hum. "Yeah."

Komaeda lifts your hand to meet his lips, and he bows. "Ready?"

"Yes."

Komaeda will love you forever

[300yearschallenge]

Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I Part 4 I Part 5

"My God!" Charles Elias said. "That's awful! The poor girl..."

"Oh, yes, yes," the maid said, "Very tragic. But to see a troll! Could you imagine? There's whispers she might be cursed, troll-touched as she is."

"Are you done?" A voice rang out across the kitchen and a bolt of ice ran down Charles Elias' spine.

"Oh, Laura!" The maid said. "This young man here was waiting for you."

"I can see that," Laura said, glaring daggers at the maid, "You didn't think to come fetch me?"

"Oh, no," the maid said, "I was sure you would turn up soon enough. Besides, the poor man ought to know what he's getting himself into, don't you think?"

Laura and the maid both turned to look at Charles Elias at once, and he desperately wished for the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

"I see..." Laura said. "So he's a gossip too, then? That's good to know."

"A gossip, hah!" The maid laughed. "He seems perfectly fine to me. Don't you agree, young man?"

"Uh--"

"Oh, forget it!" Laura snapped. "Come on, Mr. Park. We're leaving."

Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I Part 4 I Part 5

Summary of Part 3:

The maid told Charles Elias about an incident in Laura's childhood. Her and her mother and father had been traveling by wagon back home when their horse startled and the wagon fell off a cliff. In the aftermath only Laura survived, albeit wounded, and when she was rescued she told people that what had startled their horse had been a troll.

Historical Info

Let's talk about trolls and superstition!

Art by John Bauer (1882 - 1915)

So the troll in Scandinavian folklore/superstition is a creature of the wilderness. There's like a quintillion different troll stories and their appearances and behaviour can be quite varied from place to place, story to story. Sometimes they're hostile, sometimes they're friendly. Sometimes they're human-like, sometimes they're very not.

In The Genre of Trolls by Camilla Asplund Ingemark, she summaries the varied views of trolls based on location in the following way:

"The Central Swedish trolls dwell in mountains, those in Southern Sweden inhabit mounds, and Norwegian trolls live in the high mountains. The looks of the troll may be pictured in various ways, but its ugliness is a common feature. In Central Sweden the troll can be of human height, whereas the Northern and Western parts of the country favour huge trolls (Hartmann 1936: 60–65)"

Since there's a lot of research that has been done into folklore by smarter minds than me, I won't make any further proclamations on the workings of trolls as a whole. Other than to keep in mind that views and stories were varied and different, but the throughline seems to be that trolls are often to be feared and avoided.

In the story of what happened to Laura's family we have a horrific and traumatising accident attributed to a troll. Obviously trolls aren't actually real (although Laura and others believe them to be) and so whatever she truly saw was most likely twisted by trauma and injury into something she had heard of in stories.

In my pictures I chose to have the troll look like a mix between a goat and a man, inspired by the following quotes from the previously quoted text:

"The ambiguity between human and animal characteristics is an important one"

&

"One troll from the Åland Islands shows itself as a he-goat with terrible horns and a beard enveloping the entire hill where it lives (SLS 59: 48–49)"

It intentionally looks almost like very typical depictions of the Devil, since after Sweden became Christian "the troll was assimilated into the image of the Devil"

Now you may be wondering why Laura is being treated so poorly when she was simply the victim of a horrible accident (and supposed troll encounter).

Partially this is just basic human cruelty. Laura, for one reason or another, was seen as an acceptable person to mistreat.

It is also a matter of people fearing those who have had encounters with trolls. People surviving a troll encounter can be viewed in a few different ways. Sometimes they are simply victims of unfortunate circumstances, other times they are transgressors who get punished.

Often in the stories mentioned by The Genre of Trolls the people who have encounters with trolls where they survive (relatively) unscathed are in some ways tied to the trolls. Whether it be a troll expecting a future favour or gift, or wishing to re-capture a previous victim. Sometimes in stories where someone has a non-deadly encounter with a troll they may be gifted a "second sight" of sorts, allowing them to see through troll-made illusions or tricks. In these cases the people are "trapped between different versions of otherness, first a supranormal otherness, then a socially defined alienness".

In Laura's case she is not quite thought to possess any supernatural abilities, but the people in the village see her as someone who could be at risk of either a repeated troll encounter (which could put others at risk) or someone who could unknowingly owe the troll something since she lived when others didn't.

In essence her being mistreated by others is them seeing her connection to trolls as a sort of 'otherness', and as we all know many people in the past and now don't appreciate those who do not fit in.

[milaisreading]

Hetalia AU, April fools episode:

Iceland, flustered: Why did you order a maid dress?!

Denmark: Woo-hoo! Can I see you in it first?!

Sweden,grabbing him by the shoulders: Stupid.

Norway, poking his cheeks: You can be so immature

Yn, equally embarrassed: I didn't order it! Someone sent it to me saying they will expose a picture of mine if I don't wear it

Finland: What?

Yn, showing him the picture: I don't know how they got in my house, but they took this of me while sleeping.

Yn, distressed on what to do while the other 5 are plotting murder.

Finland: Time to take out my trusty rifle again~

Norway: I will locate the person, I just need that latter (Y/n) got

Denmark, grabbing his axe: Tell me when we are going

Iceland: Mr. Puffin will make his talons of use again~

Sweden: Can we burn the costume while he are at it?

[princesssarisa]

In Cinderella Tales from Around the World, I've now reached the various Donkeyskin tales from Scandinavia: Denmark, Sweden, Norway, and Finland.

*In these versions, the king typically seeks a new bride who fits his late wife's wedding dress, or all her clothes. Of course, only his daughter does. Or in one alternate version, there's no requirement, but the princess puts on her mother's dress just as an heirloom, and her father sees for the first time how much she resembles her mother and resolves to marry her.

*The heroine's advisor who helps her escape is sometimes a red cow, sometimes an old woman or an old man, and sometimes her mother's spirit. Or sometimes she relies on her own cunning.

**It's nice to see versions where the mother's spirit helps her daughter, as in so many Cinderella tales. It's a refreshing contrast to other Donkeyskin tales that partly blame the mother for her daughter's plight, since on her deathbed she makes the father promise to only remarry a bride who resembles her.

*The heroine's disguise is typically a cloak of either crow skins or, less comfortably, crows' bills. Although in one version it's just a generic cloak of feathers, in a few others it's a fur cloak, in another it's a wooden cloak, and in one Finnish version, The Pig Girl, she puts on a pigskin, which magically turns her into a pig, recalling the bear transformation in Italy's The She-Bear.

*In Danish versions, there are typically just two beautiful gowns instead of three: one silver, one gold. This is sometimes true in other countries' versions too. Still, most other versions have three gowns, with the standard themes of sun, moon, and stars, or with some other themes (e.g. flowers, precious metals and stones, and the sun, moon, and stars; or silk flowers, golden flowers, and diamonds). Although oddly, in one Danish version and one Finnish version, the dress made of crows' bills is her elegant dress, not her ugly disguise, and it's her only one, which she wears repeatedly.

**In another Finnish version, The Three Dresses, the king demands the gold and silver gowns and the crow's-bill cloak of the princess rather than vice-versa. He promises that if she can acquire them, she won't have to marry him; her mother's spirit gives the clothes to her, but the king goes back on his word, so she runs away.

*The Danish variants include two without an incestuous father. In one, the king just refuses to let his daughter marry the prince she loves, so she runs away to be a servant at that prince's castle, while in another, the princess is an orphan betrothed to a prince she dislikes.

*In most of these versions, the princess becomes a scullery maid at the prince's palace, though occasionally she becomes a poultry-maid or a swineherd instead.

*Some versions include the theme of the prince throwing items at the disguised princess, others don't.

*Usually the princess wears her gowns to church rather than to balls, though a few versions have a banquet instead, or have her follow the prince when he goes to visit some other nobility.

*In a few versions, the princess's helper gives her some magic that does her chores for her, so her life as a servant isn't too hard.

*As in the Scandinavian Cinderella stories, the princes typically chats "Darkness behind me, light before!" to prevent anyone from stopping her when she leaves the church or the ball. Sometimes she also chants it when she first runs away from home to prevent her father from finding her.

*Almost all these variants have a Cinderella ending: the princess loses a shoe and the prince tries it on every maiden until he finds her. In Finland's The Pig Girl, as in some Finnish Cinderella tales, she loses her hat, her glove, and her shoe, and none of them fit anyone except her (and they fit her even in her pig form).

*In The Pig Girl, the king pursues his daughter when she runs away. But at the instruction of her mother's spirit, she throws a brush, a comb, and a mirror behind her, which turn into different kinds of walls that no one can scale.

*Also in The Pig Girl, after the shoe, glove, and hat fit the pig, the prince reluctantly agrees to marry her, because he gave his word that he would marry the girl who could wear them. Still, he comically mutters his disgruntled feelings to himself as they approach the church for the wedding. But then she changes herself back into her true human form, and he's delighted.

**I wouldn't be surprised if this inspired the ending of Sapsorrow from Jim Henson's The Storyteller, which also has a slipper-fitting, and which has the prince agree to marry "the Scraggletag" before her true form is revealed.

**This also reminds me of the scene in The Magic Flute where Papageno is coerced into agreeing to marry the "ugly old woman," only to be delighted when she takes off her disguise to reveal that she's really Papagena. Now I wonder if Emanuel Schikaneder, the librettist, might have known some version of this tale and been inspired by it. Especially because in the original stage directions of The Magic Flute, when the "old woman" first declares her love for Papageno, the disgusted Papageno throws the water she brought him in her face (though whether to avoid getting the stage floor wet or to make Papageno more likable, this is rarely done in modern performances of the opera). The prince throws water at the disguised heroine in many Donkeyskin tales, including The Pig Girl. And in several Donkeyskin tales from Italy, the heroine disguises herself as an old woman. Might Schikaneder have been inspired by some Austrian version of the tale?

@ariel-seagull-wings, @adarkrainbow, @themousefromfantasyland

[operafantomet]

Hanna Ulvan’s Christine wardrobe in Kristianstad, Sweden

Hannibal Slavegirl: Thin white dress with some vertical lines and dots, elephant prints on the hem, and a big golden draped belt.

Elissa: I realize this is a photo of Carlotta... But Christine wears a shiny bronze dress that looks identical.

Dressing gown: White thicker fabric with a double collar and wide sleeves with puff. The dressing gown ties in the back.

Il Muto (maid): White blouse with lace and thin pink floorlength skirt with flower decorations. Hair in ponytail with black bow.

Il Muto (rooftop): The Serafimo costume, with a hooded navy cloak with dark floral decoration around the opening.

Il Muto (Serafimo): White blouse with lace and greenish grey breeches. 1920s T-strap shoes.

Masquerade: Floorlength shiny sky blue dress decorated with butterflies (?), tied over the waist. Mask also resembling butterfly. The first scene with the hair up, also kept for the Managers and Mausoleum scenes.

Managers/Mausoleum: Victorianesque day dress, floorlength and long sleeves, front closed, with lace in the neck opening. Made of a green taffeta shot with purplish brown. For the Mausoleum scene an additional cloak was worn, I can’t remember if it was the same as in the Rooftop scene, or the more purplish layered one Sara Ollinen wore.

Aminta + Final Lair: White lace dress with rows of horiontal tucks in the skirt, and diagonal tucks in the bodice.

(costumes by Fia Persson)

[bitter69uk]

In 1964, then-23-year-old starlet Ann-Margret bared her soul to 16 Magazine about her “hates and loves” (or, as they put it at the time: “Here they are - the deep-down, intimate secrets of your favourite new star!”). I think Ann-Margret speaks for all of us here! (Please don’t tell me some publicity agent or anonymous hack cobbled this together – the disillusionment would be overwhelming). Pull up a chair – this is one LONG mutha of list.

She hates for anyone to yell at her. She cried the first time a bandleader loudly chewed her out for being late to a rehearsal.

She hates dresses with lots of ruffles and frills. They make her feel like "... a Christmas tree!"

She hates vegetables - especially cooked spinach.

She hates to cook or anything to do with the kitchen.

She hates people who say nasty things about other people whom they don't even know.

She hates the fact that no matter how she rushes, she has a tendency to be late.

She hates to see too much make-up on a woman.

She hates to see an animal hurt.

She hates people who "...kid around with someone's emotions".

She hates gossip of any sort.

She hates rain.

She hates herself when she fluffs a song or dance, even during a rehearsal.

She hates people who think that show business is all whipped cream and glamour. Ann-Margret says: "It's one of the toughest professions in the world".

She hates it when people call her a star. "Right now, I am just a very fortunate girl", she earnestly maintains. "A star is someone who sustains, like Bette Davis".

She hates for people to try and pry into her personal life.

She hates the thought of sitting still for more than five minutes at a time.

She hates to have to straighten up her room.

She hates reports that she dates just for publicity.

She hates for people to tell her how to run her life.

She hates grey days and grey colours.

She hates people who complain and feel sorry for themselves.

She hates it when there is a mechanical failure in her car or motor scooter.

She hates to be told she ought to act such-and-such a way, because "... it's the thing to do".

She hates herself for being so painfully shy when it comes to meeting new people.

She hates jealousy of any kind.

She hates aggressive girls who brag that they can twist a man round their little finger.

She hates to get up early in the morning.

She hates prejudice in any form.

She hates to diet.

She loves going to football and basketball games.

She loves to ride her motor scooter through the Hollywood hills.

She loves a steak.

She loves to wear dark glasses.

She loves animals of all sorts.

She loves chocolate malts for breakfast.

She loves a windy night.

She loves big, shaggy sweaters.

She loves performing for a live audience.

She loves saving things. She has a huge chest, hand-carved by an uncle in Sweden, in which she stores all her mementoes.

She loves sad movies - even though they make her cry.

She loves the colour black.

She loves to sleep under lots of blankets.

She loves pizza with ginger ale.

She loves browsing through family photo albums.

She loves Cantonese food.

She loves talking on the phone. She has two "Princess" models in her bedroom.

She loves waterskiing.

She loves collecting stuffed animals - the pride of her collection is a huge lavender poodle Eddie Fisher gave her in New York. She took it back to California on the plane - strapped in the seat next to her.

She loves flowers and greenery of any sort.

She loves baked potatoes with sour cream, chives and butter.

She loves to travel - especially back to Sweden for a visit with relatives.

She loves the name Skuby. So far, it's the "handle" for her Yorkshire terrier (also a gift from Eddie Fisher).

She loves her red motor scooter and her red compact convertible car.

She loves window-shopping.

She loves the excitement of Las Vegas.

She loves watching parades.

She loves laughing and seeing others laugh.

She loves working with Elvis Presley.

She loves weddings. Last year she was maid of honour at the nuptials of Sharon Louver of Summit, N.J., and Joanie Stremmel, of Wilmette, Ill., both of whom had been her best friends since the sixth grade. She caught Janie's bouquet!

She loves dancing - especially the Twist.

She loves the new house she bought for herself and her parents in fashionable Benedict Canyon.

She loves the beach - day or night.

She loves Marlon Brando's acting.

She loves little children.

She loves Capri pants.

She loves candlelight dinners.

She loves watching TV.

She loves Sammy Davis, Jr. and Elvis Presley records.

She loves modern furniture.

She loves being alone for a certain part of every day.

She loves her good luck charms - a miniature red horse, ivory Buddha, smooth beach pebble and tiny hula doll named "Jungle Julie".

She loves writing in her diary.

She loves playing a jukebox.

She loves holding deep philosophical conversations.

She loves suede jackets.

She loves riding a bicycle.

She loves to write letters and receive them. Write to her at 8966 Sunset Boulevard, Hollywood, California.

[gayjaytodd]

The year is 2002. I am seven years old. All I want is to be Robin Hood for Halloween. I have the bow, I have the clothes. - Please, I say, dragging out the word so it becomes a song: Pleaseeeeee. My mum says: - Wouldn’t you much rather be Maid Marian? We can plait your hair all pretty, and you can wear one of my dresses. She seems so excited by the idea. I put my bow away. I let her plait my hair. I wear the dress.

The year is 2009. I am (almost) fourteen years old. I’m rebellious; I dye my hair black; I wear black eyeliner, and black jeans with large holes in them; I get drunk and I get high, and I listen to angry, German rock music. I kiss boys. I think maybe I want to kiss girls too. In class, we learn about gender reassignment surgery. I think that it’s a shame I’m a girl because I’d quite like to be a boy. The thought scares me. I bury it. When my parent’s ask, I tell them I don’t want a bat mitzvah. I tell them, I don’t want to lie to G-d. I don’t tell them what I’d be lying about.

The year is 2011. I am sixteen years old. I’m lonely. I can’t focus at school. I don’t know how to make friends. There’s something wrong with me. Other girls talk about kissing boys and having sex with boys. I don’t talk about it but I do it. I kiss boys. I sleep with boys. There’s something wrong with me. When his stubble scrapes my cheek, when his big hands press my waist, I don’t just feel warm, aroused. I feel -- jealous. I want to be him, I think. G-d, I want to be a boy. I ignore the feeling. I hope it’ll go away. It doesn’t.

The year is 2013. I am eighteen years old. Two of my brother's friends want to kiss me and touch me and fuck me. I like the attention. I like their hands. I like the way they pull my hair. I don’t think about: what their hands would feel like on my chest if it was flat. what sex with them would be like if I had a dick. what kissing feels like when both of you have a beard. One of them is a soldier. I get hypothermia from swimming across a lake in Sweden in December. He calls the ambulance. - Why did you do that? He asks in the hospital. - I dunno, I answer. It’s a lie. I wanted to prove myself. That I’m tough. That I’m brave. That I’m a man. I kiss the worry off his face.

The year is 2014. I am still eighteen, though not for long. My friend and I write a play. I suggest creating characters based on ourselves. She loves the idea. The characters are both men. I cut my hair short. Boy short. I look at myself in the mirror. I feel the most at home in my body that I ever have. I’m transgender, I think. I try to say it out loud. The words die in my throat. No sound comes out. Still, I consider it a victory.

The year is 2016. I’m twenty-one years old. It’s been a year since I finished high school. I work as a teacher. I wear makeup and dresses and high heels every day. There is something wrong with me. I don’t feel like myself. I don’t feel real. I don’t eat. Everyone compliments my weight loss. I don’t say: I don’t eat because nothing matters and nothing is real and I want to die because what does it matter if I die today or tomorrow or in fifty-four years? I do say: - Thank you! - You’re so pretty now, my mum says and strokes my hair that’s gotten long again. I cut it all off two months later.

The year is 2018. I am twenty-three years old. I live in Wales. I’m studying acting. I’m doing good, but --- - You have some sort of mental block, my tutor tells me. - I miss going to Shul, I say. That's not what it is. I'm not a bad actor because I'm a bad Jew. I'm a bad actor because I don't feel at home in my body. I'm a bad actor because I don't know how to be myself. I'm a bad actor because I'm always acting. - Maybe you should start going again, she suggests. I agree. I start attending services at a temple in Cardiff. - Call me Raphael, I ask the Rabbi, my voice shaking. I’m terrified, he’ll question it. He doesn’t. He smiles and invites me in. My anxiety evaporates.

The year is 2021. I am (almost) twenty-six years old. It’s my final year in acting school. I don’t know what’ll happen afterwards. We’re doing our main show via zoom. It’s the first day after New Year’s Eve. My hands are shaking as I type out a message for the groupchat I’m in with my coursemates: I don't really vibe with being a woman, so if y’all could use gender neutral or masculine (they/he) pronouns for me from now on, I’d be massively grateful. For five minutes nothing happens. Then a notification appears at the bottom of the screen: Several people are typing... I haven’t been this scared since - Well. I have never been this scared. Then finally: Ofc!! So happy you told us :)) x Thank you for being you!! <3 Happy you felt comfortable enough to tell us! <3 Gg for letting us know, that’s a pretty big first step <3 Love you so much, proud of you <3 I cry. I smile. So what if I can’t look at myself in the mirror without dissociating? So what if the clothes I want to wear look wrong on me? It doesn’t matter. I have never felt this accepted.

The year is 2022. I am (still) twenty-six years old. I live in Cardiff. I have a degree in acting but no acting jobs. I don’t have any job at all. I want to die. Or no. That’s not right. I don’t want to die. I just don’t see the point of living. My doctor suggests hospitalisation. I refuse. My mum insists I move back home. I do. Everyone calls me by a name that doesn’t feel like it’s mine. Everyone uses the wrong pronouns. Every time I look in the mirror, I dissociate. That isn’t my body. That isn’t my face. It can’t  be. G-d wouldn’t be so cruel as to trap me in this shape. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. I don’t feel real. Nothing feels real. I am going to kill myself.

The year is 2022. I am twenty-seven years old. I live in Denmark. I go back to university. I tell my therapist about the suicidal ideation About the body dysphoria About the gender dysphoria About wanting to be a man who kisses other men She makes me promise to tell my family before the end of the year. I’m terrified. I tell my little brother. - What do you want to be named then? He asks without hesitation. - Mark, I answer. He lights up with excitement. - Can I call you Marky Mark? I frown. - Sure? - Cool! He keeps walking, whistling. - Thank you for being so chill about this, I say. He shrugs. Throws an arm around my shoulders. - No matter your name, he says, you’re still you and I love you. I want to cry. I punch him in the arm instead. I smile.

[duchesssoflennox]

MARRIAGE OF KING HAAKON VII AND QUEEN MAUD OF NORWAY🥺🤍💍

Prince Carl, the second son of then-Crown Prince Frederick of Denmark and Princess Louise of Sweden, was born at the Charlottenlund Palace on August 3, 1872 and was christened Christian Frederik Carl Georg Valdemar Axel. Maud, meanwhile, was the youngest daughter of Albert Edward, Prince of Wales (later King Edward VII) and Princess Alexandra of Denmark. Both Frederick and Alexandra were children of King Christian IX of Denmark.

At a young age, Carl was not expected to become king because he was a second son. So, he built a career in the military, where he served as a naval officer at the Royal Danish Naval Academy in Copenhagen. Maud, meanwhile, was the liveliest of Edward and Alexandra's three daughters. She fell in love with Prince Francis of Teck, the younger brother of her sister-in-law, the future Queen Mary .Francis and Maud exchanged several letters, however, as time passed, it became clear that the love was one-sided as Francis had no interest in Maud.🥲💔

As cousins, Maud and Carl often met, especially during family gatherings. Rumours eventually circulated within the family that the two might get married. Carl proposed during a reunion at Fredensborg Castle and Maud accepted. Their engagement was announced on October 29, 1895. Princess Alexandra was initially hesitant of the engagement because Maud was 3 years older than Carl, She only relented when she realized that Carl would prove to be the right husband for her sea-loving daughter.🌊🤍

The engagement delighted Queen Victoria (Maud's grandmother). According to Queen Victoria's Maid of Honour, news of their engagement “…caused much excitement at Balmoral…and has been the cause of much telegraphing…The Queen is delighted and healths were drunk at dinner.” 

The wedding was set on July 22, 1896. The wedding was almost delayed after Prince Henry of Battenberg's untimely death, but it was finally decided that the wedding should go on as scheduled and that Princess Beatrice (Maud's aunt and Prince Henry's wife) and her children would not attend. European royals converged in London for this wedding. Members of both the British and Danish royal families were present, as well as their Greek, German, Russian, and Swedish relatives. The bride wore a simple dress fashioned by Miss Rosalie Whyte of the Royal Female School of Art. It had a long train and was made of pure white English satin which was woven in Spitalfields, a section of London known for its weaving. She wore the Princess of Wales' wedding veil and instead of a tiara, she adored her hair with flowers.

Queen Victoria recorded in her Journal: ‘After the Benediction, Maud came forward to her parents & then to me & I kissed both her & the Bridegroom’.

the famous royal painter LAURITS REGNER TUXEN painted the wedding using the photos taken at the wedding! Queen Victoria gave the painting as a present to Maud's parents, the Prince and Princess of Wales.🥺❤️‍🩹

[liquid-clorox]

[tyranasauruslex]

Do you have any romelukas holiday thoughts? Maybe thanksgiving?

I'm not American so I don't know anything about Thanksgiving and tbh it doesn't seem like something Lukas would be interested in - I imagine he'd just be reading out anti Thanksgiving posts whilst everyone else ate that weird Sweet potato marshmallow thing in silence. I actually think that Midsummer would be their main holiday but i'll go with a RomeLukas Christmas:

Their first Christmas together is shit, mostly because it doesn’t occur to Lukas to explain to Roman that seeing flashing Christmas decorations, listening to people sing Christmas carols off key, the expectation that gifts will be appreciated with gratitude and enforced touching is a social and sensory nightmare for him. Then there’s being expected to eat other peoples food, none of which are on his safe list, so Lukas retreats to the safety of his mums house in Sweden. She cooks everything he likes, the way he likes it and never puts lights on the tree so he can actually relax for once. He bluntly turns down Romans offer of spending Christmas with the Roys because he assumes that Roman will come with him to Sweden, only for Roman to reveal he’s been bullied into attending Kendall’s aka Logan 2.0’s family Christmas. They end up parting awkwardly with neither of them sure as to why the other one is in a mood. Over in Sweden, Mama Matsson takes great care to explain to Lukas that as this is Roman’s first Christmas without his dad, it makes sense that he would want to be with his family even if they are a bunch of “vapid energy vampires with only two braincells between them.”

Meanwhile in New York Roman spends his Christmas either being bullied and picked on by Kendall or being made fun of by Caroline for his new “homosexual lifestyle” and his as of yet unresolved daddy issues. Shiv is still banned from all family gathering so he doesn’t even have anyone that might stick up for him and is miserable the entire time. That is until Lukas calls him at the midway point between Swedish and American Christmas and they FaceTime for hours meaning that Roman doesn't have to participate in the brutality that is the Roy family game night.

Their next Christmas is spent in Sweden with the Matsson family which consists of only Lukas, his mum, his ancient Uncle Valter and his dad ashes that Mama Matsson puts on top of the TV so he can “still be involved”. With no maids or chefs, everyone has to pitch in which initially terrifies Roman because he can barely boil an egg, let alone put together a Julboard. Thankfully he gets put in charge of decorating the tree which he loves and making sure Uncle Valter stays awake until the food is ready. Then after dinner Lukas and Uncle Valter teach him how to play Viking chess which he’s awful at and then they watch Swedish Christmas TV. It's all kind of odd but still very cosy and calm, however Roman spends the entire holiday on edge waiting to either be yelled for doing something wrong or witness the fucked up family dysfunction that his previous Christmas’s have been filled with. 

It’s during his second Christmas spent with Lukas that Roman releases that they seem to be re-living the same Christmas every year; right down to the food timings and stuff they watch on TV. He doesn’t think much of it until they spend the next Christmas in New York and Lukas has an absolute meltdown over an inflatable light up Rudolf that Greg brought in for the office Christmas party. His behaviour at the actual office party is even worse, teetering between frustration and tears so Roman takes him to one of the empty offices to calm down. Thats when Lukas explains that he hates all the noise, all the lights, constantly having to mask... he just wants to stick with the Christmas he's used to. Suddenly the Groundhog Day christmases make a lot more sense so Roman declines their place at the Roy Family Christmas much to Kendalls fury. He didn't even want to go anyway and they have a low key Christmas that year spent on the sofa under a pile blankets and eating Mama Matsson’s Christmas sandwiches. Whilst Lukas recharges, Uncle Valter gives Roman a history lesson on Swedish christmas traditions and then he takes Mama Matsson out to see the The Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree.

The agreement is to not bother with presents which they both promptly ignore, but it’s small stuff like a bag of really good weed from their trip to Thailand or framed picture of the pair of them being silly at a GoJo party. Although Lukas did break from tradition one year and buy Roman an island. They stick with Swedish tradition and exchange presets on Christmas Eve, although Lukas always holds one back for Roman to have on Christmas Day.  

New Years they spend partying at whatever weird and far flung place they can find along with Lukas’s friends and Tabitha or by themselves in one of Lukas’s many elusive boltholes. 

[aaronburrdaily]

November 8, 1809

Rochild.,¹ November 8, 1809. The ancient, not, however, the most ancient, residence of the Kings of Denmark. Though I left Madame Tutine's et le belle Prussienne² at 8 last evening much against my will and theirs, and without any known or assignable reason, I did nothing all the evening; was somehow out of order and as I thought unfit for society; some people thought otherwise. Got tea a ma facon.³ Wrote postscript to my letter to Lüning. At 9 came in the dom. of Madame de Wederkop to apologize for the disappointment of last evening and begging to see me in the morning. The apology was something singular. At 12 went to work on the Coest.⁴ and wrought well but more and more out of humor with my brusque manner of quitting la Prus.⁵ At 9 sor. to Madame Wederkop; gave her in charge my letter to Liming and received from her two for Sleswick.⁶ To A.B. Rothe, with whom 1/2 hour about committees, councils, &c. A very prompt, intelligent, communicative man about 46. He is to address to me at Hamburg his reply to my queries. To Olsen's; Blecker O. had left town; H.G.O. exceedingly civil; mortified that I will leave town; offers to devote himself; assures me of all sorts of respectful attentions. Why, then, do I not stay? Because I had resolved to go, had announced it, &c, though I do admit that I have had much to encounter to get out. From Olsen's to J. de Coningk's, where 1/2 hour and thence home. Found H. and R. ready and waiting. I had ordered horses at 11. At 11 I got home and the horses were at the door; not a thing packed up, bills to settle, servants to pay, quelle embarras!⁷ We went to work all hands and at 1 were ready and embarked. The mode of traveling is in a long wagon, the body wickerwork; no springs; but the seats with cushions and backs, hung on leather. The road is paved with pebbles, like the streets in our towns.

Note: At the moment of packing up Mr. Hellfried came in to make a visit; rather late. The promise of three marks above the customary fee to the driver brought us on very briskly. With four fine, large black horses, we performed this stage in three hours; the distance four Danish miles, about twenty-one English.

After rising and descending the hill on which is the palace of Fredericksberg, the whole is almost a plain. Many village churches; all low, and with a square tower at one end, interspersed with those little hills which are called barrows — places of interment at a period beyond tradition or record. At one time I counted thirteen in view. These, and those I have seen in Sweden, resemble those which we have seen on the Ohio, the Mississippi, and the Missouri.

We dined at Taastrup⁸ (half way). Goose, excellent; corned pork (ditto), with bread, butter and very fine cheese. Our drink was a kind of light ale. This repast for us three, including drink for our coachman, cost 3 dollars 1 mark, about 1 dollar United States money.

Very soon after leaving Taastrup we had in view the turrets of the ancient Cathedral of Rochild.⁹ We are lodged in a neat, comfortable inn. A widow lady, two smiling maids, so like Sweden that we cannot believe they are Danes. On my arrival called on Professor Gamberg, and showed him Olsen's note. He returned with me to the inn. He has apprised the wachmeister¹⁰ or the sexton to be ready to show us the Cathedral at 8 in the morning.

This is the object of my staying here to-night; I must see the tomb and bust of Marguerite, called the Semiramis¹¹ of the North, and of ———, but you shall know. That you may judge of the expense of traveling — we paid for our wagon and four horses 7 1/2 dollars, and 1 dollar to the coachman; in the whole about 12 shillings sterling.

Having dined plentifully, we took tea for supper in the evening; a bottle of very fine claret, and for my part, with hot water and sugar. The picture has come on my lap. I could not bear to see you bouncing about at the bottom of the wagon, but I shall not open it again till Hamburg. My companions are asleep and now, at 11, having had my bed warmed, much the mode here, I am also going to make up the arrears of the last two nights, having ordered breakfast at 7 and the pretty maid to wake me at 6. Let me see, how are you now employed? Probably at breakfast, with Gampy asking you an hundred of questions about — God knows!

1 For Röskilde. Burr pays no attention whatever to the correct spelling of geographical names. Röskilde was an ancient ecclesiastical center. It had at one time a population of 100,000 and was the capital of Denmark till 1443. 2 Le for la. And the handsome Prussian lady. 3 For à ma façon. In my style. 4 See Glossary. 5 For la Prussienne. 6 For Schleswig. 7 For quel embarras ! What perplexity! 8 For Höjetaastrup. 9 For Röskilde. There are many interesting tombs at Röskilde, including those of several Kings and Queens of Denmark. The Cathedral, built in the middle of the thirteenth century in the Transition style, is with three exceptions the finest medieval church in Scandinavia. It is 280 feet long; the tower is 246 feet high. 10 For Danish vagtmester. Doorkeeper, porter. 11 The legendary wife of Ninus, the founder of Nineveh. She reigned after his death and conquered all Asia except India; built the city of Babylon, with its hanging gardens, etc. She was said to be endowed with surpassing beauty and wisdom. The Greeks ascribed to this superlative Queen everything marvelous in the Orient.

[czortofbaldmountain]

In a witch trial from 1673 in the province of Hälsingland, the maid Giölug Olufsdotter seems to have openly and without coercion confessed to having intimate relations with Satan (Court records 1673). She even claimed that she perceived her relationship with him as beautiful. The court complains that she denied or regretted nothing, showed no desire to repent; and that she claimed to drink, dance, and sleep with the 'worst Devil', i.e., Satan himself, while she was at Blåkulla, the location of the Swedish Witches' Sabbath. As if it did not suffice to proclaim herself a satanic witch, Giölung confronted the court and authorities with utter disdain, reviling the priesthood, the mayor, the court assessors and the police officers with perverse and blasphemous comments.

'It is better to believe in the Devil': Conceptions of Satanists and Sympathies for the Devil in Early Modern Sweden written by Mikael Häll in The Devil's Party: Satanism in Modernity edited by Per Faxneld and Jesper Aa. Petersen.

[norsesuggestions]

@always-a-slut-4-ghouls

Interesting commentary that is getting its own post because the other post is getting long haha

I am so not a swedish soil expert (i have a master degree in gender studies in fact, so i am in no way an authority on the topic of swedish geology haha)

And on the topic of me being no soil expert, the part of sweden i am from (and the picture is taken) got a majority of clay filled glacial till, not sandy soil. Well at least were we grow crops in mälardalen.

Not the patch i took a photo obvoiusly but. Anyway, from what i recall from my parents talking about gardening in the location our house in, it is rock filled. And at the location our house is in, in fact so rock filled there was no. Erm. Soil? If it is called that in english. More, rock heh.

(As my original post mentioned i grew up in a neighbourhood built on a wetland. Ah still existing wetland. A wetland still flooding all the paths every spring wetland heh).

Anyway, they needed to buy soil and construct over our entire garden so it was possible to. Garden there. All the soil the plants were in was transplanted.

Also, about minnesotas not being similiar to sweden/being similiar i suspect that saying is not so much based on. Proper comparing if nature and soil quality, but a marketing tactic to swedish settlers who went to minnesota as a part of usa goverment colonisation tactics. I do vaguelly recall that many swedish immigrants came to usa at the very same time that usa was trying to conquer minnesota as a part of the usa state.

The swedish immigrants to minnesota were often a part of usa goverments campaigns to get usa citizens to settle land not previously settled by usa citizen. That is, to get usa citizens to settle native american lands.

It was something like that. Dont qoute me on it, this is my recalling from memory some different swedish documentaries and such about swedish immigrantion to america.

Another tidbit i recall from those documentaries was that well the most known about immigrantion from sweden to america are the ones who became farmers in usa. The absolute majority did not become farmers, and never had that intention to become so. Must worked in the growing cities of usa, with construction and so on. Many also worked as servants in the cities. They had often seen an ad (in sweden) for workers for forexemple "construction workers to work at building this neighbourhood" or "a maid from a good swedish family", and went to usa with the goal to get that job.

Afterwards many actually went back home sweden. Not all, but much than many swedish people useally believe