Recently I experienced a mild emotional crisis brought on by a yogurt pot in the chilled aisle of the Ballyhackamore Marks and Spencer.
When we went to Iceland three years ago, I was dimly aware of an indigenous dairy product called ‘skyr’ (pronounced skeer).
It was on sale everywhere, petrol stations, cafes, fancy restaurants. We bought it for a bit of local flavour, but mostly because it was delicious. We could crack open a pot, tuck in, and for a few precious minutes us and the kids would experience three states which, in the chaos of family life, hardly ever coincided: togetherness, contentment, and silence.
Now without rehashing an earlier, very long, blog, I had mixed feelings about Iceland. But not skyr. Skyr I loved. Skyr I imagined as a carrier of that fabled, ancient, authentic essence of ‘the land of ice and fire’. Skyr, with all that protein-not-fat nourishment, would confer Viking vigour and Nordic wellbeing. Skyr would be a souvenir, a regular remembrance of our family’s first proper holiday.
So when I came home, I was determined to find skyr.
First stops, Tesco and Sainsbury’s. Well that was easy. But wait. These pots weren’t the clean design plastic beauties we’d held in Iceland. It called itself ‘skyr’, but below was the tell-tale: ‘Icelandic-style yogurt’. Made where? In Germany, by Arla foods. Taste? Pretty good but not quite right. Still, I began to eat this imposter daily.
Online we went, and on the website of the co-operative that makes the real stuff we discovered it was available in the Republic – Dunnes, some Spars, and some speciality shops. Across the water you could get it in Morrisons. But no mention of Northern Ireland. We sent them an email. Sorry, came the reply, along with some bitter commentary on the brazen ‘Icelandic-style’ imitators.
This was disappointing but not disastrous. I was in Dublin often enough with work, so on my next trip, I took a couple of pretty excessive detours on foot to check out stockists mentioned on the website. Nothing. The next time, the same. And the next. I don’t travel much, but around this time I was in Schiphol for a long lonely stopover, and I remember walking up and down that endless mall checking everywhere for skyr. Just on the off chance.
Then – this was mid-December 2016 – I was in Dublin to give a serious talk to serious people in a hotel that wasn’t on my usual routes. Google said there was skyr potential in one of the delis on the way. Using time I didn’t have, I stopped in.
At this stage, my eyes and brain had become used to these searches – scanning rows and rows of yogurt brands, willing those mystical skyr pots into being, and then the crushing, final realisation of their absence. It was happening again. Row upon row upon row…
But! It can’t be! The vanilla one and the blueberry one. Such deep rich blue. So shiny. So pretty. I confirmed – it was ‘Made in Iceland’. I phoned my wife. I took a picture. I bought four. I nailed that talk.
For the next year or so, every time I was in Dublin, I built in a skyr detour. My colleagues wondered what it was that I was carving out with that little hinged spoon when I got to work. I gushingly explained – it’s the real stuff. I can’t get it across the border. It became a joke, David and his yogurt. How wholesome! How quaint.
Up north, knowing that Dunnes in the south stocked it, we would call in every now and then just to see if it was available. And one day, out of the blue, we saw – the blue! Those pots, in the Ormeau Road one, and it wasn’t long until we found it the city centre one too.
After that, I stopped looking for it in Dublin. We picked it up now and again at home, but it suddenly seemed so pricey. We got used to the taste and look of it. The memory sparked by its sweet tang was no longer of the four of us huddled around a pot in Iceland but… no memory at all.
And then, without warning, Marks and Spencer. The real Icelandic skyr had come all the way from its far flung homeland to within walking distance of my house. There it sat on those familiar shelves, ready and waiting if I wanted it, but coldly indifferent if I didn’t. Because it knew and I knew the terrible truth.
I could pick it up anytime I wanted.
Phone call, photo, purchase, and then the plummet.
When I got home, still reeling, I examined the label. Just to confirm that this era really had come to an end. It was all there, the ingredients, the description and design, ‘Made in…’
Huh?
Made in Denmark
This stuff is worthless, I thought, throwing it in the fridge and feeling much better.
David Mitchell 