Falling Star by Philip Chen Page B

in the ambiance of the first class cabin.  The familiar noise and smell of coffee percolating in the galley were intoxicating to the haggard passengers lining up to take their seats.  The mostly middle-aged, white male passengers sitting in the spacious first-class seats were already absorbed in their reading material and pre-flight beverages.
    Eric looked forward to being an analyst at Franklin Smedley Associates.  He was sure they flew everywhere first-class.
    Finally, the logjam freed up as the passengers before him found their seats and Eric was able to reach seat 16C.  As he approached his seat, he noted that the attractive black haired woman with the startlingly beautiful blue eyes was seated in 12D; she was already busy reading a magazine and didn't look up as other passengers passed by.
    Eric looked over his row and smiled at his row mate.  In 16A sat a spinsterish older woman who had already started her knitting project.  Her white hair was pulled tightly in a bun.  Mildred Swensen was traveling to New York on her way to Oslo, Norway, to shop for her Scandinavian craft shop in Crookston, Minnesota.
    She was dressed like every Norwegian aunt or grandmother Eric had ever known.  Mildred wore a pale yellow silk print dress with a high collar and a light blue summer blazer.  She carried the unmistakable scent of lilac.  A cameo pin adorned her blazer.  Large silver bangles hung from her left wrist. She carried her purse but also carried a large straw bag from which knitting needles of various sizes and yarn protruded.  She was working on a project, quite absorbed in her task.  From the looks of it, the project was going to be a sweater, probably a Christmas gift for a grandchild.
    Eric knew how efficient these Scandinavian grandmothers could be, for example, knitting Christmas sweaters in June.  If the visit was at Christmas time, the menu was always the same: fruit soup, boiled potatoes, lutefisk, Swedish meatballs, lefse, and, if you're lucky, Johnson's temptation, a mixture of scalloped potatoes, onions, and anchovies.  The smell of freshly baked cookies, evergreen branches, the smoky fire, Yule kaka, sprits, and thumbprint cookies made up for the annual ordeal of lutefisk.
    Lutefisk starts life swimming in the North Atlantic as cod.  When caught, the cod is dried and salted.  To prepare lutefisk, the dried and pungent cod is soaked in caustic soda for several months.  The soaking revivifies the flesh of the dried fish.  When boiled or baked and served with white sauce, lutefisk becomes a tender, flaky seafood delicacy.  Norwegian aficionados of lutefisk compare it to lobster.
    Detractors compare it to death.
    Comedians have said that the best recipe for lutefisk is to soak the fish, then drain it for two hours on a wood cutting board, and, when drained, throw away the fish and eat the cutting board.
    Eric stopped himself.  Why am I thinking about Christmas in June he thought, and then he realized how much the lady sitting in Seat 16A looked like his grandmother.
    Eric had been hoping that he would get a chance to sit next to the cute young woman with her pale hazel eyes and blond hair pulled in a ponytail.  The one who he thought was trading glances with him in the gate area.  He wasn't sure, but the coed had looked awfully familiar.  Maybe he had seen her around Northfield.  Maybe she was an Ole, as St. Olaf students are called, or, heavens forbid, a student at Carleton College, St. Olaf's arch-rival in the small college town of Northfield, Minnesota.
    Damn! Here I'm about to become a big gun on Wall Street and I still can't get the nerve to chat up some girl.  I've got to get over this hang-up, thought Eric.
    At least he wasn't going to have to sit with the greasy hippie with long smelly hair who immediately preceded him down the aisle.
    Sliding into his seat, Eric turned to the older woman and said, "Hi, I'm Eric Johanson."
    "Hello, I'm Mildred Swensen.  I see from your sweatshirt that