Not so long ago, cows were milked by hand, a labour-intensive task traditionally performed by women. In countries such as Finland, ‘men's honour was at stake' if they so much as touched a cow's udders.
So what happened when mechanization freed women from this arduous work? Drawing on decades of municipal data from Finland, Eva Forslund investigates how milking machines challenged traditional gender roles and opened the door to political participation.
Between 1942 and 1969, the number of milking machines in Finland soared from 300 to 80,000, coinciding with a rise in women's representation on municipal councils from the mid-1960s. This was no coincidence: milking machines helped women rise from their milking stools and enter political life.
But the picture was not entirely rosy. While mechanization liberated women from exhausting work, it also deprived them of a task at which they excelled, diminishing the value of their expertise.
The effects of technological innovation are therefore profoundly context-dependent. Yet, as Forslund concludes, ‘if the stars align', technological change can empower people to influence politics and exercise greater control over their lives.
Progress on a plate
Tucking into a serving of carbonara, which has set him back just 155 kronor (roughly 15 euros), Jens Liljestrand ponders what this decadent, calorie-laden dish says about modern Sweden.
Growing up in a soldier's cottage in southern Småland, Swedish author Vilhelm Moberg subsisted on rye bread and porridge, sometimes sweetened with crushed lingonberries, with salted herring and ‘rancid pork' for protein. Fresh meat was reserved for special occasions; a schoolmate's fried-egg sandwich was a stark reminder of class differences.
While researching his biography of Moberg, Liljestrand visited the cottage where Jan Troell's film The Emigrants was shot. There, he imagined having to feed his own children with whatever he could coax from the stony soil.
‘I eat my carbonara and think about how the memory of hunger and starvation has been almost completely erased from our society.' Almost being the operative word: memories of hardship linger, with older generations marvelling at the abundance they have witnessed in later life.
Medical and technological advances are undeniable, but are we happier for living longer lives, our eyes glued to our phones? ‘Yet fullness is non-negotiable', and perhaps that's worth celebrating. ‘To see a child eat until they are full. Sometimes human progress is that simple to recognize.'
If Sweden were a pizza
Is kebab pizza Swedish? For Jakob Norrhall, the answer is a resounding ‘yes'. And Norrhall is not alone: it is apparently a favourite of Jimmie Åkesson, leader of the far-right Sweden Democrats, provided it comes with ‘garlic, jalapeños, mushrooms, hot sauce and French fries'.
Indeed, it is intriguing that a politician so strict on immigration should show such enthusiasm for this eminently multicultural dish. But kebab pizza epitomizes Swedish food culture, both ‘empirically and in the national psyche'. And what better way to explore this culinary experimentation than with the samurai pizza, ‘a mishmash of five and a half different countries, all desecrated on the same plate.'
Norrhall makes a pilgrimage to an industrial estate in Vallentuna to taste this culinary monstrosity. He describes it in uncomfortable detail: a bread base, a medley of meats and lashings of eclectic sauces, all swimming in shimmering pools of orange fat. Talk turns philosophical: ‘Is it pizza? Or Thai food with bread? What would Wittgenstein have said?'
Each bite fills him with patriotism. This is precisely what it means to be Swedish: not splitting hairs over sacrosanct recipes, but freely borrowing, blending and innovating. ‘We do not start wars because some Italian puts pineapple on our palt.'
The pizza is awful, of course, but the taste left in Norrhall's mouth is sweet. This is the flavour of Sweden itself: ‘nothing is more Swedish than mixing things together.'
Splashing out
In the modern era of mass consumerism, luxury has become commonplace. With a bit of penny-pinching, even modest households can indulge in a taste of the high life.
Yet this view of luxury, Leif Runefelt explains, is relatively new. As the title of his 2015 book suggests, luxury was once seen as a surefire ticket to personal and societal ruin. In eighteenth-century Sweden, excessive consumption was considered worse than war or disease. ‘Even the Black Death was less damaging to a country than luxury.'
Such attitudes had deep historical roots, from ancient Greece and Rome to the Aztecs and feudal Japan. Aristotle explained the premodern view best: virtue lay in the golden mean between extremes, with moderation defined according to one's station in society. What was acceptable for the wealthy could be condemned as extravagance among the poor, threatening the rigid social hierarchy. Luxury was not merely an economic or political issue, but an ‘ethical, almost cosmological one', to be resisted through virtue and regulation.
Only in the nineteenth century did attitudes change. As the society of estates collapsed and industrialization gathered pace, luxury became accessible to the masses. Today, this democratization has reached new heights with ‘masstige', combining mass consumption with prestige. Herein lies the paradox of capitalist production: luxury must be both exclusive and widely accessible.
Yet moralism continues to follow luxury like a shadow. The popularity of Swedish television programme Lyxfällan (‘The luxury trap') is a case in point. ‘Can they really afford that?', we ask, enraptured. But while we readily scrutinize others' excesses, we are less inclined to confront the consequences of our own, even as the climate crisis looms ever larger.
Review by Cadenza Academic Translations
