The Scandinavian Insider

Living Here

Glögg Parties Exposed

When the sun has settled into its part-time, winter hours and collars and thermostats are being turned up, it’s a sign we’re all in for another season of glögg parties. The Swedish equivalent of mulled wine, this drink is heated and served in diminutive mugs with a spoonful or two of almonds and raisins.

It might not sound fashionable, but “glögg” is a little, guttural word encompassing a whole world of beverage trends. Limited-edition glöggs are released every year, sometimes selling out weeks before Christmas. There is white-wine glögg, brandy glögg, microbrews, as well as the alcohol-free versions. Yet every winter, I turn, more often than not, to the same orange-labelled bottle of starkvinsglögg (strong-wine glögg). It’s a case of not improving upon perfection, as I love glögg and don’t need to fancy it up. I adore my set of Höganäs glögg mugs and my little spoons. I even love my special bowl for almonds and raisins.  But – dare I say it? – I do not love glögg parties.

Before you send a wild band of jultomte (the Swedish equivalent for Santa Claus) cast me out of the country, just hear me out. I thought I would like glögg parties and I want to like them, but in my experience they tend to be disasters. And I’m not alone. Start asking and you’ll find almost everyone has a story of a bad glögg party. In fact, it is a contradiction in terms. Glögg’s nature is the very opposite of “party.” It’s like a woollen blanket: cosy and warm and not rowdy. If you decide to treat it like any other party tipple, you’re in for a bad night. Overindulging in glögg is like eating too many marshmallows—one is nice, two are better, but a glögg-induced haze leaves a sickeningly sticky and sweet aftertaste and the physical effects are rather undesirable. Glögg is a nice, family drink and downing it like akvavit feels inappropriate and even a tad shameful. 

But most glögg parties aren’t about getting drunk, and most hosts aren’t after a raucous night. These are usually simple, humble affairs that happen in the late afternoon or early evening. The host invites a group of guests (who are often only barely acquainted) to their house for mugs of glögg, plates of pepparkakor (ginger cookies), and holiday cheer. It sounds festive and fun, but in reality, these traditional gatherings tend to be marked by long silences and a stuffy atmosphere. At the worst glögg party I’ve ever attended, no one spoke except my husband and myself. The quietness was so excruciating and protracted, I actually held the empty, mug up to my lips for long periods just to give myself something to do – and prevent myself from spewing out yet another doomed conversation starter. But it’s not dull people who kill glögg parties (although they don’t help!): it’s the expectations. Just the words “glögg party” give me Dickensian visions of snow-covered, windowpanes, Christmas trees and carols. The phrase promises a few hours when the world is simple, tasty, and a little bit light-headed. Everyone is on their best, most charming behaviour, and ready to drink liquid cheer. But these events often end up being paralysed by their own preciousness. The pressure to be rosy-cheeked and happy makes us aware of every frown, awkward silence and conversational dead-end. Then, the fragile “we all love the world and especially glögg” façade comes crumbling down with the first person that passes as the raisins are offered around. All we’re left with is a room full of strangers and a tiny mug of lukewarm wine. Yet everyone forgets this in time for the next glögg party.

So what’s a girl who loves glögg, Christmas, and getting together with friends to do? Should I abandon glögg parties altogether? I’m afraid I can’t. The glögg culture has become too much a part of my winter routine to turn my back on and stick to sipping hot chocolate alone in my flat. I know these parties fail more often than they succeed, and yet I still find myself looking forward to this year’s crop of invitations. Going on my fifth winter in Sweden, I now know that glögg is no miracle worker. It can’t turn a group of strangers into friends and make a wild party sweet. I’m hoping this hard-won knowledge, and my subsequent loss of expectations, may just be the answer to enjoying a glögg party for what it is and not what I’d like it to be. But just to be on the safe side, when it comes to giving invites, I’ll keep mine to below six – big enough for a gathering, but small enough to avoid being labelled a party.

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