After a dozen or so gammeldansks, language no longer matters. Just food. I cannot deny the drunken danish blood running through my veins, nor do I have any desire to.
Cooking while drunk is something I think I learned by osmosis from my father. So when I was midway through cooking my dinner after a glass of mead, it was only natural that I should change my mind and make fried risotto cakes from sratch.
Though I wish that craving for caviar would fade... only answer? More booze. Let's hear it for hard working, alchohol producing yeast! Wooo!