smákökur í eldhúsinu
I, meanwhile, had already helped myself to a couple cookies this morning (they had been sitting there since 8 a.m.!) and I told my coworker Árni to "watch me" as I opened the bag and ate a third cookie post-lunch. He and the others standing around gasped and called me donalegur (rude). I was sure that the treats had come from our new American coworker (and IR reader) Erika, who I knew loves to bake. And in the U.S., as I explained to my Icelandic friends, stuff left out on a common table at work disappears fairly rapidly by design.
Well, it turned out I was right, as I found out when I stopped by Erika's desk. She had been wondering why nobody was touching the treats, so around lunchtime she had put half the cookies on a plate in an attempt to make them look more attractive. I told her the coworkers were expecting some form of invitation, so she and I composed an email.
Within one minute of her sending out the company gjörið þið svo vel email, a good third of the Milky Way bar cake was gone and the smákökur were disappearing in a Cookie-Monsteresque feeding frenzy, crumbs flying in the air and landing in the middle of the foosball game.
So next time you find yourself in Iceland and jonesing to dish out baked treats to your fellow men, just make sure you put up a sign and make your intentions clear.