Hygge
It's a Danish word that roughly means eating and drinking and being together with friends, a feeling or mood that comes from taking genuine pleasure in making ordinary everyday things simply extraordinary. We don't have any such word in the English language, and life today seems to rarely accommodate such a ritual.
I can be insular, and driven. At work I take no quarter and am not intimidated by blood, death or Congressmen.
Yet at home, I am a caregiver, as my Mom was with us. Even when she was tired, she would make us homemade cookies and pastries to have after school or with our lunch. Shortening scrapped from its can, dough formed and rounded, rolled flat, and rolled up, carefully studded with fragrant spices and baked golden.
When at school, I'd open up my lunch box, and find every given day, a peanut butter sandwich, an apple, coins for milk and an ice cream and a small tinfoil packet I'd unfold with great care. Inside, the scraps of her making, dusted with cinnamon and sugar, soft and whole. I do not share. I scrape the foil clean.
Fast food was only a monthly treat when Mom had bulk shopping to get done or an occasional Dairy Queen cone in the summer. Dinner was taken around the table meal every night except Saturday,which was Barbecued Hamburger Night, even if Dad had to dig the grill out from under the snow, and we ate off of TV trays, as a family, watching old Westerns.
But on those dinners around the big table, I can't recall so much of what we talked about or who said what, but I do remember the gathering, the smells of beef and fresh vegetables, of laughter, of stories from school, from work, a discarding of weighty thought and the simple gathering of those you love, for nourishment of the soul. I can't recreate the exact moments through what I cook, or who I serve it to, but I still can remember how those simple meals made me feel, the redemptive power of the communion of family
You've asked me how I learned to cook, and why. This is why. It's a continuation of family tradition, it's nourishment, it's comfort. The smells of the kitchen warm me, the tastes, a sensuous dance across my tongue. Most days my house is empty but my heart is not. My spirit expands with the smell and taste, texture and touch of something warm from the oven. Something I have crafted from my own hands.
Sometimes there are kitchen disasters; we all have stories of such to share. My first was when I was in college. It was a huge roast which took pretty much all my grocery money for the month. I decided to cook it wrapped in foil, on a very low temperature, for a very long while. But having the usual "look a squirrel!" attention span of a young person, I forgot about it while I readied my apartment. The smell of over-baked bovine soon reached my nostrils as people arrived and we pulled from the oven what appeared to be a charcoal briquette wrapped in foil. Anyone have any Doritos?
There have been other disasters. You've had them too. Exploding Pyrex, "oops that's not cornstarch that's powdered sugar", fully automatic peppercorns spraying around the kitchen after the grinder top came off (cover me!).
flier
up on the instructors bulletin board at my airport, for any errant corporate pilot, commuter jock visiting a instructor friend or my coworkers. An invite to come over to my little place for Thanksgiving dinner.I'd not say I was "friends" with all these guys from the perspective that we hung around outside of work together but we were "family".
These were people I'd spent hours in the cockpit with, occasionally getting the &*#@ scared out of us, absorbing the wonderful colors and shapes and shadows of the sky, making temporary homes in a series of small apartments with multiple roommates, cramming as much as possible into the rare 24 hours we actually were off sometimes, laughing, singing and maybe crying together. So yes, we were family, if only related by adventure and empty pockets. And for that, I could think of no better reason than to peel 30 pounds of potatoes, bake 5 pies, and to to bat my big green eyes at the butcher to talk him out of that extra ham at half off.
Yes, 30 pounds of potatoes, for although I expected RSVP's from about 6 people, I ended up with 27. They arrived with beer and wine for those off duty, pitchers of ice tea for those that were and chips and dips and things to get us started. And thankfully, some extra rolls and pies from the bakery.
It was a wonderful evening, with massive quantities of food eaten, countless stories told and much laughter, eating until we couldn't eat any more. There was something starry in the kitchen that night, where I learned as much about my ability to organize and create as I did about the essential bond that a meal around the table creates, even if it's a bunch of card tables shoved together with white bleached sheets over them.
Did it mean that we all got along perfectly after that night? No, for there were still those days that intruded darkly on hours normally full of light. Those long close quartered days where we plowed through thick dark clouds to reach ice covered firmament, cursing the light long unending demands of West Coast air traffic, and long lines for takeoff. Days where the alarm clock snatched us violently out of wrung out sleep, sweeping us all back into the thrall, impotent for days against returning to home. As much fun as flying could be, after a month of such a schedule, even the best of crews could bicker for a moment like husband and wife. Add trying to go to college part time in there and it was a life of scattered adrenalin, little sleep and scant time for real relationships. Just like life for many of us, with families and jobs and pets and demands.
But that night of re-establishment of ourselves as a group of pilots confirmed that, occasional squabbling or personality quirks aside, we were all in this for pretty much the same reason. We were brothers and sisters in the sky, wanting to do the best for our passengers, our students while we, in turn, strove upwards to goals that were often far beyond the sky. Because I think we all knew, what defines friendship and family - connection, trust, honesty, unwavering support, is what we all needed to find our way home. Home to that table of shared communion, laughter, the fullness of Grace, the flavors of our lives blending into something memorable.
You don't have to peel 30 pounds of potatoes. You don't have to be a Martha Stewart kind of woman. You don't even have to be a woman. Anyone can create a memorable family meal with real food, without a lot of work. Like this: fresh bratwurst style sausage sauteed in butter with some bottled spicy orange sauce and a couple dashes of Tiger Sauce til the sauce caramelizes. Hot and sweet, served over a big communal bowl of fragrant rice sauteed with mushrooms and some chopped green onion (which counts as your vegetable :-) Add a glass of wine, or a jug of tea. It's a meal. It's a memory.
If you haven't done so in a while. If you've NEVER done so, some weekend soon, plan a meal around the dining table with your family. The meals don't have to be six courses, they will not always be perfect, some will be the subject for family laughter for years to come. But do it. For I do know that if you don't, you will miss out on something. Remove the mail and the junk that collects on that formal dining room table, turn off the TV, turn the cell phones off. Don't panic if it's a bit burnt around the edge, it's still a meal in which you'll reconnect. "Eating and drinking and being together with friends". You won't have these days back again.
Hygge.
There's a lot of "stuff" that piled up on the other side of the garage, brought in when our temperatures got down in the minus 10's, the garage having a small propane heater for winter workbench projects. Things that could be moved elsewhere now that it has warmed up to a balmy 30. And the shelves, built by either the former owner or elves on crack, were about to fall down.
Get out the saw, get some scrap lumber and the shelves might never hold a lot of weight, but they might actually be useful for the miscellaneous Christmas decor, paint and targets that collect.
The Glock sign, which Doyle, my favorite range officer, once gave me, hides the old paint cans. Some rollers were put on the old cabinet there on the left so I could roll it around to use as a portable space to work or saw. Above it, fixed to the wall, a little shelf that's lower in height for guests that may not be as tall as I and want to get to some basic supplies.
The sink is old and discolored but it has hot water which is nice.
My "flying cow" sign from Oshkosh has GOT to stay.
And perhaps a couple targets from the other weekend.
Add some Italian meats and cheese and a topping of some homemade olive tapenada made with olives, pine nuts, garlic, rosemary and other spices.
Hard work yet rewarding work. A good shop and a home that's self sufficient in times of problems is good. And tools. Did I mention tools?? :-)
Now I'm done and fed, time to take a long soak in the big old fashioned bathtub. I put on an old bathrobe of someone who I loved dearly, who is now gone, after I got out of my old clothes. I don't have much of theirs any more, getting rid of some in the aftermath, other things given to those who could use them and make good use of them. I like the robe. It enfolds me and comforts the aching muscles, the aching questions. Would you be proud of me now? Did I do the right thing? I've totally reinvented my life in the last decade, yet with all the upheaval and punishment, sweat and bliss, I'm at peace here wrapped in the last remembrance of you.
