Chapter 10
Later that afternoon, Alice and Hannah have conveniently concocted a long list of plans—more fishing at the pond, harvesting turnips in the garden, reading Stuart Little.
So I drive into town alone, and realize St. John’s Ferry is an adorable Midwest destination.
Brady’s classes are held at Camp Stockholm, a former religious sleepaway camp for affluent children turned adult conference and retreat center.
It’s at the northern end of town, so I enjoy the sights and sounds of Main Street as I make my way there—an old post office, train depot, pharmacy, bakery, bookstore, coffee shop, and a park with a gazebo.
Even though it’s just a Monday afternoon, people are out walking dogs and popping in and out of businesses.
I see signs along the way promoting the town’s annual Midsommar Festival and wish Hannah and I could have come later in the month so we could attend. We’ll be back in Eastridge long before.
Once I park, I follow the signs to the kitchen/mess hall.
Freshly painted in a seaside blue, the cabins face each other like boys and girls in a square dance, with a rustic stone pathway as the dividing line.
I soon see Brady carrying an assortment of boxes, including the jam he picked up this morning.
“Let me get the door for you,” I call out.
“Perfect timing.” He looks over my shoulder. “Where are your partners in crime?”
I tell him about Alice and Hannah’s laundry list of afternoon activities.
“They seem to have a pretty special relationship,” he notes as we enter the kitchen.
“Yeah, they do. Hannah has only spent one day with Alice, but there’s something so natural about their connection.
” I think about how Alice acts like the grandmother I always hoped my mother would be.
“I brought the knitting needles,” I add, pulling them out of my purse.
“And I came early, to see if you needed any help setting up?”
“I appreciate it.” He checks his watch. “I actually have an assistant, a sous-chef, but he’s better at setting the oven temperature than an alarm clock.”
I smile. “I’m at your disposal. What can I do?”
Brady walks me through the prep needed for today: “I have my students do all their own measuring and mise en place before we start. It’s part of the job, and they have to learn that by doing it themselves.
But to save time, I do take inventory and organize all the ingredients in one spot on the counter so we don’t waste time going back and forth to the pantry.
” He hands me a copy of the recipe for Ebelskivers and a bussing pan.
“Can you pull all the bulk dry ingredients, and I’ll grab the wet ones? ”
The huge pantry—about a third of the kitchen—is pristine, almost a work of geometric art.
Jars, canisters, and bottles of every ingredient possible sit perfectly spaced by category on the shelves, each container labeled and filled.
It’s easy to find everything in the recipe, from the flour to the baking soda to the powdered sugar.
“I’m really impressed you’re making Ebelskivers as part of your class,” I say, setting the containers neatly on the counter. “They’re a very culturally specific dish.”
“True. But I usually have at least five international students in my class. There’s an exchange program through the university,” he explains, unloading eggs, buttermilk, and butter on the counter.
“I like to make those students feel welcome by creating dishes from their countries. I’ve had students from Russia, Japan, Australia, and even India in past years.
They’re here for six weeks, and they get homesick. ”
“So I take it you have Danish students this year?”
“Ja,” he says in Danish, before translating. “Yes.”
I smile.
“Actually, I have only one Danish student. But I have another from Sweden and one from Norway. We’ve started calling them the Scandinavian Trio. I know, that sounds like a folk music group.” He laughs. “Anyway, they each have some version of an Ebelskiver in their country’s cuisine.”
I nod. “Did you know ‘Ebelskiver’ translates to apple slices? Because they used to fill the pancakes with little bits of apple?”
He raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t. But I really am starting to think you should be the one teaching this class.”
“Me?” I feel a warmth rise from my stomach to my cheeks, and look away in case I’m actually blushing.
I realize it’s been a long time since a man—and a very nice-looking one—paid me a compliment.
Brady praised my scones earlier today, but this feels different.
I’m almost embarrassed by my schoolgirl reaction.
We finish preparations, setting the Ebelskiver pans on the stove, and making sure there are enough clean mixing bowls, whisks, et cetera, for his twelve students. We continue making small talk before his class arrives.
“Have you always lived in the Midwest?” I ask him.
He nods. “Born and raised. But not always Wisconsin. I grew up in a suburb just outside Minneapolis. You?”
“West Coast. Los Angeles.”
“My sisters would be jealous. They were always infatuated with California. Hollywood.”
“You have sisters?”
He grimaces. “Three younger sisters. I’m the oldest.”
“Poor guy.”
“Yeah, poor me.” He laughs. “Nah, it wasn’t so bad.
In fact, if it wasn’t for them, I might not be a pastry chef.
I baked my very first batch of brownies in their Easy-Bake Oven.
And not to brag”—he throws me a coy look and shrugs—“but my turtle cheesecake brownies became a school bake sale legend.”
I smile at his bravado. “Oh, I bet.”
Brady smiles, and I try to stay in the moment, but I begin to wonder if I should steer the conversation, ask if he’s noticed any other unusual changes in Alice, besides her missing the meeting.
The timing feels off, though. Plus, I’m truly enjoying our natural back-and-forth, and don’t want to veer us off course.
I catch a glimpse of a cabin through the kitchen window. “Do your students stay in these cabins for the six weeks?” I ask.
Brady nods. “The tuition also covers room and board. Lodging and meals. It’s immersive in that way. We eat our meals together here in the mess hall, and in the evenings, we often have a fire, stargaze, play board games, listen to music.”
“Oh, you stay on the property too?”
“Yep, it’s immersive for me as well. I really get to know my students. Plus, it’s a breath of fresh air from city life. The cabin is sparse, and the bed isn’t all that comfortable. But I don’t know, I think I’m happier here than the whole rest of the year in Madison.”
I think about the past twenty-four hours in St. John’s Ferry at Alice’s farmhouse. I’ve slept better, eaten better, breathed easier. My mind is quiet, calm.
Am I happier here?
Three female students, all tall and fair skinned, arrive first for class.
“God eftermiddag,” the tallest sings.
“Good afternoon to you too,” Brady replies. “Scandi Trio, this is my friend, Maggie. I was just telling her about you. She’s joining us today. Maggie, this is Katrine from Denmark, Nora from Norway, and Johanna from Sweden.”
“Hello,” I say and give a small wave.
“Hello,” they reply in unison.
“How do you like your stay in the US so far?” I ask.
“Very much. It looks a lot like Sweden,” says Johanna, who wears her blond hair in a short pixie style.
“But it’s hotter,” Nora adds.
“Are you all sharing a cabin?” I ask.
Katrine, the tall one, who has bluntly cut shoulder-length brown hair, answers. “Yes, the one right next door. It’s small for three people but very hygge.”
“Hygge?” I repeat the word just as I heard it, hyoo-guh. “I don’t know what that is.”
“Really?” Katrine laughs. “I thought all Americans were obsessed with hygge.”
“Yeah, it’s Denmark’s biggest cultural export,” Nora says in jest.
The three girls share a laugh.
“But what is it?” I ask.
They look at each other and shrug, letting out small, uncomfortable laughs. Finally, Katrine tries to explain it to me. “There is no exact English equivalent,” she says. “But the best word is cozy.”
“And warm and comfortable and safe,” Nora adds. “In Norway, we call it koselig.”
“Koosh-lee?” I repeat.
She nods enthusiastically.
“And we call it mys or mysa in Sweden, but it means the same thing,” Johanna adds.
“I see,” I say, stealing a quick glance at Brady. “Like a cozy environment.”
Katrine nods. “Yes, but not only the environment. The feeling inside your heart. In your mind.”
“It is feeling whole,” Nora says, pulling her long blond hair into a ponytail in preparation for food prep. “Content. Sharing good times with people you love.”
“Being in nature,” Johanna adds. “And lighting candles.”
I narrow my eyes. “One word means all of that?”
They nod in unison.
“I love it,” I say.
“You will come see our cabin after class,” Katrine commands. “Then you will understand it more. Okay?”
I pause, slightly taken aback by Katrine’s directness. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Katrine repeats, then looks around the kitchen. “Professor Shaw, where is your assistant this morning?”
Brady Shaw.
“Allen is probably still sleeping,” Brady answers.
“We’ll wake him,” Nora says, pulling Johanna’s arm.
“And I’ll make him some coffee,” Katrine announces, heading to the pantry, as the other two rush out of the door on a mission, smiling and laughing as they go.
“Professor?” I whisper to Brady once Katrine leaves the room.
“She insists on calling me that,” he whispers back.
“A good strong cup of coffee should do the trick,” Katrine says, toting a bag of whole coffee beans from the pantry. “It worked last time.”
“Last time?” I say. “Is it time to find a new assistant?”
“Unfortunately, Allen’s father, Gerry, owns this camp,” Brady explains. “And he rents the facilities out to the university for a reduced price. Allen is an innately creative pastry chef for his age. But definitely unreliable.”