Chapter 10 #2
“And clumsy,” Katrine adds. “He dropped a knife right next to my foot the other day. And Nora said he left the stove burner on last week after making the caramel sauce.”
Brady grimaces.
The other students start filing into the room, grabbing stark-white aprons from hooks on the far wall and heading over to the workstations. Brady darts to the hooks and grabs two aprons.
“For you,” he says, handing one to me.
“I thought I was just observing,” I say.
“You don’t help, you don’t eat,” he quips. “Plus, you’re my stand-in Allen until he has a cup of Katrine’s wonder coffee.”
“Fair enough,” I say, enjoying the sensation of slipping the apron over my neck and securing the ties, wrapping them around my waist once fully before tying them in the front.
The tight knot against my rib cage feels comforting.
Like a seat belt, a uniform, armor. I feel prepared.
Ready for anything. Happily playing a part in all this.
Can an apron embody the spirit of hygge?
As soon as Nora and Johanna return, class officially begins.
When Brady starts talking, I’m jolted by the strength and timbre of his voice; he’s even more eloquent and charismatic with an audience, and I find myself so mesmerized by his delivery, I’m unable to fully take in the content.
But I snap into focus when I hear him say my name.
“As my lovely and knowledgeable sous-chef, Maggie, just informed me,” he starts, “‘Ebelskiver’ translates to apple slices.”
The class turns their attention to me and I smile, feeling my cheeks grow warm. “Because they were originally filled with pieces of apple,” I explain.
I see a few raised eyebrows and nods. When Katrine smiles with approval, my shoulders relax.
“Today, however, we are not filling them with fresh fruit,” Brady goes on. “We’ll be using a locally made vanilla-rhubarb jam.”
As Brady instructs the class through the demo, his ease and flow remind me of a seasoned ringmaster. And as I help him with various tasks—from cracking eggs to handing him a whisk to preheating the cast aluminum pan—I feel less like a sous-chef and more like a magician’s assistant.
“This pan is nonstick,” Brady says. “But adding butter to the pan and spreading it within the well will help make them golden brown. For this, you can swirl the pan, but I prefer using a pastry brush.”
I begin spreading the butter with the pastry brush as he instructed, and then feel Brady’s hand cover mine, guiding my movement. He stands close, just behind me, and I can feel his breath on my neck as he talks.
“You’ll want to coat the inside of the wells evenly,” he says. “Before adding the batter.”
If I were to simply turn my head, our mouths would be mere inches from each other. I focus on keeping my head straight, my eyes on the class.
The rest of the demo continues this way; the warmth of Brady beside me as we fill the wells of the pan with batter, top each with a teaspoon of jam, and carefully flip them.
He remains professional and courteous the whole time, acting no different than a sports coach correcting a player’s form, and yet . . .
I hadn’t expected Brady’s touch, his close proximity, to stir me so much.
I grab the dirty dishes and bring them to the sink. I start to spray them with hot water and hope the scrubbing motion will loosen the tightly wound knot developing in my chest. It’s been a while, but I remember this feeling. It’s pain and joy at once—a deep longing for connection.
Vulnerability.
After class, I join the Scandi Trio back in their room to enjoy the Ebelskivers we made and, of course, more coffee. Brady says he has a few business items to handle, but he’ll stop over in a bit. I’m relieved to hear this, still reeling from the intensity of working beside him.
Without seeing any of the other cabins on-site, I understand the work the girls have put in to making their accommodations feel comfortable.
It’s a fairly small space for three girls—maybe twelve by twelve feet—but they’ve somehow transformed it into something out of HGTV.
Their bunk beds have been stacked to one side, leaving a large amount of floor space for a soft fabric couch, two side chairs—one high back and tufted, the other made of some kind of fur—and a coffee table, all on top of a very fluffy shag carpet.
It’s so soft, I imagine walking on it barefoot must feel like petting a chinchilla with your feet.
A large decorative tray tops the coffee table and houses an artfully stacked pile of books, crowned by a jar candle, one of about seven candles I quickly count in the room.
Green houseplants dot the windowsill and seem to beckon the sun through the window.
I look up and see the girls have covered the overhead fluorescent light with some sort of gauzy material studded with white twinkling lights.
Several pieces of art, mostly woodsy nature scenes, hang on the walls.
“Do you see what we mean?” Katrine asks, gesturing to the space.
“Very hygge,” I say.
“Please sit down,” Nora says, and I sink into the couch. It’s made of memory foam.
I watch the girls quickly pull together a proper party.
Johanna plates the Ebelskivers—still glistening with oil and snowcapped with a sprinkling of powdered sugar—and lights the candles.
Katrine makes more coffee, and Nora pulls out chunks of cheese and grapes and glazed nuts from their makeshift kitchen and pantry.
Soon, we’re all sitting around a table of food and drink, laughing and talking in their cozy cabin.
After a few minutes, I notice Katrine studying me rather intently, like I’m a portrait in an art museum. “Maggie, are you by chance of Danish heritage? Or Swedish?”
“I don’t think so.” I tell them that my last name, Brodbeck, means bread baker in German. “I think I’m mostly Western European.”
Katrine is still staring at me. In fact, all three of them are.
“It’s just that you look . . . Scandinavian,” Johanna says.
I self-consciously bite into an Ebelskiver. The rhubarb jam zaps my tongue, tart and sweet. “Really? How so?”
“You’re quite tall,” Johanna states. “Scandinavian women are three inches taller than American women on average.”
“But it’s more than that,” Katrine adds. “You’re resilient.”
I cock my head. “How do you know I’m resilient?”
Katrine wiggles her fingers in the air. “It’s just your aura. You know your own abilities and trust they’ll be there when you need them most.”
I suddenly feel like I’m having my palm read. “And that’s Scandinavian?”
The three girls all nod emphatically.
“My friend in Finland calls it sisu,” Nora adds.
“See-soo?” I repeat.
Nora nods. “There’s no exact translation, but you might call it inner strength or tenacity.”
I consider this. “Wasn’t Finland named the happiest country in the world?” I ask.
“Yes,” Johanna says. “But all of our countries are in the top seven.”
I study the three young women for a beat. They look like they’re in their late teens or early twenties, yet they seem older. There’s something assured about all of them.
“So what’s the secret to happiness?” I ask.
“I think the key to being truly happy is having a sense of purpose,” Katrine says, “If you have that, you know what to do, how to behave, and you feel like you make a difference in the world.”
“Yes, purpose is important,” Johanna argues. “But I think being true to yourself is even more crucial. You cannot live a lie. You have to be authentic. You have to figure out who you really are, not what other people want you to be, and then have the courage to be that person.”
“Well, I think it’s dessert,” Nora adds, grabbing another Ebelskiver. “And a good cup of coffee. And good company.”
“I’ll toast to that,” I say, and we all clink our coffee mugs. “On the subject of authentic self, and doing what you love and having a purpose, is this what you all want to do? Become pastry chefs?”
Each girl says yes. Katrine says she dreams of someday being the head pastry chef at a famous hotel in Copenhagen. Johanna says she hopes to start a culinary school and teach classes just like “Professor Shaw.” Nora shares that she’d like to open her own bakery in Oslo.
“What is your passion, Maggie?” Johanna asks. “What is your dream?”
The question makes me pause.
I love my job. It’s interesting, important, and I’m paid well.
The research and teaching at the university level certainly feed my brain, my need for cerebral stimulation.
But after spending only a day in St. John’s Ferry, I wonder if my job is also feeding my heart and soul.
I felt so alive and in the moment when I made the rhubarb scones this morning.
And earlier today, in Brady’s class making the Ebelskivers, I went deeply into flow and lost all track of time.
It feels like there’s a creative energy locked inside me here, dying to get out, something I don’t feel at work.
“I’m still trying to figure that out,” I finally tell them.
We hear a knock at the door, and a second later, Brady pops his head in. “Ladies, I trust you’ve been taking good care of Maggie,” he says.
Katrine winks. “The best.”
His eyes dart to mine. “I’d love to walk you to your car when you’re ready to go.”
“Oh, we’re done here,” Katrine says, conspiratorially clearing the plates.
“Yes, plenty of time to walk to the car now,” Nora adds, quickly assisting her.
We hear the girls giggle as soon as we shut the cabin door. They’re extremely eloquent and intelligent young ladies, but their laughter now reminds me of a childhood playground.
Brady must think the same thing. “If they were any younger, or American, they’d be singing ‘Brady and Maggie sitting in a tree’ right now,” he says.
I can’t help but blush. There is certainly a spark between us, but neither of us has put words to it. We walk a few steps along the path, then Brady stops.