Table and Time
When Cultures Meet in Heaven
A Celestial Gathering with grave beer and flour helva.
I'm learning Danish.
Even though I’m still nowhere near being able to give a recipe in it, and my 11-month-old pronounces the word “glasses” better than I do, I still have hope.
I hope that one day, I’ll suddenly understand an entire conversation!
For a long time now, my Saturday mornings have been filled with Danish like a luxurious and multicultural nut mix.
Teachers who wonder aloud why they're even teaching us, also brilliant some teachers, people from every country, sweet friendships, a whirlwind of languages and cultures…
Once a week, I try to pronounce in Danish things I can’t even fully express in English.
Yesterday, for instance, I attempted to explain this:
“No, we don’t really celebrate birthdays. Culturally, we sort of stop after 30. We don’t like to remember our age. My mom’s been 30 for years.”
Someone else shared this: “We only celebrate the 60s.”
I later found out over dinner with my husband that it has something to do with the stars aligning in a strange way.
These classes are wonderful spaces where you can directly ask people about the quirks of their countries.
“Do you really jump into icy water? In winter?”
“As a Catalan, what do you think about that?”
Or you learn the odd little details and beliefs of people you barely know:
“Newspapers are for reading in the bathroom.”
“For my child’s second birthday, I’ll bake a banana cake.”
And there are teachers constantly changing and helping us truly understand the culture in Denmark. A teacher who once said:
“All my life, every special occasion has meant the same menu: soup, roast, and ice cream.”
And added:
“Graveyard beer is famous.”
Maybe you’ve come across this somewhere. In Denmark, people go to cemeteries to have a beer with late writers, spouses, and friends; to take a walk; to drink coffee on a first date. These acts bring peace and joy to Danes. The cemeteries are so beautiful, once you walk through one, it stays with you.
But what truly captivated me was gravøl. The beer you drink seven days after losing someone you love.
A toast to their soul…
Cultures… Rituals… I thought, what an incredible concept.
Because in our culture, we roast helva, mostly un helvası (flour helva).
For hours, in huge cauldrons… Butter, flour, and sugar.
When someone passes away, families immediately gather. The scent rises and is believed to touch the spirit of the one who’s gone.
Flour helva might just be the saddest dessert in the world for some.
But for me, it’s a happy one, because I had a mother who would make it for me any time I asked, without needing a sorrowful reason.
Then I sat down and thought, I have to send a few love-filled messages to the people I care about, today.
Before remembering the impermanence of life, with its bitter beer and sweet dessert…
I wanted to remind you, too.
Time... tick-tock... is passing.
Don’t postpone a thing.
In honor of this writing, I’m leaving a Danish rhubarb flour helva right here.
If you’re in Copenhagen on June 2nd, let me know. You’re invited for dinner.
To the soul of everyone you’ve loved.
Cheers.
Nesrin Eren
