Hygge on the Vineyard

Edited by Marina Crouse

I love it when Nordic trends permeate our culture. Edible guides to pickling herring and crafting cardamom twists have sprouted up next to the Keto and Mediterranean diet bibles. It seems that minimalist and/or grey design of any sort is now declaratively labeled “Scandinavian.” The title of Happiest Country in the World is frequently awarded to Finland, Norway, or Denmark, which yields scores of books and shows touting the benefits of approaching life like Helmi and Freja. What has arguably become the most embraced in the U.S. - you could say it’s the pumpkin spice of Nordic buzzwords - is “hygge.” Hygge (pronounced “hoo-guh”) is a Danish/Norwegian term and, while it doesn’t have an exact translation in any other language, its meaning can be easily understood in a place like New England. 

While “coziness” is often used as a rough translation of hygge, the word encapsulates something larger. The four months I spent studying abroad in Copenhagen in college revealed several manifestations of hygge to me, appealing to multiple senses. Candle-lit window sills illuminated my bike ride home as I wove through the neighborhood to my homestay. Nutmeg and other spices wafted through the crowded student cafe, prompting my friends and me to devour a snegle (a cinnamon bun named for its snail shape) after class. A cold beer, Ølfabrikken, to accompany an after-dinner chat with the host family long into the evening. Hearing exchanges of “it was hyggeligt to see you” from their relatives and friends as the gatherings wound down. To act in the spirit of hygge, it was explained to me, is to invite others to partake, to share in joy amidst the mundane, bleak, the harsh (i.e. the sun setting at 3pm). In my beloved copy of How to Hygge, author Signe Johansen writes “Hygge can mean kinship and conviviality. If mindfulness is about the self and looking inward, hygge is about being sociable and looking outward.” 

Hygge deeply resonates with me, likely due in part to the fond times spent with Danes, but also because of my roots in Scandinavia. Despite my rather Irish name, I’m also part Swedish. I identify strongest with the little bit of lingonberry running through my veins, mainly because I find the reserved, level-headed temperament of Swedes admirable. Often compared to glass ketchup bottles, Scandinavians are stereotyped as being initially aloof and unreciprocal to gestures of friendship. This stonewall facade is said to persist for a while until, without warning, they open up to you like gobs of Heinz 57 wantonly saturating your plate of fries. While my various encounters with Nordic folks have both supported and disproven this trope, I’ve found that none of them toss around insincere invitations. Their suggestions of grabbing coffee or catching up sometime aren’t pleasantries, they are genuine offers. Such is hygge. It is not the stifling blast of an industrial heater, rather the gentle heat of a stoked fire pit.

Perhaps the timing of my Copenhagen visit, January through early May, biases my definition of hygge, but I always associate it with the cold. Ideal for surviving the drafty days and longer nights is gathering with good people, trading work gossip over a fire and consuming carbohydrates. Discovering ways to fill winter with excitement make the chapped hands and shoveling suck a bit less. Saturnalia - the ancient Roman festival which yielded many modern-day Christmas rituals - originated from the need to maintain morale during the winter solstice. Such a remedy for the winter blues seems like the epitome of hygge, no? I’ve also appreciated the more introverted manifestations of hygge, which involve oversized sweaters and reading while Tee cooks or vice versa. Living in the Northeast for most of my life, I’ve learned not to fight winter. Wishing for its end means disappointment, as I’ve been fooled both 70-degree February days and snow in May. Instead I approach daylight savings every year with an onslaught of rib-sticking recipes, wool blankets, and an eye to the social calendar. Winter becomes synonymous with hygge, a list of activities I “get” to do instead of a countdown to June, an essential mindset for me. In my first full year here, I’m hoping to discover what hygge looks like on the Vineyard.

I’ve concluded that food is an essential practice in hygge for the year-round folk. With many restaurants closed for the season, people are likely keen on whipping up their own comfort food rather than ordering from one or two spots every night of the week. In fact, a vendor I interviewed over the summer told me “the best place to eat here is your own kitchen.” I plan on following suit with some hearty chilis and southeast asian recipes. Whenever the temperature drops I’m drawn to spice and vibrance in my dishes. Beyond this, I’m rather clueless about what constitutes Vineyard hygge. I’d love to know what sort of meals power islanders through the flurries, wind, and canceled ferries. How are people gathering? What rituals and activities are keeping the community connected? Are there underground Saturnalia festivities occurring right under my nose? If it involves a sacrificial goat, I’m out.