I’m watching Babette’s Feast again [dir. Gabriel Axel, 1987], which is up there as one of my all-times. Thinking a lot these days about that part of the world (forgive me, I’m lumping a whole lot of land and sea and peoples together) – from a Moomin-themed Sunday (do not be fooled, the wisdom of Snufkin is deeply dark indeed), to recalling my own short days in Finland, and of course my constant online searches for ‘food’, for ‘daily life’. It’s very likely just this time of year, but I like to think there’s something running thread-like and true through who and what (and where?) I am and am from.
I am moved to remark – to myself, and how very now – that these Danes are very welcoming of someone fleeing civil war in their own country. Pauses to let that one land like a dropped….. baking…… tray.
Also comes the realisation (finally) that I think I prefer – or rather am drawn more closely to the screen by – the ale bread and the salted fish which Babette (expert cook) is so awkwardly instructed on by our sisters, than the fine and fancy eponymous feast which Babs magics up post-jackpot.
Not to mention the hunker-down houses and the horizontal rain; the December-grey earth. Jutland, its feast, calling.