Danish Modern

Maggie found Knut rummaging in the kitchen. She often found him scrounging a snack, though breakfast was hours away. If he couldn’t sleep, she couldn’t sleep.

Compared to their daily lapses in communication, midnight snacks were of little note. An immigrant from Denmark, Knut spoke English pretty well. Though it often seemed the piece lost in translation was meaning.

He noticed her watching from the shadows and continued his foraging.

She said, “I sense tension between us.”

He paused, “That makes no sense.”

“Are you tense with me?”

“I was but it’s passed.”

Turning conversation into puns was play they both enjoyed. Regardless what constitutes a ‘good pun,’ his enthusiasm compensated for his lack of subtlety. But at this hour, sleep weighed more than subtlety.

A mist drifted over his back as he spoke from within the refrigerator. “My kingdom for a Danish… I’m half starved.”

She couldn’t help herself. “Would you a cheese Danish or Danish cheese?”

He stood and spoke. Crumbs shot from his mouth, like a pastry volcano. “These shortbread cookies taste as if the devil himself were sugared over.”

“What’s your mood, Knut? I’ll make you something.”

He sighed, “That’s my curse. I cannot decide. Even the I Ching couldn’t help. That funny collection of ‘changes’ locked onto static pages is frozen synchronicity.”

She nodded. He always carried it, but rarely opened it.

“…But, you know me. I couldn’t decide to use yarrow sticks or coins to divine the answer. My I Ching needs an I Ching.” He looked puzzled. “How does anyone do anything, when something else always needs doing first? It’s like I’m perpetually moving in reverse.”

She smiled. “Then turn around.”

He glanced at the collection of foodstuffs he’d placed on the counter and acknowledged her hint.

“I’m famished, but none of that calls me. The siren’s song is fickle. Indecision is exhausting.”

“I suspect you feed on boundless potential. Food is a pastime, but indecision’s your battery.”

He shrugged, unsure if she were kidding.

“Come to bed. I’ll cook you breakfast in the dawn.”

“Ahh, to nap… perchance to dream…”

She sat at the counter and stifled a yawn. “I once dreamt of a room with doorways everywhere. And beyond them, endless doorways receded like a mirror reflecting to infinity. Each door was but a threshold to other doors. And so on. But I couldn’t choose.”

“Welcome to my world. Of course, by not choosing, you’re compelled, at each moment, to stumble across one or another.”

“Exactly. At each moment a gazillion choices. To turn? Go forward? Remain? Return?”

“You see my problem.”

“Of course.”

“I’d like to slam those doors.”

“Yet another choice, leading…”

He slapped his head. “There’s no escape! I’m maddened, riding waves of possibility.”

She smiled at his histrionics. “Maddened or damned?” She leaned on the counter and peered over the various containers dripping condensation. “Did someone mention food?”

He waved her off. “Never mind.” He drank from a carton of milk. Maggie made a face but said nothing.

He gasped after swallowing. “You’ve heard of Schrödinger’s cat? Living a world of possibilities, but once the door is open, reduced to one cat fact. Enjoying a saucer of milk. Or not. Conscious but without conscience. Live or dead.” He licked his lips. “And like her, I’ll eat as I like. Unashamed.”

“Cats are more entitled. You, at least, contemplate morality. Even if rejecting it.”

Knut waxed poetic, “So full of artless jealousy is guilt, it spills itself in fearing to be spilt.”                              

“Aren’t you gilding the lily?”

“Or quilting the silly?” He laughed, “Go to sleep. I’m not the quilty party.”

Maggie sighed, “Not to throw a wet blanket, but I fear you’ve milked that joke dry.”

“Which brings us back to cheese. Did I mention I’m starved?”

“Wholly hungry, but not for Swiss?”

“Don’t insult me. Havarti, please.”

“Brie ain’t free, you know…”

He slumped onto a stool. She moved to the fridge.

“There must be something.” She pulled out a package. “Ahh, here you go. The fillet’s the thing.”

“Herring...? I don’t know…”

“Hmmm… Deviled eggs have the power to assume a pleasing shape.”

“An omelet would serve, would you serve it?”

“An omelet then. Stand back. Simple or stuffed?”

Knut stood and groaned, “Another choice? Stop the torture…”

“Relax, Knut. You protest too much. Sit down and feed and welcome to my table. What will you drink?”

He returned to his seat. “Old Fashions suit me best.”

“Alas, I’m out of brandy.”

“What brand are you shy?”

“Any you could name.”

“Then brandish another. I die of thirst.” She moved to the liquor cabinet and examined the contents.

Knut called out, “Waiter, I cannot wait for water.”

“I’ll make coffee. It’s almost time for breakfast.”

“Always… If you have poison for me, I will drink it.”

She cracked open a soda. “So scrupulous. Accept the fizz.”

“We know what we are cooking but not what we may eat.”

“You who won’t decide the tune, cannot set the time.”

She bustled about, humming all the while. Knut sniffed the air and watched her every move like a dog eyeing a morsel. She poured coffee. Sweetening and creaming it distracted him. At last she flipped her concoction onto a plate and slid it to him.

“There! Eat!”

He sighed with contentment. “Now I feed myself with the most delicious poison - a ham omelet.”

He loaded his fork and raised it. Then shuddering, dropped it back to the plate.

“Wow! Something is truly spoiled in Denmark! I said poison, but not that.”

Maggie looked affronted.

Knut pushed the plate toward her. “What a piece of work’s this ham. Take a whiff of this and tell me hell does not breathe out contagion to this world. This is rank. It smells to heaven, this homely omelet. This 'hamelet.'”

Maggie sighed, took the plate and disposed of the rancid meal.

“I’ll start again.”

Knut shook his head. “Ham delights not me, no nor herring neither. Yet I hunger greatly.”

He watched Maggie. Her humor had gone.

He bit his toast and made a face. “This would be more palatable were it made with Legos. It’s un-chewable.”

She tossed it as well. She punctuated the silence with a slammed cupboard door. 

He tried to make light. “Tis an ill cook who cannot lick his own fingers.”

Maggie responded. “Speak for yourself.” She paced about. “There must be something. My stomach growls.”

“There’s small choice in rotten apples.”

She didn’t respond but pulled a box from the freezer and began again. Soon he heard  sizzling.

Curious what might be coming, he sniffed the air. “God has given you one plate full, yet you make yourself another.”

Weary of his chatter, Maggie busied herself. “There are more things in heaven and earth, than dreamed of in your pantry, Knut. To thine own shelf be true.”

“What the hell?”

“You’ve wasted enough time. Eat what I serve, or go hungry.”

She put a plate before him. “As you like it.”

A broad smile spread across his face as he saw what she had cooked. Inhaling deeply, he stabbed one of the objects with his fork and cooled it with his breath.

Maggie gave him a nod and said, “So there. Now eat.”

Knut popped the delicacy into his mouth whole. He murmured while he chewed, “Goodnight, sweet blintz…”