CAPTAIN COPENHAGEN

Captain Copenhagen tells the story of Helen and her daughter Leonie. After Leonie is diagnosed with depression at 14 years old, Helen decides that they need to move to the country that has been attributed as one of the happiest countries in the world, Denmark. Her hope is that she can use the country, culture and everything Danish to “cure” her daughter and make her happy again. Unfortunately, it’s not that simple.

This blog is a work of fiction. It includes comedic episodes from Helen’s perspective as she tries to navigate Danish life, and more subdued episodes from Leonie’s perspective as she tries to navigate her mother.

All episodes can be found at www.captaincopenhagen.co.uk.

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TRIGGER WARNING: Captain Copenhagen explores the topic of mental health.

The Day of Christmas

Helen, Mother

I woke up a little bloated after Christmas Eve. I had managed to pull it off… pretty much. And it was now Christmas Day.

I had not thought as far ahead as Christmas Day to be honest. If Christmas Eve was where it was at, what on earth did Danes do on Christmas Day? They’d already done everything hadn’t they? I frantically started to Google. Oh great internet, give me the answers to all of my problems.

I was confidently informed that we should be eating open sandwiches with family and friends. I therefore had to find open sandwiches… and maybe some family and friends?

I looked over at the clock, I had slept late. I guess we had been up late, but still, it was 10.45am and that was extremely late.

I frantically jumped out of bed, put on a lone slipper and threw on whatever clothes I could find. There had to be something in the house that I could make open sandwiches with. I had to make this Danish Christmas for Leonie complete. I cracked open the ‘in case of emergency’ section of my brain and started to make plans.

I was desperately searching around for my second slipper when I heard something. Something was happening in the flat. Was Leonie awake? I located the second devious slipper that I had somehow managed to wedge behind a plant after crawling into bed and throwing it across the room in my inability to move. I apologised to my weathered succulent, crammed my foot into the acquired slipper and hurried towards the source of the noise.

I opened the door to the kitchen and was greeted by the sight of my daughter holding a bowl. She was whisking. A pale substance slopped around the bowl. It was either batter, or the paint I needed to redo the walls.  

She walked over to the counter and put the bowl of whisked liquid next to the oven. ‘Yorkshire Puddings’, was all she said in a quiet voice as she noticed me come in. Back in England, we always had Yorkshire Puddings on Christmas Day. Leonie loved them, so I always made an effort to include them even though it wasn’t traditional. ‘We’re having them, it’s not a discussion’, was what she had said to me at the age of 5. She had tried them as part of Christmas dinner at a friend’s house, and then that was that.

‘But we should be…’ I trailed off, thoughts of the perfect Danish Christmas crumbling away. 

‘What?’ She looked at me like what she was doing was the most normal thing in the world, and I guess she was. It was Christmas after all. Leonie’s Christmas.

She had always really loved Christmas as a child.

‘You didn’t need to make the batter yet.’ I picked up the bowl and gave it one last whisk.

She looked around to try and find the recipe.

‘Yorkshire Puddings only take half an hour to cook. What time were you planning to eat?’ I asked.

‘This is the first batch, it isn’t the dinner batch,’ she replied, opening the hot oven and taking out a muffin tray, each section filled with heated oil. It was the most I had heard her speak in days.

‘What else were you thinking for dinner?’ I continued. She didn’t reply, she was too engrossed in what she was doing. Clearly Yorkshire Puddings were what was most important right now. 

‘You know, if you’ve made batter, we could always make pancakes for breakfast and then have Yorkshire Puddings later?’ I suggested. I saw her face drop ever so slightly.

‘Or we could make Yorkshire Puddings for breakfast’, I quickly corrected myself and guided her as she put the right amount of batter in each section of the tray. It sizzled away.

I wasn’t sure if her appetite was back, or if she just took comfort in making them and having them around. Memories of past Christmases perhaps? Either way, that morning she had found a distraction, a focus, in little fried batter cups. 

‘Batch one can go in now’. She handed me the tray and I did as I was told, leaving them to the warmth of the oven where they could grow. As I came back up for air I caught a glimpse of her and there was the tiniest smile. It didn’t quite reach her eyes, and at times even seemed a little forced, but it was there. And it was then that I knew my Christmas Day was going to be a very British Christmas, filled with British food, British traditions…

… and batches and batches of her favourite Yorkshire Puddings.

And I would keep my lifelong promise to myself to never tell her that I didn’t really like them.