I've been thinking a lot as the seasons have started to shift about the desire to burrow that overwhelms me at this time every year, and the subsequent guilt that always accompanies it. Growing up in northern New England, a region with some of the toughest winters out there, I was always taught that winter was something to brace against. My friends and I had contests to see who could stand in the snow barefoot the longest. Snow days were for building snowmen and ice skating until our fingers and toes couldn't take it anymore. We were taught that chilly weather was no excuse to stay cooped up in the house. Which explains the glimmer of childish glee I felt during this recent illness, even though I felt like I had been hit by a freight train. I had an excuse, a get-out-of-jail free card to cave into my cozy craving.
Of course, there was warmth to my childhood winters in Vermont, too. I remember wood stoves, mittens dripping on radiators, kicking off boots and stepping around the puddles pooling on the linoleum. But even so, it was something to be earned, something we knew was precious. We were scolded for lying around in the living room for too long, or sitting on the heating vents. Maybe it was just that our parents didn't want us underfoot, but I think there was a very real New England sensibility at work: don't get too comfortable, because you're going to have to go right back out there again. It wasn't until much later in life, when I visited Europe, that I was invited to embrace the cold and darkness in a new way. Around this time of year, I always think about the week I spent visiting my sister in Berlin, from Christmas through New Year's. There, I found what the child inside me had always been missing: an invitation to stay inside a little longer, to stay warm a little longer.
Around four o' clock in Berlin, when the afternoon light first starts to fade, something magical happens. One by one, cafe workers begin to light the long tapers that dot the tables until all the windows on either side of the streets glow, inviting chilly wanderers inside. Guests are encouraged to sample beer and warm, spiced glühwein. Bars lights dim so low that candlelight is all that's left to see by. There's no sense of bitterness about the cold, and no one hurrying you along. A kind of glass-half-full mentality I had been missing my entire life. The Germans have a word for this, which is (unsurprisingly) not easily translatable into English: Gemütlichkeit. It is used to describe spaces, particularly those that emanate warmth, coziness, and festivity. The Danish have a similar word, hygge, which encapsulates a special kind of hominess.
Of course, I'm still a New Englander at heart, a drive-through-the-blizzard curmudgeon who drinks iced coffee in sub-zero temperatures. But slowly, and ever so surely, I'm trying to embrace that this is the time of year when it should be okay, and even encouraged for me to have another glass of wine, put a little bit more fat on my bones, and cozy up to those I love. And you should, too.
If you want to read a great post on Danish "hygge," check out this link.
Or, try this recipe for Glüweihn I found over at Food52.
And if you're feeling indulgent, check out some stuff that's on my stay-cozy (and erm, practical) list for late fall:
This Woolrich shirt jacket I spotted at Port Northampton. If you live in Western Massachusetts I highly suggest you check this boutique out. Everything is American-made and perfect for the chillier months.
Herbivore Botanicals Coco Rose Lip Conditioner (for moisture, and a little bit of tropical warmth).
This perfect mug for wine or tea sipping.
And if you're looking for a good fireside read, check out this brand-spanking-new collection of the complete stories of Clarice Lispector, collected all together for the first time and translated into English. I just started reading it and it's so transporting that you'll forget winter even exists.
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