How to Fail at Being Finnish: Chapter 4

A Very Finnish Midsummer

Midsummer, 2020

I am in a small dark room on an island off the coast of Finland. To my left the local chief of police is flogging himself with a whip he’s fashioned from a bunch of birch leaves. He does, I should add, appear to be taking great pleasure from this. He is an absolute butcher’s block of a man. He is long, thick and his wrinkled face looks like a thousand steaks could have been carved up on it. To my right his best friend, my wife’s father, Keijo, pours water onto searing-hot stones that fill the room with steam. We are each of us, as proper sauna etiquette dictates, obviously quite naked.

The aging men beside me, sweat dripping from their arms, foreheads, the tips of their noses, the tips of their everything, look entirely relaxed. I don’t think two more relaxed beings have ever existed. They live in an entirely relaxed universe. Cut them and they would bleed the mellow tones of Enya playing on repeat. I couldn’t be more jealous of them. They have clearly spent their lives sauna-ing in identical states of undress and relaxation. Meanwhile, it is taking every atom of my being to look even remotely so comfortable. I’ve never voted Conservative. I did all the things a good “free-spirit” would be expected to do at university. I even went on an anti-war march once, I think. It was something left-wing at least. I’m your classic, easy-going, neurotic, millennial liberal.

Why then is getting naked with a couple of pleasant old men a social exercise too far for me?

I try to remind myself of how natural this situation is for them, how little they care that I don’t quite know how to position my testicles demurely or that their sweat splashes onto me with each crack of their birchy whip. It is, I repeat, only weird if I let them realise how weird this is.

“Another log, I think,” the police chief, Jens, says. Since he’s speaking English and I’m the one closest to the furnace, I assume he means for me to take care of it. I peel myself carefully off the grainy wooden bench we are all sitting on together. I shudder as subtly as I can when, with my ever so slightly careless motion, Keijo’s sweaty thigh rubs against my own.

“Yes,” Jens continues as I reach the furnace, “big log there will do.”

I take it and realise that, in order to insert this log into the floor level furnace, a not insignificant degree of bending over will be required. What is the most polite, the most discreet, yet simultaneously the most natural way of bending over naked? Such important questions I have, typically, been too naïve to consider at length before. I bring my feet together, pivot just a little, and cautiously double over, hoping neither of the gentlemen get an eyeful.

Back on my seat with them a moment later, it registers that neither of them are wearing their glasses. Having never seen them without their glasses on before, I realise I could have done a full on, nude can-can dance for them and they would likely have been none the wiser.

The sauna

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It is Midsummer in Finland. Juhannus. The longest day of the year. It is celebrated like New Year’s Eve in this part of the world. Much food will be eaten, drinks are drunk, open fires will be built for people to congregate around and grill sausages on until early tomorrow morning. The island we are on is called Ounaskeri in the Finnish archipelago just off the south-west coast. It’s here, less than an hour’s drive and short boat ride from our home in a small town called Pori, that my wife’s parents own a beautiful, yet exceptionally modest, summer cottage.

After what hopefully counts as an acceptable amount of time in the sauna, I make my exit with a casual “must get some air” muttered under my breath, and leave the two old friends to it. It is just past midday. The sun is at the highest point it will ever be and the hum of wildlife plays from every direction. Some of it the song of birds, some of it the drone of insects. Some of it the splash of fish as they flutter their tails out of the water before retreating to the deep once again. The ground is carpeted in green now, the hazardous paths of uneven rocks that dot the island clothed in their summer dress. There are the flowers my mother-in-law, Tiina, has planted over the course of endless summers. Roses, nasturtiums, lavender. But even more pervasive than the fruits of her work are the wild herbs and flowers, the pine trees tipped with their fluorescent green shoots. I pick a few and taste them as I walk toward the water to cool down. Acidic and fragrant. Tannic but fruity. Lemon pith and apple skins. Across the island, wild strawberries grow everywhere and I look to my feet at each step to see if any have yet borne fruit. I can see they have. I can also see that the squirrels have got here first. The squirrels always get here first. And then, from the top of the island, I hear Silja, my wife, calling for me. My help is needed preparing for our Midsummer feast.

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Less than two hours later and the table is laid with the same food as every Midsummer I’ve ever celebrated here. It is comforting and familiar. For the first few years I assumed what I’ll be eating today was the “traditional Midsummer” meal, accustomed as I am to celebration meals being codified across the land. Turkey at Christmas. Lamb at Easter. This will be our first Midsummer having moved to Finland after four years in Sweden. I now know that no such “Midsummer meal” exists in Finland. Instead, the food on Juhannus can be anything, the only important thing being the menu reflects the produce coming into season now summer has arrived. This is certainly the case with what Tiina prepares.

First the potatoes, the starch around which everything else gathers on the plate. The Finnish new potatoes have just arrived with Midsummer, taking the place of the imported Swedish varieties in the shops. The favoured variety, in this household at least, is called siikli. They are small as you’d expect in early summer, the skins papery and whispy enough to wash away with the barest touch of a brush. It often seems that the most decadent, most celebratory preparation of potatoes comes when cooked in various types of animal fat. These beautiful new potatoes need nothing more than boiling water, a large handful of salt and maybe a few dill stems. The result is something that needs no further addition at all. No duck or goose fat, no herby garnish or butter. Simply boiled they offer a sweet, buttery, earthy nuttiness all on their own.

Important as the new season’s potatoes are, the grilled pork loin marinated in red wine and honey is the “meat” of the dish. This is also my main responsibility of the day. Having lit the charcoal barbecue, I wait until the coals turn powdery white before placing them all to one side of the grill. The result is a section of the barbecue that is riotously hot, hot enough I can’t keep my hand over it for more than a moment. It is over this scorching heat I brown the tender pork fillet quickly so a little char and caramelisation is achieved. With everything coloured, though not fully cooked, I move all the meat to the “cold” opposite side of the grill. It is now I take a few handfuls of pine and juniper branch that I have picked from here on the island, and place it on the hot coals. I cover the barbecue with its lid and let the heavily-scented smoke baste the meat for another ten minutes or so. This brief hot smoke will complete the cooking process of the pork but, more importantly, leave a delicate flavour from the burning branches and a rich golden colour as well.

What I love of this meal is the simplicity of it. Each thing not hidden behind technique or process or complex recipe. Each ingredient speaking for itself. The grilled meat, the boiled potatoes. The local tomatoes tossed in oil and salt and basil leaves. The sauce is nothing more than cream and butter boiled together with the girolle mushrooms we picked on the island and dried last year. These are one of the few things on the table that gesture to something not yet in season. In a few weeks we will be picking, drying, and storing them again for next year’s feast.

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As soon as we sit at the table, a familiar silence descends interrupted only by the cling and clatter of cutlery. Then, with plates now fully laden, a gentle trickle of conversation begins. It remains largely in Finnish. Though the sounds are so familiar to me after these many years, the rhythm of the sentences, any meaning still feels a lifetime away. Most of the English comes from me, directed to my 1 year old son, Sam, and Silja. But everyone does their bit to make me feel included.

“So, Wil, what are you to do in Finland?” the police chief, Jens, asks me. The truth is I’m not entirely certain what the answer is.

“The important thing is to learn Finnish.” Long answer short. “Hopefully then I can have more options.” It’s a reasonably decent answer, I think. At least it’s true.

“No more cooking?” I am surprised he knew what I did in Sweden.

“Maybe, eventually,” I tell him. “When Sam is a little older. It’s nice to have more time at home for now.” That one is a really good answer, I think. And it does the double job of making me sound like a considerate father and not just someone who is tired of working until 1 am on Friday nights.

“Yes, very hard, I have heard.” Hearing being a chef is hard work from a career police officer makes me feel slightly ludicrous, but I smile anyway. He continues nodding and takes a sip of his wine from the tiny glasses that are placed around the table for everyone.

“How is your Finnish so far?” he asks.

“It doesn’t exist,” I tell him. “But I’m telling you now, I am convinced I can make it happen.” He smiles a smile that fails to demonstrate much confidence in me.

“Our son lives with an Indian boy,” he says.

I nod.

“Very clever boy… Very impressive.”

I am gifted a moment in which I am free to imagine how successful the Indian boy has been in his attempt to learn Finnish. I am finally going to receive the encouragement, first-hand success story I have been longing for.

“Not even he can learn Finnish.”

I saw it coming really.

“Well, I am just trying to be positive.” I like the guy, but would it kill one of these Finns to tell me I am going to do great for once? To exaggerate my chances just slightly? The longer I spend time with them, the more Vulcan they seem to me. Incapable of anything other than the harshest truth. I look to Silja. She looks at me in a “yes I know what you’re thinking, don’t be so sensitive” kind of way.

“Yes,” Jens says loudly, “That’s good. It’s important, very important to know the language.” He turns and smiles to his wife. “Next Midsummer, maybe we will be talking in Finnish then?”

“That’s a promise,” I say. Jens nods and Finnish runs back and forth across the table again.

An hour on and Keijo leaves in the direction of the small sauna cottage. Within ten minutes, smoke is billowing out of its chimney once again. The rich smell of it, too, then falls over where we are finishing lunch under the clean, unbroken Finnish sun. The breeze is gentle and even Sam is quiet while nibbling away at rudely red strawberries. I look to Silja. I think how lovely it would be to steal 20 minutes or so in the sauna with her later. With the stress of the recent move, not to mention having a one year old son, it seems like quality moments alone together are few and far between. I’m sure the others wouldn’t resent my changing the separate men/women sauna group schedule. Just this once.

It’s then I notice Keijo has returned.

He and Jens are holding towels, their glasses removed.

“Ready?” Jens says.

“Absolutely, I’m ready,” I tell him as I offer what I'm sure is a very convincing smile.

The cottage

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