I went on my honeymoon recently.
Christian—my husband now!—and I spent eleven days in the Faroe Islands, a place I’ve dreamed of going since I found photos of it on one of my Google searches for “most beautiful places on earth” years ago. Situated in the North Atlantic, several hundred miles of ocean away from both Scotland and Iceland, the Faroe Islands are quite literally in the middle of nowhere. Craggy rock formations, lush greenery and deep fjords create a dramatic landscape dotted with the 70,000 sheep that roam the land. There are eighteen islands, yet it takes only about an hour and a half, occasionally a ferry, and some deep breathing through the underwater tunnels to get from one corner of the Faroes to the other. Even after I described the cool, breezy and unpredictably wet weather, the raw beauty and potential for adventure made it an easy sell to Christian as a honeymoon destination.
The Faroese folks we met along the way, however, seemed a bit baffled by our decision to vacation in their home. We heard a similar spiel from several locals throughout our eleven day stay. They described the weather as a malevolent force, something that should have deterred us. They asked about the clothing we brought, told us apps to download to follow wind patterns. Then they’d finish with a smirk, “You know, they call this place the land of maybe.” The implication was that the unpredictable weather ruled. Where the winds were blowing in from would dictate what was possible. Plans would need to stay flexible. Some folks, I think, might feel invigorated by this invitation to let nature dictate your plans and be forced into truly living in the moment, but to a person who’d like to believe she’s accurately predicted and planned for every possibility—good, bad or otherwise—it threatened me. Of course, I didn’t say this out loud. To every land of maybe speech, I oooed and ahhed and smiled heartily. I repeated how exciting it all was, how the striking views made it impossible to have a bad time inside or out. I tried to will myself into being one of those who felt invigorated by maybe, so I didn’t even say to Christian that some part of me regretted dragging us to such an unruly place.
Maybe, to me, implies indecision, inaction, apathy. Even typing those words feels ugly, as my brain tosses them into the bad category, into the pile of things that I don’t want to be. I am a doer, a planner, a passionate go-getter; I live to turn maybes into definitives. Luckily, I’ve also been in eating disorder recovery long enough to start questioning if this reaction to maybe is mine or a learned survival skill. I kept my fear to myself because I wondered if my distaste for maybe was something my gut and my body really felt or if it was something my mind picked up elsewhere, somewhere outside of myself.
Just as the idea of a land of maybe terrified me, a little voice somewhere in this body of mine that I’m getting to know said that fear of inaction and indecision might just be exactly why I needed this trip. As I continue healing from my eating disorder, I’ve learned that the control I seek doesn’t stop at my diet and my body, it extends into every moment, every activity, every conversation in my life. Letting go of the perceived grip that I have over any individual element of my or anyone else’s life has been challenging. Many times that I think I’ve been truly living in a moment, when I reflect back, I see myself inevitably reaching outside of the experience, whether it’s reminiscing and missing the past, attempting to write the story of how a moment will affect my future, or looking for ways to manipulate myself out of a situation (you should ask Christian how often I reduce myself to a “crazy person” to end conflict).
In the face of threats of maybes and with some determination to overcome my inhibitions, I forged ahead with Christian on our once in a lifetime honeymoon. We climbed the steep cliffs alongside sheep and hiked to see puffins just before they made their voyage back to sea and sat for many hours in the sun, letting the sounds of waves crashing up against land echo in our ears. On these days in nature, I felt like I could write the definitive book on living in the moment. I felt connected, not just to Christian and the earth and the puffins but to myself. My heart told me when to pause and catch my breath, and I listened. When I felt the grunt of hunger at the summit of our hike, I didn’t try to barter with my stomach that if she would just wait, we’d deserve something extra special at the bottom of the cliff. Instead, I ate the granola bar I packed and even a few sour cream and onion chips just because they sounded good, not because they’d provide any specific nutritional value to the rest of my hike. The relationships I shared with nature and Christian and myself felt so free and warm. I was doing it. I embraced each moment and what it offered me. Maybe everything was alright.
Inevitably, just as our Faroese friends had warned us, the misty rain and dense fog demanded we spend some time inside and rest. The first of those invitations for down time felt welcome—at least at the beginning of the day. We made our way into the capital city, Torshavn, with the intention to roam around. The part of me that appreciates the sounds of waves changing in intensity from one step to the next and eats sour cream and onion chips was happy to explore the town aimlessly. We stopped at a cafe for a mocha, shopped for luxurious wool sweaters we couldn’t afford to buy, and finally landed at the town’s Irish pub, craving burgers after nearly a week of seafood and seeded rye loaves and granola bars.
When the burgers arrived, I realized whatever was on the plate was not going to satisfy our craving. The meat was mysteriously gray-colored, though I could hardly see it beneath the cascading lake of mayonnaise. It lathered the bed of shredded lettuce and the accompanying tomato so that it almost seemed like an over-dressed slaw. I looked at Christian’s plate and saw a bloody scene, ketchup erupting from all angles, looking even less appetizing than mine as the burnt red hid any of the enticing parts. The waitress had asked us if we wanted sauce on our burgers, but this was sauce-forward. This was sauce with a side of burger.
“How are we going to eat this?!” Christian laughed. I tried my best to giggle along with him, but the acceptance and contentment I’d felt to roam around, to rest, to embrace the maybe of it all, was withering away. I lifted the bun and did my best to scrape away as much of the mayonnaise as I could, accumulating nearly enough to fill a juice glass. My mind raced. I can’t eat this I’m so hungry but I can’t eat this it’s so gross I should have gotten ketchup mayonnaise is so gross Christian probably thinks I’m so gross he probably wishes we were somewhere else I dragged us to this cold wet place and he hates it he can’t even get a burger here maybe we can fly out sooner to Denmark I can’t eat this burger how am I going to get out of eating this maybe I can eat the fries and I can steal some of his ketchup because I can’t eat this fucking mayonnaise its so gross I’m so gross…
Christian started in with a knife and fork, cutting a couple of bites before declaring, “This is the worst burger I’ve had in my entire life.” He was still smiling. The grossness felt hilarious to him somehow. Or he was trying to hide his devastation. I couldn’t tell. My mind wound itself into a knot of self-criticisms and fears and loathing. Unconsciously, I cut a small bite of burger, then another. Like a robot trying to be human, I mimicked Christian. With each of his bites, another for me. About halfway through the mound of meat and sauce, he declared, “I can’t eat any more of this,” and I answered, “Me, too,” as if I knew anything about myself at that moment.
I tried my best to smile as we paid and left. I tried to chime in with his daydreaming about what a killing a good burger joint would make on the islands, that the Faroese didn’t know what they were missing, drowning their meat in so much sauce. The weather had cleared a bit, so we walked to the further edges of town, but I hardly remember where. My efforts to be there, to notice the sod rooftops and colorful houses and sail boats were futile with my brain still twisting around itself, attempting to recover from the massive burger failure.
“What’s wrong? You got quiet,” Christian noticed. He always noticed. His noticing was another gnarl, you miserable bitch, get it together this is your honeymoon!
“Nothing,” I lied, as any miserable bitch would.
“I know it’s hard, but I do think it feels better to say the thing out loud,” he said gently, rubbing my back. The gesture and his words felt like pin pricks to my brain, more knots, but they also started melting my body back into place. His affection and care put my feet back on the brick paved streets. I noticed the breeze on my cheeks, the coolness burning red upon contact. We stumbled into a wine bar to escape the elements, and upon sitting, I said everything I’d been thinking out loud.
“Thank you for telling me,” Christian sighed with relief. My throat released its lump to become tears. I let them soak my reddening skin, as I took a sip of generic red wine and settled back into the moment. I took another sip and felt the alcohol rush to deepen the rose of my cheeks.
The rest of our honeymoon was more of the same, mostly many moments and even whole days where I felt immensely connected and warm and utterly overjoyed. We tested the strength of our forearms and our stomachs as we fished off of an old wooden boat in the middle of the choppy ocean. Our boots fought the soaked black sand beaches that we roamed, looking for the indigo shells of blue mussels. Along with other travelers from all over the world, we filled the dining room of a Faroese couple’s home as they filled our bellies with regional dishes. Our tongues danced with briny seafood, tender potatoes, and bright rhubarb as our hosts guided us through the cultural and historical significance of the Faroe Islands.
And for all of the joy and connection, there were still a few more moments where my mind took me away from myself, moments where the stillness got too loud. I didn’t fully reflect on them until I got back, and it’s only as I write now that I’m starting to connect the moments where my mind tried to distract me from my body. What they all have in common is that they are moments where I have previously felt unsafe or where I’ve convinced myself that I couldn’t trust my body. Burgers—especially a burger with mayonnaise—were dangerous for a long time. What’s more is that I felt responsible for bringing us to this place with the worst burger Christian had ever had. My heart had burst at the opportunity to visit the Faroe Islands, and I’d let her speak and convince Christian that this is where we should spend the only honeymoon we will ever get. I convinced him we should spend it in a place known for being unpredictable. Somehow, in the endless vlogs and articles I’d read about the Faroes, I’d missed the land of maybe story, and at the first sign of imperfection, I berated myself.
I spent so many years tangled up in my thoughts that I am still intimidated by my true, whole body desires. Admitting I had a strong preference for a honeymoon spot was revolutionary for me. Usually, I would have deferred to Christian or tried to drop more subtle hints about the Faroe Islands until the trip became his idea. Most days, I still struggle to identify what it feels like to have a food craving. What I have instead are plans. Plans for food that makes sense based on who we’re eating with, what day of the week it is, how last week’s food felt. I have plans for how to say something and when to say it to the intended receiver so that it has minimal impact on their life. For our honeymoon, I had planned hikes and drives and activities, but I hadn’t planned for the restful, aimless days. The moment the fog rolled in and we were without any structure, when we were faced with maybe, my mind asserted dominance. I should have planned differently. I should have planned better.
She means well, this messy brain. Many of the knots up there were strengthened through years of painful judgements made about my body, and they helped keep me together. They held me through the trauma of sexual assault, an emergency surgery, and the death of a close friend. Little by little, I’m trying to untie the knots. When life feels like a honeymoon at the edge of the world, surrounded by natural beauty in every direction, it feels a lot easier to let them loose. When it feels like wet fog, wet hair and wet burgers, it’s scarier to let go. Holding tightly feels like home, feels like the safest place to be. I’m still learning to trust that my body will tell me how much mayonnaise she can digest. I’m still learning to trust that even if she gets it wrong, she’s still trustworthy. I still have to try much harder to hear whether or not my body appreciates rest and stillness because my mind asserted loudly for so long that inaction, indecision, and apathy were bad words.
What I’m losing in my quest to avoid maybe is the potential beauty that exists in the absence of what may be. Sometimes, it’s misty rain that blocks the views you came for and makes your jeans heavy with moisture and makes it impossible to get warm. Sometimes it’s the irreplaceable memory of laughing your way through the weirdest interpretation of a burger you’ve ever had with the absolute love of your life. Sometimes, the best way to be is a little apathetic, a little loose, a little still. It would have helped me to care less about that burger and what it might mean to me and Christian and our honeymoon and our relationship.
Our honeymoon, I hesitate to say, was perfect. My hesitation is mostly a small level of embarrassment that there were any moments when my mind tried to capture me away from any of it. What makes me say it was perfect anyway is that I am still moseying along this healing journey, trying to loosen my grip on my mind’s assertions of the safe or right or perfect way to be, things to do, words to say. Maybe it wasn’t perfect. Maybe it was. Maybe.
FAROESE(ISH) FISH & POTATOES
Serves 8, as a small plate*
Christian and I had a dish like this at the Faroese home I mentioned. They call these dinners, heimablídni, which translates to home hospitality. Our hosts said we’d never find a recipe for anything they made us that night—and they weren’t kidding. This recipe is my best shot at recreating the second of our four courses. It’s rich with butter, warm with cardamom and hearty with potatoes. We were thousands of miles away from home, but this dish felt so familiar, I knew I wanted to try to do it justice at our own table. It’s not exactly as Anna and Olí served it, but it’s close enough to make me yearn for the land of maybe.
2 pounds potatoes (I prefer the golden ones), cut in 1” cubes, cooked how you like them**
4 eggs, boiled how you like them***
½ cup dry white wine
2 sprigs sage
2 sticks unsalted butter, cold & cut in ½” cubes
½ tsp cardamom
1 teaspoon salt
2 pounds fresh cod filets, salted on each side
In a large saute pan (about 10”, one that will eventually fit all of your fish!), add the wine and sage. Bring to a boil over medium heat and allow to reduce until roughly one tablespoon. Turn the heat on very low & remove the sage. Add one tablespoon of water. At this point the mixture should not be boiling, it should be just below a simmer.
With the heat still on low, add one cube of butter to the pan and whisk vigorously until it’s melted. Repeat this three or four times, keeping the heat low and not letting the mixture come to a full simmer. If you want to get technical about it, keep it between 180-190 degrees. Once you notice the liquid looking a tad more voluminous—a sign that you’re getting the butter emulsified into the liquid—you can add two, maybe three cubes at a time, keeping the heat low, whisking until all of the butter is melted. Do this until all of the butter is added and voila! You just made a beurre monté, you fancy pants! Now, whisk in the salt and cardamom to flavor it.
Keeping the beurre monté just below a simmer (again, you can use a thermometer if you prefer, it should be between 180-190 degrees) add the cod filets and cover the pan. Let the fish cook for about three to four minutes. Flip the filets, shift them around if your stove top is uneven like mine, make sure your sauce is still emulsified and the heat isn’t too powerful, then cover and cook for another three to four minutes. Depending on the size of your filets, the fish will likely be done at this point (you’ll know because they’ll be so tender they’ll fall apart when you try to move them). If not, give them another couple of minutes until they cook through. Turn off the heat & remove the filets onto your plates or a sheet pan if you aren’t ready to plate yet.
In a mixing bowl with your cooked potatoes in it, toss the potatoes in 2 tablespoons of the beurre monté. Plate the fish and surround it with a mound of potatoes. Garnish with half an egg or two, and drizzle with a bit more butter. Serve immediately.
*I served this for Christian and I as a dinner plate and it was just too rich for us as a main course. I suggest keeping it as Anna and Olí did, as a starter or small plate. You’ll notice in the photo, I added some delicata squash because I thought we could use some color, but I would say something even a little more vegetal—maybe a fennel or herb salad—might help if you’re set on this being a whole dinner.
**I boiled our potatoes until tender in some salt water, and it was absolutely delicious. That said, I think roasting them and getting a little golden edge wouldn’t hurt and will likely try that next time. My one note with roasting would be to go light with the oil because this dish does not want for luscious fat.
***I am not here to teach you how to boil an egg. There are dozens of “best” methods out there, so go with what you know and love (and if you don’t know and love, YouTube and TikTok have your back). My preference is for a soft but not runny yolk, but any which way would work just fine.
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