Tucked between fjords and grassy fields far from Copenhagen lie tiny towns and villages like Gamborg: where neighbors are friends, customs are laws, and hygge is organic. My mom’s from Gamborg, born and raised, so we cross the ocean every couple years to visit her parents, my grandparents. For me, visits mean rituals. It means rugbrød, a thick, malty rye loaf as humble as it is sturdy. And Danes can hardly fathom a slice of rugbrød that isn’t slathered with dense, cold Danish butter. It means picking up strawberries and new potatoes and cucumbers from the farmstand, not because it’s Instagram-worthy but because the farmstand is where people in Gamborg actually buy their produce. It means afternoon coffee and cake, like the classic lagkage, a light sponge layered with fresh strawberries and cold, whipped Danish cream. It means returning to a place where things go just a little slower - where I can finally ask myself, what’s the rush?