Äppelmos with vanilla and cinnamon

It was a little over a year ago; we’d brought home a mid-century secretary desk, the kind that received many layers of white paint over the years. It had a bookshelf, very much a happy mismatch of cookbooks, jars of kombucha, porcelain figurines, candles and notebooks. And two cupboards. The one of the right had draws made of birch reminiscent of an old map storage ...

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Apple pie shortbreads

On snow. The first snow didn’t settle onto the ground. That night, the clouds broke into minute snowflakes as we stepped out from the house. And just like I did last year and the year before that, I stopped and stared into this black and white kaleidoscope for what could have been a nightlong, a lifelong really. It’s been snowing every day ever since. Flakes ...

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Almond and raisin tea cake

I’ve been thinking about this cake ever since my mum emailed me earlier this week, asking for a good recipe for cake aux fruits confits. Growing up, cake aux fruits confits was always the last one left on a birthday dessert table. Slices of dry cake, studded with always too little candied cherries, of the bright-red kind, which if you’d asked me twenty years ago ...

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My ultimate kanelbullar

Tomorrow is the 4th of October. A date that doesn’t go unnoticed in Sweden. Yes, tomorrow is kanelbullens dag [cinnamon roll day]. I must have felt that this post – which I promised to share with you long before I even knew kanelbullar had their own day – was waiting in my drafts for a reason. This is a recipe I first made in Åsen, ...

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Chasing rugbrød, part one

We waked, in the two cabins in those happy days, just before the sun came up, when the birds were in their loudest clamor of morning joy. Wrapped each in a blanket, George and I stepped out from our doors, each trying to call the other, and often meeting on the grass between. We ran to the river and plunged in,—oh, how cold it was!—laughed ...

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Un gâteau aux pommes et au cidre

[A cider and apple cake, not unlike a tatin tart] There was a night made of champagne, flickering candles, crisps and smoked salmon sandwiches, the last of the foie gras smothered onto big fat chunky pieces of baguette, an endless game of trivial pursuit where – as it turned out – the one person who refused to play (my father, apparently stuck to his mots ...

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