Year: 2017

  • Forêt d’hiver

    Forêt d’hiver

  • On drying clementine slices

    On drying clementine slices

    Yesterday, we went to the basement and looked through our Christmas boxes. Candles holders, zinc, gold, silver, ceramic. A basket with my favourite vintage glass ornaments wrapped in torn newspaper and packed in egg cartons kept closed with rubber bands. A couple of straw julbock [Yule goat]. Many adventljusstakar [Advent lights]. Four paper stars with their cables all tangled and their light bulbs wrapped in kitchen paper.

    To the sound of Emmit Fenn’s Painting Greys, we hanged them, one by one, to our windows. And when we lit them, their soft glow reflected in the foggy glass not unlike a frosted mirror.

    [audio:http://www.likeastrawberrymilk.com/audio/paintinggreys.mp3|titles=Painting Greys|artists=Emmit Fenn]

    Later at night, we took a tray of dried clementine slices out from our oven. We left them cool down on our kitchen table where their translucent flesh glistened under the light of the white and gold star we’d hanged a few hours earlier. The same one we’d tied to that small hook by our kitchen window a year ago to the day too!

    I think I will make a garland: dried clementines and the pinecones we picked under the snow a few weeks ago now, a bit like this one, although ours might look a lot more… rustic.

    These dried clementine slices are also delicious to nibble on, much so in fact.

    Dried clementine slices

    Preheat oven to 110°C/fan 90°C. Line a baking tray with parchment paper.

    Slice the clementines into 4-5mm slices and arrange them in a single layer on the prepared baking tray. Generously dust with icing sugar.

    Bake until the slices are dry and the flesh looks translucent, about 2 to 3 hours.

    I find it easier to remove the slices from the paper while they’re still hot. You can do so and place them onto a plate to cool down. Store in a paper bag, in a dry place.

  • Sunday morning plättar

    Sunday morning plättar

    Last night, we had rökta räkor [smoked prawns] for dinner, with plenty of aioli and sourdough bread, and a bottle of pinot grigio whe’d kept on our veranda to chill. By the time we’d fallen asleep, the clocks had been set backwards and a thin layer of fresh snow had covered the roofs we see through our bedroom windows.
    Coffee, fleece blanket, and Sunday morning plättar [Swedish pancakes].

    Swedish plättar
    Adapted from Kungsörnen’s recipe.

    In Sweden, pancakes can have many forms. There are the larger ones, not unlike crêpes, although somewhat thicker: plättar. There are the small ones, cooked in a special pan: småplättar. And there are the ones cooked in the oven: pannkaka or perhaps more likely, ugnspannkaka.

    These names are, however, subject of a debate; one that has been dividing the country. Yes, what I’ve just told you is only valid in Skellefteå (where we live, and where K. grew up) and above. South of us, even as close as Umeå, which stands just a short 135km drive away, what I’ve come to know as plättar is called pannkakor. And plättar really means the small ones. Rather confusing, no?

    In an insightful episode of Språket, the terminology is examined and the comments make for an even more interesting read (in Swedish).
    One reader states that, to her, plättar are the pancakes that one cooks in a cast-iron pan, eventually, with small holes for små runda plättar [small round plättar]. Tunnpannkakor [literally, thin pancakes] are cooked on the stove in a frying pan, and can be made with the same batter as plättar. Ugnspannkaka is baked in a roasting tin and the batter is thicker than the one made for plättar or tunnpannkakor. She then follows by saying that in any case, plättar cannot be cooked in a frying pan, tunnpannkakor shouldn’t be made in a cast-iron pan, and of course, ugnspannkaka can only be baked in the oven.

    So really, I have no idea which recipe I’m sharing with you today other than it’s one that we love to make – on Sunday mornings or as a quick everyday dinner. One that we eat with jam, most likely the drottningsylt I made with the blueberries and raspberries we picked over the summer. One that I cook over the stove in a cast-iron pannkakspanna, something that changed everything I knew about crêpes.

    These plättar have crisp and salty edges, and are slightly thicker than the crêpes I grew up on.
    You could make them in a regular frying pan, in which case, I’d recommend warming up a generous amount of butter and oil in the pan until it just starts to smoke before cooking them. If you choose to make them in a cast-iron pan, don’t hesitate to use a little more batter than you normally would, perhaps 1 1/2 ladle instead of the usual 1.

    Swedish plättar

    Makes around 10-12 medium pancakes, approx. 22cm wide.

    2 eggs
    500 mL whole milk
    1/2 tsp sea salt
    180 g plain flour
    a generous tbsp     (around 20-30g) melted butter

    Combine the eggs, milk and salt. Pour half over the flour and mix until smooth. Add the remaining flour and the melted butter, whisking as you do so.
    You can use the batter straight away or store it in the fridge for up to 36 hours.

    When you are ready to cook the plättar, heat a lightly oiled cast-iron pan (read note above) over high heat.

    When the pan starts to smoke, pour a ladle of batter onto the pan, using approximately one-third of a cup for each plätt. Tilt the pan in a circular motion so that the batter coats the surface evenly.
    Cook the plätt for about a minute, until the edges start to brown. Loosen with a palette knife, flip over and cook the other side for a minute. Serve hot.

  • Apple pie shortbreads

    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 fluffy as cotton balls. At times for seconds, other times for hours. And although it still hasn’t turned our streets white, I have a feeling it won’t be long before it does.

    On nesting.

    There are the lamps on every windowsill, turned on as the sun sets, slightly earlier with every day that passes; for now, around half past four.

    There are the candles we burn, and the evenings spent threading rönnbär [rowan berry] into garlands.

    There is the soup plate that stands on our kitchen counter, by the right of the sink. In it, pinecones I collected during a walk in the forest, perhaps the last one before winter sets in. I turn them around every morning as I wait for my coffee to brew, and they open into an almost fractal pattern as they dry.

    There are the biscuits we bake. An early batch of pepparkakor [gingerbreads] – adapted from this recipe, more to come later -, crisp chocolate drömmar [dreams], made with hjorthornssalt [ammonium carbonate], and of course, cinnamon shortbreads. We keep a small tuperwareful of each in the last draw of our freezer, safely nested among the neverending bags of berries we picked under a summer that never really happened.

    But that’s another story for another day. In the meantime, here is to winter!

    Apple pie shortbreads

    These shortbreads were inspired by K., who suggested on one of our weekly trips to the store that we make biscuits filled with apple compote.

    We put a kilogram of small Swedish apples in our basket, along with a bag of caster sugar, and a block or two of butter.
    By the time we came home, we’d formed a pretty clear idea of these biscuits, even going as far as naming them apple pie shortbreads; because it is, essentially, what they are.

    The dough, made short with a lot of butter and a generous amount of starch is the updated version of this recipe by Leila Lindholm. Depending on what’s in my cupboards, I’ll make it with either potato starch or cornflour, and so should you.
    It’s a dough I use for many biscuits: from cinnamon shortbreads to hallon [raspberry] thumbprint cookies. A firm favourite in our house.

    The compote is cooked quickly over medium heat until the apples have released their juices, and begin to soften.
    You can use any apples that hold their shape well during baking. The list is long, but I’d suggest braeburn, royal gala, fuji, golden or granny smith, just to name a few really.

    You could pass on the glaze, although I think it is a wonderful addition, both in terms of sweetness and texture. As mentioned in the recipe below, I would however leave it out if keeping these in the fridge or the freezer, then glazing them right before they’re ready to be served.

    And as always, I bake my biscuits quite darker than the Swedes usually do; perhaps a French trait I can’t seem to rid of, I truly find that it makes for a better texture and a slight caramel flavour.

    Apple pie shortbreads

    Makes 24.

    For the dough
    300 g plain flour
    80 g potato starch or cornflour
    1 tsp sea salt
    320 g unsalted butter    , diced
    130 g icing sugar
    1 tbsp vanilla sugar

    For the apple compote
    2 generous tbsp unsalted butter
    200 g peeled, cored and diced apples    , around 2-3 medium
    30 g caster sugar
    1 tsp ground cinnamon
    a pinch of salt

    For the glaze
    icing sugar
    boiling water

    Line two baking trays with baking paper and preheat the oven to 180°C/fan 160°C.

    Whisk the flour and potato starch to combine, then set aside.
    Cream the butter, icing sugar and salt in a stand-mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Add the flour mixture and mix on low speed until a dough forms.

    Roll the dough into a log and cut it into 24 even slices.

    Roll each slice into a ball, then flatten it onto the prepared baking tray. Gently dent each shortbread using your thumb or the bottom of a small glass. Repeat with the remaining slices, and chill in the fridge while you get on with the apple compote.

    In a frying-pan set over high heat, melt the butter until it just starts to foam. Add the diced apples and stir to coat. Add the sugar, cinnamon, and salt, and reduce the heat. Cook until the apples start to soften, around 8-10 minutes.
    Immediately transfer to a small plate and set aside to cool down slightly.

    Fill each indent with a fat teaspoon of apple compote.

    Bake in the pre-heated oven for 20 to 24 minutes, or until golden-brown. Allow to cool down completely.

    Make the glaze by mixing icing sugar and just-boiled water until it has a firm pouring consistency. Drizzle the glaze over the cookies and allow to set for 10-15 minutes.

    Stored into an airtight box, these will keep for a week at room temperature.
    Without the glaze you can keep the shortbreads for a little over a week in the fridge and up to three months in the freezer.

  • The October mood board

    The October mood board


    01. I fell in love with this pattern from Ulrika Gustafsson’s collab with Hemtex.
    02. A chandelier made of rönnbär [rowan berries]. I think I might have to make one for our kitchen table.
    03. I’ve been organising our kitchen cabinets this week and wonder how functional glass jars would be; I have a few that I refill regularly, however, the whole bag/package never fits in the jar so I end up with both a jarful and a random bag/package… Do you have any good pantry tips?
    04. Pumpkins for days.
    05. Katerina Marchenko‘s amazingly beautiful embroideries.
    06. I’ve been thinking a lot about baked apples these days. Perhaps with simple oat crumbs, or like these, with prunes, almonds and amaretto.
    07. The dream kitchen (and a blog favourite too: Babes in Boyland <3)

  • Scenes from a rainy day

    Scenes from a rainy day

    One day last week

    I walked along the river, one second under the yellow light from the lamppost above, the next, swallowed in the darkness of a sky clearer than it’s been in the past month.
    It is cold, somewhere around 1°C. Perhaps not as cold as this time last year, but with the many rainy days we’ve had, cold nights don’t happen often; only mornings made of fog and misty winds.

    As I looked up, the norsken [nothern lights] had started their dance; one that I could gaze at for – almost – hours.

    This morning

    We woke up to rain. Coffee, bread toasted in a cast-iron pan, salted butter, and hjortronsylt [cloudberry jam].

    We lit candles around the flat to warm the soft blue tint of the clouds projecting on our walls. And dreamt about an old house with wooden walls and a deep ceramic sink; a kitchen window and unsteady floors that crack at every step.

    One month till the first snow. May it be so! We crossed our fingers under the table.

  • Le Creuset sizes

    Le Creuset sizes

    To be used as a personal references, since I can never seem to remember which sizes I have and which are on my wish-list.
    Perhaps you’ll find it useful too. X

    Round cocottes|Oval cocottes
    DiameterVolume Length Volume
    16 cm
    		1.3 L23 cm2.6 L
    18 cm1.8 L25 cm3.2 L
    20 cm2.4 L27 cm4.1 L
    22 cm3.3 L29 cm4.7 L
    24 cm4.2 L31 cm6.1 L
    26 cm5.3 L
    28 cm6.7 L
    30 cm8.4 L
  • Daube provençale à la Chavot

    Daube provençale à la Chavot

    Daube provençale à la Eric Chavot

    I don’t know if I ever told you but a few months before we set off for Sweden, I spent a week-turned-half-a-year giving a hand in the kitchen at Brasserie Chavot; partly because they needed someone, mostly because I firmly intended to close my London chapter by working with chefs who had become my closest friends throughout the years, from the Capital Hotel to Brasserie Chavot: as we say in French, “La boucle est bouclée.” [to come full circle]. [quote_right] La boucle est bouclée.[/quote_right]To this day, I still cannot match the camaraderie that stems from the mixture of passion, exhaustion, restlessness that kitchens offer.

    So of course, I knew this very kitchen inside-out. We’d opened the restaurant a couple of years earlier and I had worked on the pastry section for well over a year.
    But that time, it meant for me to work with meat and fish. Vegetables and stocks.
    And to be honest, some of my fondest memories come from this time. Our mornings in the prep kitchen, where all the elements the rest of the team would use throughout the day would get made. Our evenings standing by the pass, taking out plates from the hot cupboard, plating dishes. Service please!

    The fish delivery man wore a white lab coat that had a large octopus drawn on its back with what I guess was a marker pen. Brine. Season. Heavy rolls of beef rib eye would get tied and vacpacked. Tie. Cut. Slice. Pork belly roasted overnight. Poussins [baby chicken] would be boned and flattened, then sewn. 1, 2, 3. Onions and carrots, peeled and chopped bag after bag. Italian meat balls rolled into 10g pellets that would be served with braised escargots Bourguignon [snails Bourguignon] and a mash potato foam. Chavot, his grey t-shirts, and his smile. Yes, I could go on forever, but really, there is not one moment I do not miss.

    The restaurant closed its doors after one last service on New years Eve 2015; and with it, what was the best place to eat beautifully made French food in London disappeared*.
    One of my favourite dishes was the daube de boeuf provençale, the summer version of the otherwise delicious, daube de boeuf Grand-mère.

    [quote_left]Beef braised in red and white wine, with fragrant onions, carrots, smoked pork belly, a touch of spices and citrus.[/quote_left] Beef braised in red and white wine, with fragrant onions, carrots, smoked pork belly, a touch of spices and citrus; served with creamy mashed potatoes and garnished with grilled artichokes, oven-dried tomatoes, and Niçoise olives.

    The recipe is well documented on the Caterer, and in the short video below where you can see Chavot putting the dish together.

    Daube de boeuf provençale à la Chavot

    While the dish itself is not complicated, it does involve many steps that I see as essential. However, it is possible to simplify the recipe to some extent, and that’s what I’ve done here.

    Let’s break down the daube provençale first:
    – beef chuck, sometimes called feather blade or paleron
    – caramelised mirepoix
    – braising liquid, with spices and citrus
    – veal stock
    – garnish: Niçoise olives, sundried tomatoes, grilled baby artichokes, button onions, fresh herbs

    I like to peel and chop all the vegetables, prepare the spices and measure the wines before I start.
    As always, you can prepare the daube a few days in advance, and then reheat it slowly, in an oven set on 140°C or on the stove, over low heat.

    The leftover meat can be used in many ways that we love very dearly, which is the reason why I almost certainly make a double batch of daube.
    A few favourites include: daube raviolis, hachis parmentier [cottage pie], and daube fritters, which I make by combining the shredded daube with mashed potatoes and an egg or two, forming patties then coating them in flour and pan-frying them until golden brown.

    Daube de boeuf provençale à la Chavot

    Serves 6.

    The mirepoix

    50 g virgin olive oil
    50 g duck fat
    50 g unsalted butter
    2 large carrots    , peeled and chopped
    3 medium onions, roughly chopped
    300 g smoked pork belly, sliced into 2cm cubes

    6 cloves garlic, peeled and roughly chopped
    1 sprig rosemary
    1 bay leaf
    2 sprigs thyme
    1/2 bunch parsley, chopped
    1 tsp black peppercorns
    2 cloves
    zest from 1/2 lemon
    zest from 1/4 orange

    The cooking liquids
    1 bottle red wine
    1/2 bottle white wine
    1 400g-ish can of crushed tomatoes

    The meat
    100 g plain flour
    salt and pepper
    1 large piece of beef chuck    , approx. 1kg

    The sauce
    500 mL good quality veal stock

    The garnish
    A handful each of: Niçoise olives, sundried tomatoes, baby artichokes, button onions
    1/2 bunch of parsley    , sliced

    Make the mirepoix

    Place the butter, olive oil and duck fat into a large pan; I use a favourite in our house, a Le Creuset cocotte. Add the carrots, and cook over medium heat until they start to caramelise. Then add the sliced onions and cook for a further 20 minutes or until they are soft and brown around the edges. Add the garlic, herbs, spices and zests, and cook, stiring every now and then, for another 5-10 minutes.

    Strain the mirepoix, keeping the fat that will then be used to sear the beef; set both aside until needed.

    Deglaze the pan with a glass of red wine to loosen any caramelised bit that might be stuck to the bottom of the pan. Then set aside and wipe the pan clean.

    Caramelise the beef

    Place the reserved fat from the mirepoix in the cleaned pan and set over medium-high heat.

    Mix the flour with salt and pepper, and coat the piece of meat in a thin layer of seasoned flour, tapping away the excess.

    When the fat starts foaming, sear the meat on all sides until dark brown.

    Set the meat aside and deglaze the pan with the remaining wine, including the glass we deglazed the mirepoix with.
    If you’re feeling fancy, carefully flambé the wine over low heat to remove the alcohol. I almost always skip this step at home.

    Marinate the meat

    Take the pan off the heat. Add the crushed tomatoes and the mirepoix, along with the herbs, spices, citrus, and pork belly bits, stir well. Then carefully add the seared meat.

    Cover with a lid and allow to marinate in the fridge for at least 4 hours, or up to two days. The longer you live it the better the flavours; although I’ve been more than happy with daube that had only marinated for a couple of hours.

    Cook the daube

    Set the oven to 130°C/fan 110°C.
    Place the pan with the lid on, in the oven and bake for 6 to 8 hours, until the meat feels very tender.

    Make the sauce

    Very gently remove the meat from the cooking liquid using a large slotted spoon and place on a plate. Refrigerate until fully set.

    Pass the cooking liquid through a fine-mesh sieve, quickly clean the pan, then return the cooking liquid to the pan and add the veal stock.
    Bring to the boil and reduce by half.

    Take off the heat and reserve in the fridge for up to 2 days.

    On the day

    Divide the meat into 6 portions, and if you want, pan fry them in butter until caramelised on all sides.

    Place the meat, along with the sauce and garnish into a cast iron pan, and reheat over low heat or in a 140°C oven for around 1 hour, or until warmed through.
    Baste the meat every now and then to keep it from drying.

    When ready, serve immediately with mashed potatoes or fresh pasta, and sprinkle with sliced parsley.

    Links

    – Find this same recipe on Foodism and on the Caterer.

    – A more traditional daube de boeuf, by Chavot.

    * I was extremely happy to hear that Chavot has now taken over the kitchens of Bob Bob Ricard, which I will definitely visit o our next London trip, whenever it may come. You can find a lovely interview here.

    – Chef Chavot’s Instagram

  • Three books

    Three books

    I looked down in my basket. Four small Wedgewood Avon cottage dessert bowls, in the deepest shade of blue. A white casserole with a thin blue border and ceramic cracked slightly enough to tell the wonderful story of dinners at an old pine table. An aluminium springform tin, with an opening mechanism I had never seen before; remind me to show you someday. The Phoenix glass sauce boat that I’ve been dreaming about.

    Surely that’s enough finds for a day?, I thought. I was wrong.

    [heading_right]Surely that’s enough finds for a day?,
    I thought. I was wrong. [/heading_right]I ventured to the book section, the one by the far right corner of our local second-hand shop. There are mismatched chairs and thousands of vinyls under the table that stands at the centre of a labyrinth made of bookshelves that have certainly seen steadier days.

    And right there, I found these three books. Pages of illustrations and notes about the Swedish wildlife. Pages thatI fell in love with and will soon thumb through. Pages I thought you might like too!

    References

    Andersson S., & Svensson R. (1980). Det vilda Sverige. Bra Böcker.
    https://www.antikvariat.net/en/search/Det%2Bvilda%2BSverige?bookseller=all&letter=all&product_group=all&period=all&currency=USD

    Brusewitz, G. (1996). Dagbok från en sjö. Stockholm: Wahlström & Widstrand.
    https://www.antikvariat.net/en/search/Dagbok%2Bfr%25C3%25A5n%2Ben%2Bsj%25C3%25B6?bookseller=all&letter=all&product_group=all&period=all&currency=USD

    Pettersson, G. (1984). Europas Rovfåglar. Höganäs: Bra Böcker.
    https://www.antikvariat.net/en/search/europas%2Brovfaglar?bookseller=all&letter=all&product_group=all&period=all&currency=USD

  • Confiture de figues

    Confiture de figues

    [Fig jam]

    We stepped off the plane only to be wrapped by the intense heat. With miles of sea ahead of us and the mountain in our backs, it dawned on me: this is home. A home away from home perhaps, but I could feel it, one deep breath of warm air after another; sea mist, tarmac, and gasoline.

    It had been over two years since our last trip to the south of France. Before we knew it, we’d fallen asleep to the sound of crickets through the shutters we’d left open, and woke up the next day to roosters crowing on the hill across our house.

    Just like a good holiday morning should start, we had breakfast under the pergola at the back of the house. Coffee and spelt milk. Baguette with butter and a generous spoon of vibrant melon des Charentes [cantaloupe melon] jam that my grand-mère made (in 2013, according to the label).

    Yes, of course, I couldn’t leave without a jar.

    If you’re interested, you should know it’s perfectly safe to pack a little over ten jars of jams and pickled mushrooms into your suitcase. Here is how: wrap them with more layers of clingfilm than deemed acceptable, then place them into a zipped plastic bag, and roll them into the thickly knit sweaters you didn’t wear once on your holidays. Cross your fingers and open your suitcase as soon as you get home.

    A few hours later.
    We drove the car down narrow roads until we almost reached the bottom of the valley. And there stood a terraced field, dry from the sun, with at its top the fullest figuier [fig tree] I had ever seen.
    As we walked towards it, the perfume from its leaves left little to wonder about how delectable the fruits would be.

    A little over twenty minutes later.
    Our skin itched from the sap. And our basket was heavy with plump small figs. Naturally we’d eaten a few as we picked them, and oh my!




    Confiture de figues

    There is always something magical about making jam, but fig jam has to be one of my favourites. I don’t know if it’s the slight crunch from the seeds, or the deep red colour. Perhaps, it’s just because I can’t eat fig jam without thinking about our childhood, when towards the end of the summer, we’d ride our bicycle to the nearest tree and pick as many figs as we could eat.

    The recipe here is for 1kg of figs but don’t hesitate to multiply it according to how much fruit you have around. After we’d eaten a good two kilograms of figs and left another in a ceramic bowl by the sink, we had around 3kg left, which we turned into jam, making around 12 odd sized jars.

    For the record, if making big batches, I tend to go for 4-5kg of fruits at a time as I’ve found that if using more, the jam, which will take longer to cook, won’t have such a vibrant colour and flavours due to some of the sugar caramelising.

    As with every of my jam recipes, the sugar – granulated, as it contains less impurities, and thus creates less foam to skim – and water get cooked to 110°C before the fruits are added.
    This step, which I see as fundamental, has one major impact on the jam cooking time, which makes it not only convenient, but also reduces the time during which the fruits are cooked, maintaining a fresh flavour.

    A note on the citric acid: I like to use citric acid powder and not lemon juice, as I’ve found that it keep the fruits’ flavour more intact, however I used lemon juice this time around and was satisfied with the results, although I’ll keep on sticking to my citric acid for the future as it awakens the jam in a way lemon juice doesn’t.
    No matter which one you go for, always add it at the end of the cooking process – off the heat.

    Confiture de figues

    Makes 4 to 6 jars

    1 kg granulated sugar
    300 g water
    1 kg black figs    , quartered
    40 g lemon juice or 20 g citric acid diluted in 2 tbsp of cold water (read note above)

    Sterilise jars by plunging them, along with their lids, in a pan of boiling water for approximately one minute. Then take them out and invert them onto a clean cloth. Allow to cool down, while you get on with the jam.

    Place the sugar and water into a large pan. Bring to the boil and cook to 110°C. Add the figs and simmer over medium heat for approximately 10 minutes, stirring every now and then until the jam reaches 104°C.
    Take off the heat and skim off any scum using a small laddle. Mix in the lemon juice, then using an immersion blender set on the lowest speed, blitz the jam to break off some of the figs.

    Immediately pour into the prepared jars. Screw the lid on and allow the jars to cool down completely, upside-down. Store in a cool dry place.

  • Kavring, the Swedish summer classic

    Kavring, the Swedish summer classic

    As written on June 20th, 2017:

    I didn’t mean to be gone for so long; from the winter solstice to the summer one. Yes, now a few days shy of midsommar, half a year has gone.

    Can we pretend that winter is barely over?

    In many ways it is. At least for us in the North. Snow has creeped into our sky way into June, and it’s only been a couple of weeks since the birches’ foliage flourished into the lush mantle that now covers every forest. We celebrated the first summer rain a few days ago; and sometimes, I can’t help but wonder how something so mundane can cause such thrill, if it wasn’t for the fact that we almost skipped spring this year, or that our winters are most silent, with the world around us resonating in a felted echo.

    I come to you today with a Swedish summer classic: kavring. A soft, slightly sweet bread, traditionally eaten over Midsommar with sill [pickled herring] or gravlax, and even for Easter and Christmas. Yes, in Sweden, the holiday table stays rather unchanged throughout the annual festivities, with only slight variations, like a stronger focus on meat (köttbullar [meat balls], game, julskinka [Christmas ham]) for Christmas, while Easter and Midsummer are all about herring.

    I would love to delve into kavring‘s origin and history, but then I would probably have to wait for a year or two before I’d be able to share this recipe with you. One that I’ve worked on for the past few weeks as we changed the menu at the café.

    A good starting point, however, is the etymology, which I find especially helpful when it comes to the Nordic countries, where different languages and cultures have inextricably intertwined over the past centuries.

    From Svensk etymologisk ordbok, Elof Hellquist (1922)

    In E. Hellquist’s 1922 Swedish etymology dictionary (Svensk etymologisk ordbok), the origin of the word kavring is a complex one, dating from the early 1500 with the Russian kovríga that became the Danish kavring, which the Swedes embraced with a minor orthographical variation until recent times: kafring.

    “Kavring (in the southern Sweden folk dialect), a sort of twice-baked sourdough rye bread or an oven-dried loaf. Kafring, in early modern Swedish, dated from 1544, possibly originating from Norwegian, while the word kavring was first encountered in the early 16th century in the Danish language from the Russian kovríga, a round bread, literally ring or circle in old Russian.”
    ー Svensk etymologisk ordbok, Elof Hellquist (1922)

    The etymology tells us more than the origin of the word itself, it tells us the story of a bread that travelled through the Nordic countries. Originally a crisp rye bread (which it still is in Norway), kavring then morphed into the soft, sweet and fragrant loaf in the late 1800, mostly in southern Sweden according to Å. Campbell’s The Swedish bread (Det svenska brödet, 1950), a wonderful read that gives an insight into the cultural contrasts in pre-industrial Sweden through bread traditions in its regions.

    While I’m not surprised to see two spellings that eventually became one, I find it interesting to note that the Norwegian-originated spelling kafring was used in Swedish as late as 1915, like in this issue of the Idun newspaper where “Folket stegade till drängstugan för att öppna sina byttor och korgar och förtära sin enkla måltid, surmjölk, kafring och smör.” The people hurried towards the workman’s hut to open their boxes and baskets before consuming their simple meal made of sour milk, kavring and butter.

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    Kavring

    My recipe makes two loaves of this delicious Swedish classic bread, because trust me, you'll want to have one on your counter and one well-wrapped in clingfilm in your fridge where it will keep for up to two weeks.
    A few ways to eat kavring in the morning: butter and thinly sliced cheese (comté is a favourite). Butter and a seven-minute boiled egg. Butter and orange marmalade. Butter. You get it!

    Notes

    While extremely easy to make, this recipe necessitates a few ingredients specific to the Nordic countries, namely: rågsikt [sifted rye], brödsirap [bread syrup], and filmjölk [sour milk].
    However, I can only think that these can be substituted as follows.
    – Rågsikt is a blend of plain flour and sifted rye flour, usually 60% plain flour and 40% rye flour.
    – Brödsirap is a mix of 80% molasses and 20% malt syrup, with a little salt thrown in. The closest I could think of is to mix 40% golden syrup, 40% black treacle and 20% malt extract.
    Back when I lived in London, my favourite malt extract came from Hollands and Barretts, a small jar with a mustard yellow label.
    – Filmjölk, a cultured milk that is usually eaten for breakfast or mellanmål [literally “a medium meal”, snacks], can be replaced by cultured buttermilk, kefir, or even a runny yoghurt, unsweetened of course.
    I’ll write both recipes down, in case you live as close to the polar circle as we do. If you try the “Anglicised” recipe, please let me know how it turns out <3
    For the spices I decided stayed close to the classic trio of fennel, caraway and anis, only leaving the anis out, although I’ve seen recipes that call for cloves, ground ginger and even bitter orange zest, so it would be interesting to experiment with different flavours. I’m thinking an orange and lingon limpa [loaf] would be wonderful on our Christmas table.
    Author: Fanny Zanotti
    Prep Time20 minutes
    Cook Time1 hour 30 minutes
    Makes 2 loaves.

    Ingredients

    Kavring with Swedish ingredients

    • 25 g fennel seeds
    • 25 g caraway seeds
    • 500 g rågsikt
    • 360 g plain flour
    • 20 g bicarbonate soda
    • 20 g salt
    • 275 g brödsirap
    • 1200 g filmjölk
    • coarse rye flour to sprinkle

    Kavring with English ingredients

    • 25 g fennel seeds
    • 25 g caraway seeds
    • 660 g plain flour
    • 200 g rye flour
    • 20 g bicarbonate soda
    • 24 g salt
    • 110 g treacle
    • 110 g golden syrup
    • 55 g malt extract
    • 1200 g filmjölk subsitute read more above
    • coarse rye flour to sprinkle

    Instructions

    • Preheat the oven to 175°C/fan 155°C. Butter and line two 1.5L loaf tins with baking paper.
    • Crush the seeds in a mortar and set aside.
    • In a large bowl, combine the flours, crushed seeds, bicarbonate and salt. Whisk together to combine. In another bowl, mix the syrup(s) and filmjölk; pour over the flour mixture and mix using a silicon spatula until barely smooth.
    • Divide between the two prepared tins and generously sprinkle with coarse rye flour.
    • Bake in the preheated oven for 1h30, at which point the core temperature of the loaf should read 96-98°C.
    • Allow to cool down in its tin for 10 minutes, then unmould onto a rack and leave to cool down completely to room temperature. Wrap in clingfilm.
    • The loaves will keep in the fridge for up to two weeks, or in the freezer for a month or two, although the latter tends to make the crumb slightly drier.