Author: Fanny

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.

October 23, 2017
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)

October 6, 2017
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.

October 5, 2017

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
Diameter	Volume	Length	Volume
16 cm	1.3 L	23 cm	2.6 L
18 cm	1.8 L	25 cm	3.2 L
20 cm	2.4 L	27 cm	4.1 L
22 cm	3.3 L	29 cm	4.7 L
24 cm	4.2 L	31 cm	6.1 L
26 cm	5.3 L
28 cm	6.7 L
30 cm	8.4 L

September 25, 2017

Daube provençale à la 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

September 24, 2017
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

September 20, 2017
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.

September 5, 2017
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.
PRINT

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.
August 8, 2017
A special Christmas surprise

I’m writing this on the first day of winter as defined by the astronomical calendar. In my heart, though, winter started early morning, on the second of November. That day, we walked through the old town; snow on the ground, snow twirling down, snow on the roofs. We were completely alone and really, I couldn’t not believe the beauty before my eyes.

Today, a little under two month later, days have stopped getting shorter and on Sunday, we’ll be sitting at the foot of our Christmas tree, opening the presents we wrapped a few days ago in brown paper and red ribbons.
There is a gorgeous wicker basket too. One that came all the way from London, not unlike the best care package I’ve ever gotten.

[heading_right]And mostly, there is something so wonderful and comforting about the thought of opening it on Christmas morning to the sound of wrapping paper and Christmas carols.[/heading_right]

Yes, we were lucky enough to receive a beautiful hamper from Harrods. The one we chose was made in collaboration with Cartwright & Butler, which products I’ve always loved both for their inspired packaging and deliciously old-fashioned recipes.

It was the first time I ever got a Christmas hamper. And really, after peeking through this one with my eyes full of stars, I intend on making it a new tradition in our home. Very much like a Christmas concentrate, this hamper feels like the only thing we need for the perfect Christmas day along with the people we love. There is coffee and tea, and even hot chocolate pearls. Biscuits and cakes, and more preserves than you can count on your fingers. And mostly, there is something so wonderful and comforting about the thought of opening it on Christmas morning to the sound of wrapping paper and Christmas carols.

We’d make a pot of coffee and eat a slice of fruit cake for breakfast, with the innocence of two children who like to play make-believe. Perhaps we’d fall asleep, lulled by the soft sound of snow against our windows. And when we’d wake up, it would already be dark outside, and our vintage baubles would twinkle under the tree’s blinking lights.

We’d open the fridge to a bottle of Champagne, a block of Västerbottensost [Västerbotten cheese], crème fraiche and löjrom [Kalix roe]. And before we’d know it, we’d have the most glorious dinner: cheese on tomato thins with a dollop of chilli chutney, marmalade on toast (because, really, is there anything better than breakfast for dinner?), cheese wafers topped with crème fraiche and roe, and of course, one too many chocolate oat crumble. And maybe even a caramel waffle or two.
Yes, it all sounds like a dream, but unlike many others, this one will get true; in the way only shooting star wishes do. A dream I am resolved to have on repeat for the Christmases to come.

You’ll find a detailed description of the hamper we chose here, although I do believe it is now out of stock. And more Harrods Christmas hampers here.

I wish you all the warmest Christmas. Lots of love, Fanny.

Disclaimer: This hamper was offered to me by Harrods for review; I was not compensated in any other way nor asked to write this post. I chose to tell you about it on my blog because I genuinely fell in love with it and would happily recommend it to friends.

December 22, 2016
Glad Lucia, a lussekatter history (and recipe)
Traditionally eaten for Santa Lucia on the thirteenth of December, lussekatter – also called lussebullar – have a nebulous history. One that’s laced with Christianity and paganism, German and viking heritage.

In fact, even the origin of the Lucia celebrations is quite elusive.

Lussi, an evil figure roamed the land along with her lussiferda, a horde of trolls and goblins.

Lussinatta once coincided with the Winter solstice back in the 1300s when Europe still used the Julian calendar. During that night, the longest of the year, it was said that animals could talk and supernatural events could occur; Lussi, an evil figure (that holds many similarities with the german Perchta or the italian Befana) roamed the land along with her lussiferda, a horde of trolls and goblins, punishing naughty children and casting dark magic. People, forced to remain secluded, would eat and drink in an attempt to fight the darkness.

And as the years went by in the pre-Christian Norden, farmers started to celebrate the return of the light and the tradition of a goddess of lights took roots in the pagan folklore.
It was also the start of festivities of some kind – not to say Christmas, although it is believed that both Christian and heathen traditions started to blend from the 1100s . In fact the very origins of the word jul [Christmas] are blurry, with one occurrence dating back to Harald Hårfager who might have said: “Dricka jul!” [drink Christmas!].
During these celebrations, pig would get slaughtered, both for the gods and for the feast.

The tradition of a feast and offerings is documented in Erland Hofsten’s unpublished manuscript Beskrifning öfwer Wermeland, dating from the early 1700s. And although no further narrative is given, Hofsten believed in a pagan provenance.

The first printed description comes a few decades later in 1773 through Erik Fernows’ Beskrifning öfwer Wärmeland: “Man skall den dagen wara uppe at äta bittida om ottan, hos somlige tör ock et litet rus slinka med på köpet. Sedan lägger man sig at sofwa, och därpå ätes ny frukost. Hos Bönderne kallas detta ‘äta Lussebete’, men hos de förnämare ‘fira Luciäottan’.” And now if you please excuse my poor translation/paraphrase (Swedish is hard enough without having to deal with old Swedish): On that day, we should be up early (otta is an old Swedish word akin to night, but really means the time of the day when the night becomes the morning, around 4-5am) to eat, and for some, a shot of snaps would go down. Then we’d lay on the sofa and would later eat another breakfast. Amongst the farmers this would be known as to “eat Lussi’s bait”, but for the more affluents it was called a “Lucia morning celebration”.

One that spread from Värmland to Västergotland where C. Fr. Nyman encountered the custom for the first time, as described in his unpublished 1764 manuscript: “Rätt som jag låg i min bästa sömn, hördes en Vocalmusique utan för min dörr, hvaraf jag väcktes. Strax derpå inträdde först ett hvit-klädt fruntimmer med gördel om lifvet, liksom en vinge på hvardera axeln, stora itända ljus i hwar sin stora silfversljusstake, som sattes på bordet, och strax derpå kom en annan med ett litet dukadt bord, försedt med allehanda kräseliga, äteliga och våtvaror, som nedsattes mitt för sängarna… det är Lussebete .” That morning he was awaken by songs coming from outside his door. He then proceeded to meet a white-clad lady wearing wings and holding a large silver candlestick, which she placed on the table. And soon after another lady came in carrying a small table lined with cloth and full of food and drinks, which she laid in between the beds. In his story, C. Fr. Nyman, calls it Lussi’s bait, reinforcing not only the heathen terms of the celebration, but also hinting about the origin of the lussekatter.

It is noted in Nordisk familjebok 1912 that it was common to bake a peculiar bread shaped as a L and called “dövelskatt” [the devil’s tax] in south-western Sweden: “I sydvästra Sverige bakas till L. ett särskildt kultbröd, kalladt ‘dövelskatt’”.
And with different spellings like the Dutch duyvelskat, or the more common Lussebette, it’s hard not to think how the word we all thought meant Lucia’s cats was actually intended to be an offering to Lussi in exchange for her mercy. Or as it’s described in this interview of Anna Freij that the buns were tinted bright yellow with saffron to scare the devil away.

With the introduction of the Gregorian calendar in the 16th century, Lucia no longer coincided with the winter solstice, but the customs of December 13th being the longest night of the year remained strong in the farming community throughout the centuries and up to the 1700s.
And it’s suspected that as Christianity grew in the north, the church tried to associate the pagan tradition with Santa Lucia, mostly based on phonetics and etymology (latin lux: light).

And just like that, the customs of eating saffron bread, something that was once reserved to the higher classes of southern Sweden, started to spread amongst rural Sweden, where wheat buns would be brushed with a saffron-infused syrup; with each province having their own distinctive shaped bun.

I hope that what was intended to be “just a recipe” five or so hours ago, brought some insight into this wonderful tradition, which like many others is a complex maze of cultural and historical layers tangled into each-other like morning hair.

Here are the sources I’ve used to this little research:
http://runeberg.org/svetym/0512.html
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harald_Fairhair
http://www.firajul.nu/julenstraditioner/ordet-jul
http://www.bageri.se/aktuellt/nyheter/varfor-ater-vi-saffransbrod-till-jul/
http://malinryke.blogspot.se/2014/12/lussekattens-historia.html
PRINT

Lussekatter

Come early November, every supermarket launches their annual production of lussekatter, which I suspect are loved by many.
As soon as you step in, the sweet scent of saffron gives away the trolleyful of golden buns waiting to be wrapped in small plastic bags. I have never tasted one from the shop, but from what I'm told they tend to be on the dry side.
My lussekatter, although certainly not authentic as their supermarket counterpart, are a dream to work with, to eat warm from the oven, or toasted the next day, to soak in an egg whisked with a dash of cream, milk, and sugar, and then pan-fried until golden, not unlike a French Swedish-toast.
The recipe itself is a simple enriched dough that some would be tempted to call a pain au lait [milk bread]. As with any rich dough, I recommend using a stand-mixer, althought it's definitely possible to make them by hand, simply follow the instructions given on that post.

Notes
A note on the saffron:
If you don’t have any ground saffron, simply bring the milk to the boil and soak/infuse the saffron threads in it for at least 30 minutes. You will have to wait for the milk to be completely cooled down before using in the recipe.
Edit 13/12/2018: Nowadays, I always tend to dissolve the saffron in a tablespoon or so of rum. I find it brings out the flavour even more!

Author: Fanny Zanotti

Prep Time1 hour
Cook Time12 minutes

Makes 20 buns

Ingredients
For the raisins
a handful of raisins
boiling water
For the dough
250 g unsalted butter
600 g strong flour
75 g caster sugar
18 g fresh yeast
0.5 g one envelope ground saffron (read note above)
7.5 g sea salt
375 g whole milk

Instructions
Soak the raisins in boiling water and set aside to cool down. This can be done up to three days ahead, in which case, keep the soaked raisins in the fridge.
Slice the butter into thin 2-3mm thick slices. Set aside until needed.
In the bowl of a stand-mixer fitted with the dough-hook, place the flour, sugar, yeast, saffron and salt. Add the milk and mix on medium speed for around 10 minutes or until the dough detaches from the sides of the bowl and feels smooth, elastic and barely tacky. If you take a small piece of dough, you should be able to stretch it into a very thin membrane.
Add the butter, one small piece at a time continuously until all the butter is in – and knead it in for a further 10 minutes.
Place the dough in a large bowl, and clingfilm to the touch. Refrigerate for at least 3 hours or up to 12.
Line three baking trays with paper and set aside.
Scrape the dough onto a lightly floured surface and divide in 50-55g pieces and cover loosely with clingfilm.
Take one piece and roll into a thin snake, approximately 30cm long, then form an S shape, curling both ends into a spiral. Place onto the prepared baking trays, making sure to give the buns plenty of space. And repeat with the remaining dough.
Cover with clingfilm and leave to proof until doubled in size, around 2-3 hours.
Preheat the oven to 200°C/fan 180°C.
Brush the top of the buns with the egg wash and press two raisins into each bun.
Bake for 10-12 minutes until golden-brown. Allow to cool down slightly.
December 13, 2016
Swedish pepparkakor

This Swedish pepparkakor recipe isn’t one that comes with many traditions. It was in fact created on the very first weekend of advent earlier this month after days of formula research and calculations.

We had just brought upstairs two cardboard boxes labelled hastily JUL 2015 [Christmas 2015] from our förråd [storage] and there were candles lighting our house to the most beautiful shade of gold; the sharp and intense smell of resin diffusing through every room, like a morning promenade through the forest.

I had just unpacked a small pink plastic basket, filled to the rim with pepparkaksformar [cookie cutters] that I’d found last summer at a garage sale at one of the houses we’d cycle by every morning.
After a quick run under warm soapy water, I left them to dry over my favourite torchon [kitchen cloth], the light grey one with nid d’abeilles [honeycomb] fabric.

Later that night, we used them to cut through the dough we’d made the night before. And as I pressed each and everyone of them through the softly spiced pepparkaksdeg, I couldn’t help but think about the many Christmases these cutters had known. And just like that, a tradition-less recipe actually perpetuated one that I suspect lasted many decades and created a new tradition for us to hold over the coming years.

Here is to the next first of advent!

Pepparkakor

I chose to make the lighter kind* of pepparkakor, one of many really. In some houses, the dough calls for whipping cream or baking powder. Muscovado sugar and treacle syrup. A pinch of cinnamon and a fat tablespoon of ground ginger.

That day, I made the pepparkakor that I’d knew I’d love. Light and crisp with just enough bite to hold well when dipped in a cup of coffee – something I can only warmly recommend.

I might try, next time I make a batch, to replace the caster sugar with light muscovado sugar or even brun farinsocker, a sugar that we have here in Sweden, and which is almost halfway between dark and light muscovado sugars; if you choose that road, you could most definitely substitute the caster sugar in the recipe below with 125 g dark muscovado and 100 g light muscovado.

I will also perhaps replace the golden syrup for chestnut honey, as a reminiscence of my childhood pain d’épices (which I also need to tell you about).

* Nowhere as light as they appear to be in the pictures I took here. Yes, I am still in dire need of figuring out this whole winter lighting thing.

Pepparkakor

Makes around 100 small biscuits.

75 g water
105 g golden syrup
225 g caster sugar (read note above)
175 g unsalted butter
1 heaped tbsp ground cinnamon
1 heaped tsp ground ginger
3/4 tsp ground cardamom
3/4 tsp ground cloves
480 g plain flour
1/2 tsp bicarbonate of soda
1/4 tsp sea salt

Bring the water, syrup, and sugar to the boil in a small pan. Off the heat, add the butter and spices, and allow to cool down to around 30-35°C.

In a bowl, mix the flour, bicarbonate and salt.

When the syrup has cooled down enough, slowly pour over the flour, and mix with a silicone spatula until a loose dough comes together.

Place the dough onto a large piece of clingfilm, and flatten it into a square using the palm of your hand. Cover tightly with clingfilm, and refrigerate for at least 12 hours or up to a month.

When you’re ready to bake your pepparkakor, take out your dough from the fridge and leave it at room temperature for 20-30 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 200°C/fan 180°C.

On a slighty floured surface, roll the dough to 3-4mm thick and cut out into the desired shapes. If you wish to hang your pepparkakor, make sure to cut a small hole before baking them.

Arrange them onto baking trays lined with baking paper, and do not to mix the larger biscuits with the small ones as they won’t bake evenly.

Bake for 5 to 8 minutes, depending on the size of the pepparkakor, or until the edges start to turn golden brown.
When cooled down, decorate with royal icing if you wish, and store in an airtight container for up to a month.

More Christmas adventures in the north of Sweden on Instagram: #fannysjul <3

December 8, 2016
PS. Time to start baking with saffron

“Saffran, pepparkakor, lingon och mandel.”

If you sat on the windowsill, here with me – yes, right now – you’d see many things around us. The stars and advent candles, fluttering in every house. The snow, covering roofs till the horizon and further.

In my kitchen – and I suspect many others – saffran, pepparkakor, lingon och mandel [saffron, gingerbread, lingon berries and almonds] pervade the air in the way only they can. And we’d watch bullar rise under the yellow glow of the oven lamp, spitting butter and oozing with marzipan just so.

Yes, it’s time to start baking with saffron, although I might have possibly started a couple of weeks ago.
And if you’d ever ask me, I’d possibly urge you to start too; most likely with my absolute favourite buns: saffransbullar med mandelmassa.

My saffron recipes

Saffranskladdkaka
[Swedish saffron blondies] Snipp, snapp, snut – så var julen slut. Christmas has come and gone, and I never got …
Read More
January 12, 2025

Birgittas saffranskaka
[Birgitta´s saffron cake] If you follow me on instagram, you’ll recognise this cake. One that I make year after year, …
Read More
December 13, 2021

Saffransmazariner
[Saffron mazariner] Twelve weeks ago, almost to the second, Sienna was put on my chest; pink as a candy, eyes …
Read More
December 21, 2018

Glad Lucia, a lussekatter history (and recipe)
Traditionally eaten for Santa Lucia on the thirteenth of December, lussekatter – also called lussebullar – have a nebulous history …
Read More
December 13, 2016

PS. Time to start baking with saffron
“Saffran, pepparkakor, lingon och mandel.” If you sat on the windowsill, here with me – yes, right now – you’d …
Read More
December 8, 2016

Saffransbullar med mandelmassa
[Swedish saffron and almond buns] Sunrise: 9:33 AM Sunset: 1:28 PM Temperature: -11.8°C The Swedish saffron and almond buns you …
Read More
December 13, 2015

December 8, 2016