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The sky these days, or just a dream? No but seriously have you ever seen pärlemormoln [pearlescent clouds], as we call them in Swedish?
A pale canvas, slowly awakening after months of nights, brushed with mother-of-pearl – soft greens, pinks, and blues, shimmering quietly in the cold.
They form high in the stratosphere where it’s cold enough for ice crystals to scatter light into these fleeting colors. Rare and delicate, they appear just before sunrise or linger after sunset, catching the sun’s rays long before they reach the ground.
We stood in the yard, Sienna with her sled and Stor Nalle in tow. “Do you think we’ll see them again?” she asked, her face turned toward the sky, cheeks red from the wind. “Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not. That’s what makes them special.”
There is nothing quite like winter in the north of Sweden – crisp air, snow-covered fields, and the northern lights flickering beyond the windows. In the depths of the season, I was honoured to welcome Bake from Scratch Editor-in-Chief Brian Hart Hoffman and photographer Joann Pai to the old baking cottage in Tjärn, just outside Skellefteå, for a day of baking – warm hands, golden light, and the scent of saffron and citrus filling the room.
We started at Svedjan Ost, collecting buttermilk and butter, then stopped at ÓGIN Distillery, where Jón Óskar Arnason distils the flavours of the subarctic into bottles. Back in the cottage, fire crackling, we turned to winter’s brightest flavours: saffron, citrus, and cloudberries. By the time the light faded, our table was filled with golden brioches, rye soda bread, saffron cakes, and almond-orange biscuits.
A day of simple joys, traditions and warmth. The full story is in the Jan/Feb 2024 issue of Bake from Scratch – a glimpse into my world of winter baking. You can purchase the issue here.
This is a cake I’ve made so many times over the years that I could make it with my eyes closed.
I remember the first time I posted about it. It was early 2010, and a thin mantle of snow had fallen overnight, just enough to cover the ground.
I had just started working as a commis pastry chef at the Capital, a small boutique hotel that would become the road map of my seven years in London. Yes, many of the chefs I consider my mentors and friends have – at one point or another – worked in the kitchen where I did my very first service.
This reminds me that I’ll have to tell you, one day, about the time where I traveled across town – from Islington to Mayfair – on a vegetable delivery van to meet Chavot for an interview, leaving loaves of sourdough proofing in the kitchen above John Salt, and came back just in time to bake them before dinner service.
But… this cake. A gâteau de voyage [a travel cake]. It doesn’t translate well, but the name alone suffices to evoke the soft lull of a holiday; the carefully wrapped slice, eaten on the night train; the afternoons at the beach; perhaps even, the long drive through the Massif Central.
All gâteaux de voyage have the particularity to keep well at room temperature over a week or so. And this weekend cake is no exception, with both butter and crème fraiche to keep it moist, I find that it tastes even better the next day.
It starts by whisking the eggs and sugar, with just a pinch of salt. The flours gets folded in. Then a third of the batter is mixed with the fats, then delicately folded back into the remaining batter.
Although, I now often make it by adding the fats to the eggs, then folding in the flour.
For the sake of staying true to my original recipe, I will leave the former method – as written in 2010, but know that both work fine, the latter leading to a slightly denser crumb, which I like when having cakes with tea or more accurately – and dare I say it – I love when dipping a slice in piping hot tea.
Please, tell me you also give in to this ritual or am I the only one?
And although, I can never resist it unadorned, I am rather fond of serving it with a generous spoonful of clementine confit and a dollop of crème fraiche.
There is something about the suave softness of the compote against the gentle bite of the cake.
Sometimes I even make it with tea – finely milled to a powder – folded into the batter. Other times, I leave it plain, perhaps with a touch of vanilla or orange blossom water, and we eat it with softly whipped cream and warmed raspberries.
Yes, more than a recipe this really is blueprint and should be used as such.
Just a quick note on baking temperatures: while I often bake this loaf cake at 175°C for approximately 45 minutes, I can only remind you of my favourite method for baking loaf cakes.
5 minutes at 200°C/fan 180°C, 10 minutes at 180°C/fan 170°C, and around 25 minutes at 170°C/fan 160°C.
Cake weekend au citron, confit de clémentines à la vanille
Makes one loaf cake.
350 g clementines, around 3 to 4
200 g caster sugar
half a vanilla pod
100 g water
20 g cornflour diluted in 40 g cold water
4 eggs
250 g caster sugar
zest from 2 organic lemons
200 g plain flour
one tsp baking powder
150 g creme fraiche
50 g butter, melted
softened butter, extra for piping
a generous dollop of crème fraiche for each serving
Make the clementine confit: bring a large pan of water to the boil. Plunge the clementines in it and simmer for 3 minutes. Sieve, placing the fruits in an ice-cold water bath as you do so. Repeat one more time. Then chill the clementines until cold enough to handle.
Slice finely, and place in a pan along with the sugar, vanilla pod and seeds, and water.
Simmer for 30 minutes or until reduced and almost candied. Then vigorously fold in the cornflour mixture. Allow to boil for a couple of minutes, and transfer to a bowl.
The confit will keep in the fridge for up to 5 days or in the freezer for up to 3 months.
Make the cake batter: preheat the oven to 175°C/fan 155°C; butter and flour a loaf tin.
Place the eggs, sugar, lemon zest, and salt in a bowl, and whisk until thick and doubled in size.
In an another bowl, mix the flour and baking powder, and fold into the egg mixture.
Pour a third of the batter onto the cream and melted butter, mix well, and transfer back to the main batter mix, gently folding in as you do so.
Pour into the prepared tin. If you want an even crack in the center of your loaf cake, pipe a thin line of softened butter across the batter; and bake for 45 minutes, or until a knife inserted in the cake comes out clean.
Allow to cool down 20-30 minutes before unmoulding.
If not eating right away, place into an airtight container and keep at room temperature.
Place a slice of cake cut in half lengthwise in a plate. Top with both a spoonful of confit and a dollop of crème fraiche.
Twelve weeks ago, almost to the second, Sienna was put on my chest; pink as a candy, eyes wide open. Twelve weeks that went quickly, and also, twelves weeks when winter came and went more times that I can count.
There was the night we rushed to the maternity; the air suddenly so sharp we’d forgotten how it felt against our cheeks. There was the first snow, as early as the third of October, which was gone a few days later; and as it did, the longing for a winter as I had known it only became more intense with every morning that passed by without a snowflake. And then, one day, winter was here, not that it didn’t come without a warning.
The afternoons by the river, frost on every branch. That Sunday when snowflakes were big as cotton balls. And the clear evening skies we had last week when the temperatures dropped to -20°C.
In our kitchen, there is a bread made of rye and filmjölk [sour milk] on the counter. And every time we open the pantry, the earthy smell of saffron fills the room. We have blueberry cakelets in the fridge, and lussekatter in a jar above it. A mjukpepparkaka [gingerbread cake] on our table, and a baking tray filled with brown butter and cardamom salted caramel, waiting to be cut.
Yes, there is so much I want to tell you about, but Christmas is only a few days away, and some things cannot wait, like these saffransmazariner.
Saffransmazariner
A mazarin is a tartlet traditionally composed of three elements:
– a crisp pâte sablée case
– an almond cream filling, not unlike the French crème d’amande
– a simple icing sugar glaze
Sometimes, a thin layer of jam covers the bottom of the tart shell, or the filling can be topped with fresh berries before baking, in which case, the mazarin isn’t glazed.
Its origin – although I haven’t quite had the time to research – seems rather uncertain, possibly linked to an Italian cardinal who moved to Paris and first assisted Richelieu, only to succeed him in the mid seventeenth century.
Through his regency, Cardinal Mazarin has been thought to popularise pasta and perhaps, other Italian delicacies in France and Sweden (which were rather new allies then). And although there is no evidence of it in literature, mazariner do strongly remind me of the traditional crostata di mandorle, a very similar tart from Italy.
My saffron mazariner are the festive version of the Swedish favourite. You see, I have the bad habit to buy mazarinformar [mazarin moulds] at every garage sale; so really, I’m always looking for an excuse to bake them under one form or another.
You can use any tartlet moulds, ideally around 5-6cm in diameter, but in a pinch, I suspect a muffin tin will do fine too. A large mazarin, sliced in thin wedges would also look fantastic on a cake stand!
The dough – my usual pâte sablée, with a touch of baking powder for an extra brittle shell – will make more than you need, but you can:
– do as I usually do and line additional moulds (around 40), and keep them in the freezer for up to two months
– freeze the extra dough, which you can later use to line a 24cm tart tin
I tend to make it in the food-processor, but a stand-mixer works too. As always, I can only recommend rolling it before letting it to rest in the fridge; however this dough is quite forgiving, and when I don’t want to use up a lot of baking paper or if I’m feeling lazy, I will wrap the dough in clingfilm, and chill it for 20-30 minutes, then roll it onto a lightly floured bench. For more tips on how to handle tart dough, please refer to these posts here.
Mazariner freeze beautifully. On the day you want to eat them, simply take them out for a few hours, and glaze them with a simple icing sugar glaze.
Saffransmazariner
Makes 28
360 g plain flour
90 g icing sugar
1/2 tsp sea salt
1/4 tsp baking powder
200 g unsalted butter
100 g eggs (2 medium)
butter, melted to grease the moulds
150 g unsalted butter
1 g ground saffron
300 g good quality marzipan (minimum 50% almonds), coarsely grated
100 g eggs (2 medium)
1/2 tsp sea salt
10 g plain flour (approx. 1 tbsp)
250 g icing sugar
water from the kettle
Make the dough. In the bowl of a food-processor, place the flour, sugar, salt, baking powder and butter, and mix until the mixture ressembles wet sand. Add the eggs and pulse until it just starts to form a dough.
Divide the dough in two and roll each piece to 3-4mm thick between two sheets of baking paper. Place onto a tray and chill in the fridge for 20-30 minutes.
In the meantime, preheat the oven to 175°C/fan 160°C, and brush 28 (or more, read note above) tartlet moulds with melted butter; setting them aside until needed.
Make the filling. Melt the butter in a small pan and add the saffron. Mix well and allow to infuse for a few minutes.
Place the marzipan, eggs, salt and flour in the bowl of a food-processor and mix to a smooth paste. Slowly add the butter, mixing as you do so.
Transfer the filling to a piping bag.
Take the dough out of the fridge and loosen the top sheet of baking paper. Flip over and remove the other sheet, this way, the dough still is on baking paper, yet doesn’t stick to it (I hope that makes sense).
Cut out the dough into small ovals or circles, depending on the shape of your tins, and line each with dough, trimming the excess using your thumb or a small paring knife.
Place the lined moulds onto a baking tray, and fill them with your saffran almond cream, around 3/4 full.
Bake for 20-25 minutes or until golden brown. Allow to cool down for 10-15 minutes, then unmould.
Mix the icing sugar with a drop of hot water, just enough to form a thick paste, and spoon on top of the mazariner. Allow to set for an hour or two, then store in an airtight container for up to five days. You can also freeze the unglazed mazariner for up to 3 months (see note above).
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
We have stars glowing by our windows. And snow when we look over the roofs of Skellefteå.
We have a batch of saffron, almond and orange biscotti in the oven. And one of pepparkaksdeg [gingerbread biscuit dough] in the making: there is cinnamon, ginger, cardamom and cloves infusing in water, along with butter too of course! And soon the dough will come together.
We have two cups of glögg on the table. With almonds and raisins just so.
Yes, a little earlier today, I unwrapped each of the wonderful little cups that I had excessively wrapped in newspaper a few months ago after we had found them at a loppis [garage sale] in Dalarna over the summer.
I remember that day; still early in the morning, we stumbled across the largest collection of Duralex tableware outside of my grand-mère’s house. It was at the small green house that stands on Orsa’s centre square, where we’d ventured on the promise of a gammaldagsmarknad [olden day market]. Of the excursion, these cups and many others are the only things that followed us; like a reminder of a past I find myself recollecting more and more often. And just like the ones I grew up with, I now hope to grow older with them too.
Everytime I come around here, a whole season has gone by.
There was summer and its endless hours in the kitchen that I now call home. But before we knew it, the time for semester [holidays] came. And went.
Two weeks in our stuga [cabin] in the middle of the woods; and I still stand by my words when I say Åsen is my dream place. A dream that – this time – we shared with my family who traveled the three-thousand kilometres between us.
We picked blåbär [blueberries] and lingon; and my father – who’d never been this up north ever before – spent a day teaching me where to find mushrooms in the Swedish forests, reminiscing the mornings we’d busied up in the lower Alps more than twenty years ago now. We picked mostly giroles, but also ceps and chanterelles, although it was still a little early in the season for the latter.
We visited the small factory where the dalahäst we cherish so much are made, a short twenty minute drive from the stuga, in the heart of Dalarna. My mother bought more horses that she could – literally – handle; and the picture I took on my phone will always be a favourite memory of mine.
We baked traditional Swedish snittar and drömmar [biscuits] that now also have a strong following in a little house of the south of France.
Then came the golden days – that I must admit, I almost wrote as “goldays”, perhaps I am onto something – of autumn.
Long walks by the river to the sound of the wind through birch branches so tall it makes you dizzy. And no matter what, I will always be in love with the peculiar colour of a sun setting through these trees that are now a part of my universe.
There is the smell of rain. And dead leaves too. And of pumpkin roasting in the oven, just so. There is the first frost, which I had predicted to the day. Yes, to the day! And the rönnbär [Rowan berries] we picked and candied; a jar that will probably be forgotten at the back of the fridge for another few weeks before it makes an appearance on our table.
And rather unexpectedly, there was winter too.
The day after we’d moved to our new flat. The view of Skellefteå rooftops from our bed; one minute black as coal, the next covered in a thick mantle of snow. A snow that lasted for a week, even though back then, we did not know that just yet.
The following Sunday, we pulled the suspenders of our warm overalls up and wrapped ourselves in wool. A morning in the snow, and an afternoon by the kitchen stove. And somewhere in the middle, kladdkaka and wine were involved.
My Swedish kladdkaka recipe
This is not a recipe I had planned to share with you, although it’s one that followed us through the seasons.
Served with barely whipped cream and freshly picked berries in the summer; roasted pears and vanilla ice-cream in the autumn, and now made in a cardboard box kitchen as we were unpacking the things we love enough to have taken along on the ride that took us here to the north of Sweden.
Yes, this kladdkaka recipe is just that. An everyday wonder; whipped up in less then ten minutes, it can be as fancy or as casual as you want it to be.
And today, I thought I’d test the halogen builders site light Kalle bought last year for me to be able to take pictures through our long winter. And that perhaps, you’d appreciate to have your Sunday fika sorted out for the weekend ahead.
In case you still have your doubts, you should know Sam’s – 3 year-old – stance on the subject: “De är jättekladdiga!” [They are very sticky*].
* A good thing since kladdkaka literally means “sticky cake”, although I have a feeling chewy would be more of an appropriate translation.
My Swedish kladdkaka recipe
Makes one 22cm cake, serving 8-10.
125 g unsalted butter
250 g caster sugar
1 tbsp vanilla sugar
2 eggs
90 g plain flour
40 g cocoa powder
5 g sea salt
Preheat the oven to 175°C. Butter and line a 22cm tin with baking paper.
Melt the butter in a pan set over medium heat.
Off the heat, add the sugars and allow the mixture to cool down slightly for 2-3 minutes. Whisk in the eggs, one at a time, mixing well after each addition.
Add the flour, cocoa powder, and salt, and mix until just smooth.
Pour the batter in the prepared tin, and bake for 25 minutes, or until domed and cracked on top. Allow to cool down completely before serving.
