Sunday, January 12, 2014

Kransekaker

Perhaps one of my most anticipated professional challenges to date is the making of traditional Norwegian kransekaker: a Jul-time treat of baked almond-paste rings that stands 18 tiers tall!  Dessverre (unfortunately), I do not have a trusted homemade recipe to share, as the thick dough for our kransekaker rings came premixed from Odense, the same company that provides our marzipan products.  However, a quick google search revealed that people are mixing kransekaker dough at home, and so you can seek out a recipe to try yourself.  My chief challenge as a konditor, and therefore the bit I will focus on here, was to assemble the towers in a manner that looked masterful enough to sell. Tough to do on the first few tries as an American who had never even seen a kransekake before!  

As an added challenge, I had to use a gigantic, ancient, dusty compressor pump to spit out the long tubes of dough in even snake-like forms so that each ring would be of uniform thickness.  I didn't manage to capture that step of the process, so you will have to use your imagination.  Perhaps just as well, as the pervading sense of it was it's deafening volume: the compressor itself popped and whirred like a wheezy old Frigidaire, and the dough was piped out of a metal pastry gun about two feet long.  This is certainly as industrial as my baking experience has ever been.  And yet the assembly process was so delicate in comparison that it eventually won out to make each individual cake feel like a separate endeavor.  Thus, the challenge and the joy of kransekaker, to my mind, are one and the same: assembling the tower.


The baked rings.

 Start with your 18 rings, taking care to keep them in proper order so your don't mix up your sizes.  Mix a thick batch of confectioner's sugar, water and lemon juice or vanilla for flavor.  You want it to just flow so that you can pipe it without trouble, but still stiff enough that it won't drip down the sides of the cake.  I cut a very teeny hole in the tip of my piping bag, so that the ribbon of icing would look delicate and lacy.  Start by applying a single line of icing to the bottom of your base ring, and using that to glue it to the base you are building on.  Then, begin piping a squiggly pattern around each ring.

One nice squiggly line… this is harder to do than it looks, but with patience it is totally possible!

As you stack the rings, you want to make sure you keep checking to see if the tower is building up straight.  One simple trick to foil your body's own quiet tendencies to favor one direction or another is to turn the cake one quarter turn after adding each layer.  But I still check the progress from "ground level" frequently.

Looking good...

Still looking ok...

Santa says every thing feels alright from the top!

Once you have the 18 rings stacked, give Julenissen a solid spot on top.  Now, if you did have any trouble with slightly wonky layers, you can do a little to hide this when you apply the final decorations: Christmas crackers and flags.


And that's how Norwegians celebrate.

I like these special kransekake-sized boxes.

And check out that amazing Christmas-cracker print!  It looks like it came off the set for Kids Incorporated.

Julestrømper

Now that it is well into January, most of Longyearbyen has begun to dismantle the Christmas decorations. However, the big hotel is still hosting Julebord dinners every weekend until the end of the month, so perhaps it's not too late for me to post a couple Jul-related items I meant to share… Let's start with this year's Christmas stockings:

Careful of the hole in the heel, Santa! 

Yipes!  Clearly, my Christmas present to myself needed to be yet another new pair of somethings to keep my feet warm inside my boots!  I stand by my recipe for Svalbard Socks, but must acknowledge that the way I wear them every single ding-dang day is shredding the heel very quickly.  Despite the fact that it's reinforced!  Golly, how did people keep themselves covered in the olden days?  I can barely finish one project before the last one is busting it's seams again.  Hopefully, it's just the hard arctic living that is thwarting my efforts to self-clothe.  Anyway, I decided to give it one more effort before resorting to buying a manufactured boot liner.  So here was my point of inspiration:

Either the ugliest baby suit on the planet, or a really great bear costume for a baby.

This baby onesie arrived at the Bruktikken one Saturday when I was deep in a cleaning project there, trying to get rid of some of our excess items so that people can actually see the higher-quality things we have that are very much worth taking home (for free!).  Between the color and the wavy zipper, I was pretty sure this was another item that would be more easily trashed than treasured in it's present state.  The material, however, is a nice, dense wool felt… and so I got to thinking, maybe I could take it apart and rearrange it to fit my feet.

Step 1: Cut out the trims and zipper, and then cut off the legs and arms.

Baby legs are the same size as my shins!

After successfully shearing off the legs and discovering that they make great stove-pipes for my
slippers, it was time for a dinner break.  This is my current favorite easiest dinner ever invented: quinoa with roasted tomatoes and kidney beans.  Literally, all I do is half some cherry tomatoes and open a can of kidney beans, toss all that in some olive oil, salt and pepper, and roast on 230 degrees C (about 400 degrees F) until the tomatoes are blistering and things have gotten a bit juicy and sizzling.  Simultaneously, I set up some quinoa to cook in veggie stock, and when they are both ready I toss it all together.  It's so good!

Easy-peasy quinoa-tomato-kidney bean dinner.  Yum!

OK, stomach full, back to the work at hand…

Experiment 1: Can the sleeves work as feet?  A: Nei.

Experiment 2… something like this?

Experiments with draping various parts of the baby suit over my feet finally revealed a method that made sense.  I stuck my ankles through the armholes of the baby suit, and made a semi-circular seam along the outer edge of each foot.  This created a comfortable seam-less sole, and a kind of impish silhouette to the design.  I feel like an elf when I wear them.  Once the feet were sewn to fit, I eased in the stove-pipes like you would sleeves to a shoulder.

Ta-da!!

Tyler helps hold up my elf shoes for proud display.

So, now my toes have one more layer to help keep them warm.  As a bonus, I can wear them over even my Svalbard Socks, which keeps the friction of my foot inside the boot from further eroding that sorry heel-hole.  Maybe one day I will learn how to properly darn things.  Until then, I have a second pair of Svalbard Socks on my possible to-do list, in anticipation of a lively spring here in the arctic.  Because PS: Tyler and I bought a snøskooter!  All the sights of Spitsbergen are all only an intrepid ride away now… 

Tyler doing his best impression of a dork, by his own definition.

From Nybyen, looking back through the ghostly valley into town.