A bowl, kringla recipe, and story

I’ve made mom’s kringla recipe every year since 1984. My first Christmas without her on earth.

That first year, I went overboard by baking kringlas for the cookie exchange at work. TWELVE dozen kringlas. For those of you who are Norwegian and have rolled them out one by one, you’d call me crazy. I was. I was also grieving.

I mistakenly thought that by making mom’s favorite cookie, she’d feel much closer to me. I assumed everyone would want to hear the story behind these sweet Scandinavian ‘pretzels.’

I was wrong. The cookies didn’t bring her back nor did they open the conversations about why I would choose to make 12 dozen of those intricate cookies.

This morning, I made my annual batch of mom’s kringlas.

Everytime I mix her recipe in her yellow bowl, I can hear the story that she used to tell me as I sat at her side while she rolled and baked kringlas in our farmhouse at Millbrook.

Kringlas were not simply a sweet treat for her. They were a part of her Norwegian heritage. She ate one every morning – not at her home, but at her maternal grandparents when she was on her way to school.

I can just see her toddling down the street to school as she paused for a yummy kringla with her grandma. She always covered it with butter and honey. She never left without a hug and sweet little kiss from her grandma. Kringlas set the tone for her day.

Kringlas became almost legendary in our home. Mom used to make them year round, and the conditions needed to be just right so that the perfect kringlas could emerge from the oven. Long before the days of central air, the temperature and humidity greatly affected the outcome. And plating a platter of beautiful kringlas was a right of passage into womanhood where I grew up.

Therefore it goes without saying that I believed the perfect kringla equaled the perfect Norwegian.

When mom died, I was terrified that mine wouldn’t measure up. But I was more terrified that her story would die away just like she did. Thus 12 dozen.

I’ve right sized it now. Mom’s recipe makes 48 kringlas. Just enough to satisfy my family each Christmas.

I’ve also right sized the story. Because only Ron had the privilege of meeting my mom, my family can only connect with her Norwegian legacy so far. That’s ok. I’ve realized that as I dig my fingers into the dough and roll them out, I’m ‘hanging’ out with my mom as I prepare for Christmas. How precious is that? It’s ok to keep her words tenderly tucked inside my heart.

I have her bowl. Her recipe. And her story.

And I’m delighted to watch the family I love gobble these kringlas up!