Jar of Goodness 12.18.22: Heirloom Christmas Cookies

. . . The weekly virtual “gratitude jar.”

This week, I’m expressing thanks for heirloom Christmas cookie recipes.

“These are the cookies of my people.”

I could go on and on about how strongly I feel about our precious family Christmas cookie recipes, but I’d rather just talk about the reasons why these connections are so strong.

But first, honestly, do I love these cookies the best? I sure didn’t when I was a child. I grew up accustomed to sweets that were, well, sweet, like candy, or cookies that are sugary or chocolaty. Each Christmas, when I was confronted with the old-fashioned and Germanic cookies of my forebears, I was rather let down. Dates, raisins, and candied fruits are a different kind of sweet than chocolate chips and Oreo “stuf.” Brown sugar, molasses, and sorghum are also different from white sugar. A lot of it’s the difference between sucrose and fructose. Nuts? They aren’t hardly sweet at all. Finally, when I was a child, I found assertive spices challenging. It’s not that I didn’t like spices—but when a cookie like a pfeffernüsse presented me with a punchy, bewildering blend of cinnamon, anise, cloves, ginger, cardamom, and/or nutmeg, it just seemed “weird.”

So you can imagine my less-than-enthusiastic response to biting into a billy goat cookie, full of dates and black walnuts, when I thought I had picked up a chocolate chip cookie. They do look a lot alike. They taste very different. So I learned to hesitate, my hand hovering over the cookie tray. I learned to carefully inspect my choices before making a commitment to any.

And this is why cookie trays, during my childhood, always included kid-friendly choices. My brother and I learned to scope out the animal cookies (that is, sugar cookies cut into animal and Christmas-themed shapes such as pine trees, bells, stars, and angels, always with straight-ahead icing on them). We also snarfed up the good ol’ chocolate chippers, the snickerdoodles, and the like. Mild flavors; Rice Krispies treats; spritz cookies. Cookies a kid can count on!

But it’s not like I wouldn’t eat the old-fashioned, Germanic cookies. Springerles, I thought, were pretty good, albeit often tough to chew (I didn’t drink coffee, so I didn’t discover the joys of dunking until much later). Lebkuchen, especially with a glaze and decorated with sprinkles, or with half of a candied cherry pressed into the glaze, weren’t too bad, even though the candied fruit was sort of “meh.” Billy goats were tasty, as long as you didn’t have your heart set on it being a chocolate chip cookie.

And so on. My brother and I ate the Germanic favorites, but like the sauerbraten and red cabbage we had only a few times a year (always at Grandma’s), they were “weird.” They were German things, things our school chums in Columbia, whose surnames were English like Wilson and Smith, didn’t have a clue about. The cookies their moms offered us were just “regular” cookies.

And soon enough, we realized our family’s Christmas cookies were special. Everyone who was older, our parents and uncles and aunts, and everyone older than they, oohed and aahed over them: “Ooh, yum, you made springerles! They’re so beautiful! I’ve got to have one of them!” They wouldn’t have gushed so much if it was, say, oatmeal-raisin cookies or peanut butter cookies, because those were everyday cookies; they weren’t special.

By the time I was a teenager, I was hooked on these cookies. Like the Schroeder Weinachtspyramide, I knew they were special to my family and other ethnic Germans. I never cooked, but I knew these required some special skills to make. I was grateful for my grandmas, my mom, my aunts, and the other ladies who made them. When I lived in Arizona and Montana, my grandmas’ abilities were waning. Grandma Renner had dementia; Grandma Schroeder had lost most of her vision. (Where did their springerle rollers or presses end up? I don’t know.)

Uncle Richard had always doled out his lebkuchen for months after Christmas, keeping a coffee can full of them in his conservation-agent patrol car. Shivering, he’d nibble on leppies and sip from his coffee thermos on his late-night stakeouts for catching deer poachers.

He ultimately refrained from eating the last bite of his last lebkuchen made by his mother; he put a tiny eyescrew in it and dipped it in varnish or polyurethane. It’s preserved and it has his bite marks on it. He made a necklace out of it—a totem—which he wears during holiday get-togethers: “The last bite of my mom’s last leppie.”

So yeah, I started looking for the recipes.

Since then I’ve gotten them pretty much figured out. There’s been a lot of trial-and-error, since it was too late for me to lean on my grandmas for advice. But food memories, it turns out, can be acute, so I’ve had a lot of help and encouragement.

The sense of smell and taste are strongly linked to memory and emotion. That’s why certain scents evoke such nostalgia—like the smell of freshly cut green grass in spring, or the first whiff of a wood fire on a crisp, early winter evening.

With the winter holidays so linked with family and spiritual celebrations, and with holiday foods repeated so many years, it only ingrains and strengthens the many associations of those flavors and smells. So when you smell those special cookies baking, each year the memories and layers of meaning accumulate.

It’s about so much more than the cookies. They’re just a trigger, the portal, the crystal ball, the talisman. They link me to my family, my ancestors, to a continent I barely know. They link me to fifty years of memories, some sad, but nearly all sweet. They invoke a mini meditation, a reverie, a quick portal into another dimension. They have power.

Any other time of year, I’ll make other kinds of cookies (recently, I’ve been partial to hermits and “pride of Iowa” cookies, for instance). But it’s my pleasure and honor to make family Christmas cookies and then share nearly all of them.

I didn’t start this. Ancestors who traveled across the Atlantic Ocean brought their holiday recipes with them; they couldn’t bear to have Christmas without them. . . . And who am I to break the chain?

Reflections on Holiday Baking and Gratitude

Here’s an unusual post for you: a letter I sent to my aunt last month. I enclosed it with the box of Christmas cookies I sent her. She financed our new refrigerator back in 2002, soon after we’d bought the house. She’s an excellent cook, a master cookie baker, and I hoped she’d enjoy reading about some of my kitchen adventures and reflections.

Maybe you will, too.

Dear Aunt Ann,

Merry Christmas!

I hope this letter and package finds you well and feeling warm and satisfied this winter. Twenty-twenty-one!

As I packed up your cookies last night, I thought again of the kind comments you have made about my springerle cookies. Mom told me that you’ve said they were “the best you’d ever had” (or something like that). My immediate reaction was to laugh—to snort out a healthy Pshaw!!—because my dilettante, amateur-level cookie-making “explorations” certainly are nowhere near the level of the cookies made by all the grandmothers, great-aunts, aunts, friends, and family of my childhood (including Mom and yourself).

When I was a kid, it seems all the ladies made a good variety of cookies, using recipes they’d used for decades, which were handed down to them from their mothers, grandmothers, friends, and neighbors. They were sure-handed, confident cookie bakers. . . . At least that’s how it seemed to me. If there were any disasters, I sure never knew about it. (Now I know: cookie-making “disasters” stay at home and are not shared, except with children who are none the wiser. Even if the texture or the shape is wrong, the “failures” usually are still delicious. And if they’re really bad, the squirrels and opossums get a Christmas treat!)

. . . And it seems everyone would try out a new recipe each year, just for fun, and for the variety. Like people sometimes say, “throw a lot of ideas at the wall and see what sticks.” Sometimes one of these novel recipes would “stick” and became a new family favorite. Sue’s mom did that a lot and ended up with plenty of kinds of cookies to bake each year!

I was present, as a child, when the venerable “orange balls” recipe joined the family. I keep that cookie alive singlehandedly today for the warm memories it brings to me. The recipe came from the then-secretary of the MU Geography Department—she must’ve brought some orange balls into the office to share, or maybe she made plates of cookies to give as gifts—and Dad got the recipe from her. He and I adopted it as one of our favorites, a dad-and-daughter activity during the holidays. Not having a food processor then, we’d grind the vanilla wavers on the slick, Formica-topped kitchen table using Mom’s wooden rolling pin. It was great fun to sit there and crush up those wafers with Dad! You can’t go wrong with no-bake cookies!

This year, I’ve tried a new recipe. It’s called a “spumoni” cookie, and it has chocolate chips, pistachios, and dried sour cherries. I first had them a few years ago at Kingston, the assisted-living place where Mrs. Ferber was living. The cooks of the cafeteria organized a cookie-exchange party for the residents. The Kingston residents could invite their families, and everyone got to try a variety of cookies fresh-baked in Kingston’s cafeteria kitchen, with live Christmas music by a local-favorite entertainer and his electric piano. There was eggnog, hot chocolate, and coffee. What a fun afternoon that was! All told, Kingston wasn’t perfect (what place can be?), but it’s the kind of place that I would be lucky to live in one day . . . Unfortunately, the night I made the spumoni cookies, I ran out of almond extract, so it has half the amount it should have, plus I kinda overbaked them . . . but what the heck: chocolate! I really love this combination.

I am lucky to have so many family favorites—from both sides of my family, as well as from Sue’s mom, now—to choose from. I’m one of the few who bakes them anymore. Christmas is about the only time I ever make cookies, but boy-howdy, it’s a whirlwind of cookie baking!

The date-nut bars and spice cookies are two of Mrs. Ferber’s longtime favorites. Other Ferber favorites include pecan puffs (“delectabites”), haystacks (so easy to overcook and turn into rocks), peanut butter no-bake cookies (or, as Sue’s brother-in-law blasphemously called them, “yard sausages”—if you don’t know what that means, ask any dog owner), jubilee jumbles (with that magical browned-butter icing), and green-colored spritz cookies in the shape of wreaths (I’ve never attempted those; I lack the equipment and, probably, the temperament). She was also a big candy maker: Fudge! White-chocolate peppermint bark! Buckeye candies! (Mr. Ferber had a sweet tooth!) Mrs. Ferber used to tell stories of growing up during the depression on North Bass Island in Lake Erie, and how she and the neighbor girls would get together to pull taffy.

I find it so interesting to see how recipes change. Great-grandma Thomas’s lebkuchen recipe was passed down to both of my grandmas: her daughter Edna Schroeder, and her neighbor Clara Renner. I’m lucky to have handwritten recipes from all three, so I can track the changes. Wilhelmina Thomas’s recipe called for lard, and a later version, in Grandma Schroeder’s hand, switched it to Crisco. Grandma Renner swapped citron and lemon peel, raisins, and currants with candied mixed fruit and raisins, and she’d grind the fruit in her hand-cranked meat grinder. These are just some of the changes.

And none of them specified what was meant by “molasses.” Maybe it would change in different years, depending on what they could get their hands on. I’ve read that authentic German lebkuchen (gingerbread) are pretty much synonymous with honigkuchen (gingerbread made with honey). In America, German immigrants—if they had access to honey—sold it for cash. Then, for their own baking, they used the more frugal and readily available sorghum molasses (sweet sorghum syrup), which has a bland flavor unlike that of sugarcane molasses (such as Brer Rabbit or Grandma’s). I’ve read that the honey/molasses distinction is one quick way to tell the difference between a German lebkuchen recipe and one from German-American immigrants.

In most recent years, I’ve gone out of my way to find nice, mild sorghum molasses for my leppies. (It’s a trip to the Mennonite store.) But this year, I was inspired to substitute a bit of Brer Rabbit Full Flavor just for fun. I think they taste better for it.

I’ve had to figure out a lot of stuff that wasn’t written in the recipes that have come down to me. I didn’t learn at my grandmas’ knees. It seems they were never baking cookies when we visited, and I wasn’t much interested in cooking, anyway. If I’ve tweaked recipes over the years (as I’m sure they did, too), it’s because I’m merely trying to figure out how to more perfectly match the cookies I remember gobbling up as a child.

Beside all the smudges and spatters, my recipe cards are full of penciled-in notes: “don’t crowd these on the cookie sheets”; “Mom uses margarine”; “2012: this made ___ dozen”; “DOUBLE THIS”; “2 tsp. 4 tsp. ground cardamom (Evelyn Baur doubles it, Yay for cardamom! :-D)”; “dough has to be really stiff, so it hurts your arm to stir”; “don’t double this and use big pan; instead, make two separate batches in 8 x 8 pans.” (Blah, blah, blah. If I didn’t pencil them in, I’d forget them over the course of the following year.)

This year I finally realized that Grandma Renner scooped her flour out of her flour bin or canister with her measuring cup, then used a knife to level the top; whereas I had learned to spoon the flour into the cup before leveling, which makes it fluffy, not packed, so the amount of flour is different. No one ever writes the method for measuring flour on their recipes—you’re just supposed to know. And if you don’t, then you should at least know how stiff the dough should be, and adjust accordingly as you mix it . . . well. As I said, I’m a dilettante. More than twenty years into this, and I’ve finally figured out a key to getting billy goats right. So the first half of this year’s batch of billy goats, once again, spread out flat in the oven, while the second half, after I’d stirred another half-cup of flour into the dough, finally lumped up properly.

And Grandma Renner’s recipe calls for a cup of butter. But Mom told me that she (Mom) always used margarine. Of course, this affects the texture and flavor. So I, myself, split the difference and use a stick of both, to equal one cup. This year, Mom announced my billy goats are on the dry side and suggested I left them in the oven too long, the way she says Grandma Renner routinely critiqued Aunt Lyd’s billy goats. Ah, the relentless pursuit of perfection! Fortunately, it’s nothing that a week sealed up in a tin with half an apple loosely wrapped in wax paper won’t fix.

I think billy goats are my current favorite (the date-nut bars are right up there, too). I love how the dates, black walnuts, brown sugar, cinnamon, and vanilla come together to the point where not one of them really tastes the same. It’s a synergistic combination that creates a new flavor, which I like to call “billy goat.” I’ve made “billy goat” pancakes and “billy goat” oat bran muffins. I ought to try a “billy goat” quick bread, too.

While I’m on the subject of black walnuts: as usual, please be advised that some of the nuts were hand-shelled, and even the mechanically shelled ones aren’t perfect. So chew carefully. I’d hate for you to have to make a trip to the dentist.

I’ve recently been paying close attention to recipes in old cookbooks (my favorite bedtime reading) for billy goats and their close relatives, hermits and “rocks.” These chunky-looking drop cookies all have a large proportion of dried fruits (raisins, currants, and/or dates) and nuts (usually pecans, walnuts, black walnuts), and they usually call for at least half the sugar to be brown sugar. They were very popular in the 1930s and 40s among the moms who had taken “domestic science” classes, endured the depression, and viewed themselves very seriously as the manager of their children’s health, as well as the food budget. Billy goats, hermits, and rocks not only taste great but also are relatively healthy, providing actual nutrition, compared to handing your children sugar cookies or candies after school. I see billy goats, hermits, and rocks as the grandmothers of the granola bars and fruit roll-ups so popular today.

Springerles: they’re everyone’s favorite. I was already making them for some years before I found a very old recipe from Great-grandma Thomas, which called for hartshorn (baker’s ammonia, or ammonium carbonate). I’ve never even tried that recipe, though I’ve had plenty of other people’s springerles made with that unusual ingredient—and I think mine are better. They’re lighter. Mine are made from my precious 1949 edition of the Good Housekeeping Cook Book, one of the possessions of Dad’s Cousin Marguerite (Fieker/Donovan/Miskell) that I claimed when the family was emptying her house . . . Although the book’s binding is shot, and the front cover is long gone, still tucked within its thin, brittle pages is the cute, pink-flocked Christmas card from Great Aunt Esther and Uncle Emil that accompanied it when they gave it to her. (What a treasure!) It’s full of great, basic recipes, made with whole foods.

So, no hartshorn in the springerles—this is a modern recipe from 1949!—it calls for sifted cake flour, baking powder, eggs, powdered sugar, and grated lemon rind. For anise flavor, it tells you to sprinkle anise seeds on the trays and lay the freshly rolled and cut cookies on them. I soon learned, for a punchier, less haphazard flavor, to use anise extract. Then, a few years ago, shopping at a Mennonite store, I unwittingly purchased anise oil. (You’ve got to read those labels carefully!) That year, they tasted like black jelly beans! (Though . . . some people really liked them that way, so there’s no accounting for taste!)

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I should probably end this meditation on Christmas cookie baking, but I want to add one more thought—something that’s been on my mind the last few weeks, as our refrigerator that you bought for us back in 2002 became intermittent, seemed to recover for a week, then finally chilled its last. I’m sure Mom has told you of its demise, that white Frigidaire side-by-side that has served us so well. We picked it out at Lowe’s about a year after buying Grandma’s house. I don’t remember what was wrong with Grandma’s old fridge, but it must have been going south. Our new fridge, though fairly basic by 2002 standards, nevertheless had an ice and water dispenser, and it has always seemed like a luxury to me, a real treat.

I think I recall that when we bought it, it had come with a projected lifespan of about 15 years. (Today, fridges are projected to last for a mere decade, while my parents still have their General Electric from 1965 in their garage as their soda-and-extra-stuff fridge; it’s still going strong!) We have another Frigidaire in our first-floor kitchen that we bought in 2009, when the one down there quit. It’s a no-frills, freezer-top version that has been invaluable as our main fridge has gone kaput.

Mom probably filled you in on some of the details of our finding a new refrigerator. Being very careful to look for fridges that were no larger than our current one, which had been a headache to get up the staircase, we finally ordered a new, very similar Frigidaire, of about the same size, from Lowe’s. Then we had to wait for it to be shipped to Jeff City from their warehouse. Finally, on delivery day, the moving guys (after making several measurements), expressed concern that they wouldn’t be able to get the new fridge up our stairway, so they shook their heads, apologized, and drove off. We never saw the new fridge, and now our old fridge just sits there, silent and empty, in our kitchen.

(I’ve started to put our magnets back on it. I may start using it as extra storage space for pots and pans.)

A few days after the aborted delivery, a Lowe’s appliance manager called and told me they’d scolded the mover guys and said they’d “make” them deliver the fridge—also, that the fridge had a ding in the right side, now, and that’d garner us a 15 percent discount. Or, they could order us a new, ding-less fridge. Hmm. So now the moving guys have hard feelings, and there’s no sign that a manager would accompany them to oversee the job? What about our walls? Also, they wouldn’t be doing any installation (again, Lowe’s). We decided to go shopping again.

We ended up at Columbia’s Downtown Appliance, a locally owned, longtime business that (hooray!) now finally delivers to Jefferson City. Installation included. We picked out a GE that is indeed smaller than the one we have now, and therefore more fitting for our small kitchen, anyway. It still has the ice maker and ice and water dispenser. It’s a French-door model with bottom freezer drawer (which is trendy, but whatever). It’s stainless steel, which doesn’t particularly go with our kitchen, but I recently realized that it’s only our stove that’s white, anyway; our other two appliances (microwave and toaster oven) are stainless, so . . . what the heck. We’ll cover it with magnets, clipped-out comics, and dry-erase “do lists,” anyway.

Given COVID-era supply problems, our new refrigerator won’t be manufactured and available until “late January or early February,” so until then, we’ll be leaning heavily on our first-floor fridge. It’s inconvenient to run downstairs for some eggs for breakfast, but it’s annoying to climb back up to the second-floor kitchen with the eggs and realize I forgot to grab the butter! We are lucky that this happened during winter, since we can use the unheated sunporch for things that are best stored in the cold but don’t require refrigeration—nuts, breads, seeds, sodas, and so on. Mom and Dad have offered to let us put some of our sausage and other frozen meats in their garage freezer. So we’re doing well.

Anyway, it kind of blows my mind that the refrigerator you bought for us has come to an end. It performed well for us, and I’ve never forgotten your kindness and generosity in paying for it. It makes me rather frustrated that something that seems to be in great shape (except for the ugly buzzing the compressor makes if you plug it in) is kaput. It still feels like “my nice new refrigerator.” But it also seems like only yesterday when we moved here! The years have gone by quickly.

But here’s the point I really wanted to make: even though I’m forever grateful for your financial gift in the form of the refrigerator (and all the other gifts you’ve given me over the years, and never properly thanked you for), the gift from you that really touches me most, the one that will never wear out, the one that I cherish above all others, is your kindness and your positive appraisal of my cookies. That means the world to me, coming from you, and I just wanted you to know it.

I hope this holiday season is filled with all your favorite things. Merry Christmas!

Retro Menu: Hofbräuhaus am Platzl

Another retro menu! This one is not from a flea market—it’s from my dad! As you might know, my dad spent his junior year in college studying at the University of Paris, and naturally he did a lot of sight-seeing. One of the places he went was the famous Hofbräuhaus in Munich. I’ll tell you the story in my next post, but for now, I wanted to feature the menu.

Hofbrauhaus am Platzl Munich 1954 Menu

A very similar (almost identical!) menu is scanned and available online at the website of the New York Public Library. It’s from the same month as Dad’s (Christmas 1954), so I wonder if it had belonged to one of Dad’s fellow travelers, mostly students from Virginia’s Sweet Briar College. Hmm.

A few interesting things about this. First, although the beer hall was originally built in 1589 and remodeled extensively in 1897, it was almost completely destroyed in the bombings of World War II; only the historic beer hall itself survived. History indeed, even just in the twentieth century: It was here that Adolf Hitler had announced the goals of the Nazis at a huge gathering of a few thousand people in 1920, and the next year he was elected Führer of the Nazi Party. Yeah, right at this very beer hall. It took years to restore the building after WWII, and they didn’t get finished until 1958. So my dad was there when they were still repairing the place.

The artwork on the menu is remarkably good. Its artist, August Roeseler (1866–1934), was an accomplished character illustrator, especially when it came to depicting ordinary, middle-class folks, and dogs (he was nicknamed the “dachshund painter”), and his abilities were put to good use on this beer hall menu. The theme is obviously Gemütlichkeit!

The front cover shows all kinds of people cheerfully gathering at the HB bar for a stein of beer. It is as if the viewer is part of the crowd heading toward the bar. You can see the backs of the people ahead of you. The bartender is happily dispensing drinks. The people who are facing the viewer are super cheerful, because they’ve already secured a full stein and food for themselves! They’re heading off to their tables.

The man at the front left has a look of private, smug expectation, with his HB stein and its overflowing foam in one hand and a plate of food (a Grillhendl, or roast chicken?) in the other. He’s a heavy man, and he’s not young anymore, but he wears his hat at a rakish angle, and his eyes are crinkling as he grins beneath his big white mustache.

In the front right is a woman and man who look as if life is finally getting back the way it ought to be. The woman’s stein is as big as her head. Roeseler apparently did a lot of works with people in this pose, looking straight into the camera and smiling.

In 1954, Germans were looking for reasons to smile.

In the front middle, a boy—a child—drinks from a big stein, too. He looks something like Peter Pan with his green cap and its long, curling white feather. He’s dapper in his lederhosen, crisp shirt, and tie. When he finishes that big beer, he probably won’t look so crisp. It’s a good reminder that prohibitions against children drinking alcohol are a relatively modern concept.

In case you’re wondering, the current German drinking age varies with the situation and the type of alcohol. Beer and wine can be consumed in public places by fourteen-year-olds, if they’re accompanied by a “custodial person” such as a parent. At sixteen, beer and wine can be purchased and consumed on one’s own. But you can’t have distilled spirits (whiskey, etc.) in public until you turn eighteen. Note that German alcohol law pertains to public places. At home, childrens’ welfare, including what and how much they eat and drink, is the responsibility of their parents or guardians, who are held liable if something goes wrong.

Back to the menu. A couple of details that might be easily overlooked are in the top corners. In the upper right, the white and sky-blue ribbons (traditional colors of Bavaria) are tied decoratively around some good ol’ pretzels. On the left, black and orange ribbons suspend—well, what are they? They’re big white radishes! Munich’s traditional colors are yellow and black, so I’m not sure what the orange and black symbolize. The radishes are easier to learn about.

Radishes have long been considered part of the traditional Oktoberfest menu, along with weisswurst and other sausages, senf (mustard), pretzels, liver dumpling soup, pork shanks/pork knuckles, and so on. Thinly sliced, now often spiral-cut white radishes, Bierradi, or bier-rettich, sprinkled with salt and/or pepper is a traditional garnish/relish. Red radishes or white Asian daikon will also be fine, if you’re thinking of putting together your own Oktoberfest menu.

The back of the menu continues the theme of “people from all walks of life.” They’re parading toward the viewer, encircling the logo and name of the business, forming a colorful wreath of the German population. I wish I knew more about historic uniforms, costumes, and fashion, but clearly there are businessmen, a hikers, a few dandies, a burgermeister or two, and I’m pretty sure that’s a birdwatcher, with his binocular case around his neck, at the left. Males outnumber the females nineteen to five, and three out of the five women appear to be servers (so, sexism, duh).

At the bottom, at the front of the two lines, are two boys; one is apparently a baker’s delivery boy, with his basket of bread hooked around one arm while he holds his enormous stein up to his face with both hands. The other boy, who looks incredibly young, wears a robe and holds his stein up: prosit! I wonder if the style of robe has some meaning, with its big golden cross on the front, formed by the robe’s lining and sash. Maybe someone who reads this will shed some light on it.

Finally, at the very bottom, is a whimsical dachshund—the artist’s signature touch—carrying several links of sausage. All together now: “Awwwwwww!”

As for the rest of the menu, I’ll just provide the images. I’m loading them as large files, so you can click on them and see them better.

There’s not much I can say about them, as my German’s nothing to write home (or anywhere else) about.

Do note, however, that the top of the first column on the second page, there’s a box under the heading “Spezialitäten von Heute”: Weihnachten 1954. That dates this menu at Christmas 1954. Also, at the bottom of the first column on the first page, there’s a box that reads: “Für die Feiertage und Sylvester: Die prima Weißwurst, jede Menge auch außer Haus erhältlich!”—an advertisement for the holiday season, including New Year’s Eve, that they have plenty of white sausage (weisswurst) that (I believe they are saying) is available for carryout, as well.

So much food, and so much food for thought. I hope you enjoy looking at, and pondring, this old menu as much as I have.

Jefferson City’s Das Stein Haus: Retro Menu

With a chill in the air and time Oktoberfests starting up, we turn our thoughts to the Holy Trinity of Bratwurst, Sauerkraut, and German Potato Salad (GPS). And beer. And other Germanic things. And look what I found at a local flea market recently: an old menu from Jefferson City’s longtime German restaurant, Das Stein Haus.

I’m old enough to remember when it first opened in 1981. It was a big deal, because it was very near to where my Grandma Renner lived (her house is gone now; Southwest Animal Hospital is where her house used to be, so you can see how close it was to Das Stein Haus).

Grandma Renner, who was already pretty housebound at that point, especially being practically deaf, was really tickled when the dashing young restaurateurs—native Germans, no less!—stopped by her house to introduce themselves with their German accents! Later, they even brought her some food. Helmut und Dieter!

It was so thrilling to have such a nice, fancy restaurant so near! And German!

. . . Yet we rarely went there. I wonder why not? Perhaps because it was too fancy . . . or pricey. Or perhaps because Grandma had trouble getting around and couldn’t hear well in crowds. Perhaps Grandma Renner—despite growing up knowing some German and having learned her “Vater unser im Himmel, geheiligt werde dein Name” in German—was not quite a German cook. She was more of a Midwestern American cook, more familiar with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and country ham.

Or, perhaps the family just wasn’t in the habit of going out to fine restaurants very much. Frugal Midwesterners. We all mostly ate at home. And with its tablecloths, cloth napkins, and use of charger plates, Das Stein Haus certainly seemed high falutin’, for the early 1980s.

Anyway, a lot of years have gone by. I have no idea what happened to Dieter, but Helmut’s still there running the place. Reviews of the restaurant vary widely. Some people say it’s the Greatest Ever, Five Stars; others say it’s abysmal, dark and dusty, with overpriced “meh” food and pathetic service. Apparently some of the problems people have with Das Stein Haus is that Jefferson Citians are not accustomed to making advance reservations; we rarely need them in Missouri restaurants, so if you show up and no table is available, it seems outrageous.

The last time I went there was a night I needed a little cheering up. The neon lights appealed to me, and I thought it might be fun to go there, where nobody knows me, to sit at a bar, and have a drink. Maybe to strike up an interesting conversation. . . . And hey, I’m Germanic, sort of. . . . The bar was awful. First, it was smoky (this was before JC’s non-smoking ordinance went into effect, but I’ll bet it still has that stale stench). No one in there seemed happy, or perky, or even very awake. It was the kind of bar where, if you sit there too long, looking around, you’ll decide to stop drinking forever, because you don’t want to end up like this crowd. . . . And then I overheard some loud, homophobic conversation nearby, so I decided I truly didn’t belong there at all. So I haven’t been back. It’s not my scene.

Could be, the dining room is much better. But then, the last time we ate in the dining room (nearly twenty years ago), I realized my cooking is just as good, plus I would have better bread and better salads (at the time, I recall it being a standard iceberg lettuce salad and mass-produced soft sandwich bread, very underwhelming).

Anyway, I’m not here to review Das Stein Haus; it’s been a long time since we’ve been there, so who knows. The place is a true Jeff City treasure that has withstood the test of time, and at least the exterior of the building, as it’s aged a little, has actually gained in charm.

And—not counting frankfurters and hamburgers—where else in town can you get an array of German food?

So, here you go—a blast from the past—an old menu from Jefferson City’s Das Stein Haus. I’ll bet it’s from their first decade in business, ca. 1981–1991. If you know more, please leave me a comment below.

It’s interesting how the menu hasn’t changed much at all, except for the prices doubling or more. (See their current website, where the menu is under “services”.) There’s a good chance that the recipes might have changed somewhat over the years, even though the name of the dish is the same, but who knows.

Also, I’m pretty sure the display type on this menu was originally hand drawn line art. “Jerry Sanford” is the artist’s signature at the bottom of the second page. You don’t see much hand-lettered type anymore; it’s all digital today.

Das Stein Haus has been around a long time—forty years!—and it’s been a lot of things to a lot of people. So what do you think? What are your memories of Das Stein Haus?

Grandma Schroeder’s Peach Kuchen Recipe

Here is the venerable kuchen recipe from my grandma Edna Schroeder. It’s a family favorite; every time I make it, all the Schroeder-clan people ooh and ahh. I grew up understanding that a kuchen was a special, special thing.

From my youngest age, I remember our family going to visit Grandma in Jeff City, and if she’d made a kuchen, there’d be excitement (which Grandma herself helped to generate): “Look what I made for dessert!” “Ooh, a kuchen! What kind is it?” “Peach!” “Oooh, a peach kuchen, I can’t wait!” . . . If it was a larger family get-together, each group to arrive would go through the same ritual, so I often heard it numerous times in a day, as my uncle and aunt and cousins arrived, as Marie arrived, as anyone else came. “Look, Mom made a kuchen!” “What kind?” “Peach!” “Oh, boy!”

Apparently Grandma never wrote down the recipe, but fortunately my Aunt Carole made notes one day as Grandma was making it. I’m not much of a baker, but I’ve been plugging away trying to master this recipe for a few decades (hard to master when I don’t make it very often). But even when I’m not personally satisfied with the texture, it has always tasted incredibly good.

First, let us review our German. In German, Kuchen means “cake” or “something baked,” so the word applies to a huge variety of Germanic baked goodies. Think of how we use the word “cake” for a wide range of dishes—pancakes, birthday cake, cheesecake, crabcakes, sponge cake, coffee cake, angel food cake, pound cake, fruit cake . . . This explains why your German grandma’s kuchen is nothing like my German grandma’s kuchen.

Well, Grandma Schroeder’s kuchen is like this: it has a shortbread-cookie-like “crust,” which is topped with fresh fruit lubricated with a gooey custard matrix and baked; when that is fairly set, it is topped with meringue and browned. (The meringue topping explains why the type of fruit is always a mystery; you can’t tell what kind of fruit was used just by looking at it.)

This is a wonderful way to celebrate whatever kind of fruit is in season. Right now, the peaches are perfect. Lovely, sweet, divine peaches. So we’re making a peach kuchen in this post.

A typical serving of this dessert (or coffee cake) is a 3 x 3 inch square (so, 9 servings in a 9 x 9 inch baking dish). I often stretch this out, using more fruit and meringue, to a 9 x 13 inch size, for groups.

The biggest challenge I usually have with this recipe is getting the center of the fruit/custard portion to bake firm enough to have meringue spread over it, without also overcooking the crust. This recipe can (and should) use a variety of seasonal fruits, so the juiciness can vary a lot. Therefore, I advise reducing the amount of custard for juicy fruits like peaches—just drizzle it on, but don’t force yourself to pour it all on, if it will make a pool of “soup” in the middle. I have the best results with sliced apples (apple kuchen)—where the fruits are somewhat dry.

The final result should have, at the base, about ½ to ¾ inch crust/cake; then about ¾ to 1 inch of fruit, within a gooey matrix of custard; then, on top, about ¾ to 1 inch of meringue. The corner pieces will have the most cake; the center pieces will be the gooiest.

Grandma made all kinds of kuchens, depending on what was fresh—Concord grapes, plums, blueberries, peaches, and combinations of these. Dad says Grandma never deseeded her Concords; she just put them in whole and let people chew on the seeds(!) My own variations have included a banana kuchen with peanut butter in the crust (recipe is here), and a kuchen with sliced tart apples plus big golden raisins that I’d soaked overnight in vanilla–infused cognac. (Grandma would’ve loved that one!)

I have seen what are apparently very “authentic” German recipes for plum kuchens that skip the meringue and are much flatter and more spread out. These are made in 9 x 13 baking dishes or cookie sheets. The plums are washed, halved, pitted, and placed on the crust in a decorative, overlapping pattern. Some type of glaze (sometimes heated-up jam) is drizzled or brushed over the top, then it’s baked, and that’s that. You can find several recipes for this plum kuchen (Pflaumenkuchen) online. You can certainly do that with this recipe, simply omitting the meringue and making a wider, flatter dish.

The base of the kuchen, in many recipes, is made with a sweet yeast dough (similar to that used for cinnamon rolls), but that’s not the way my grandma made it.

By the way, we always assumed that Grandma’s kuchen was a recipe she learned from her mother, who immigrated from Germany, but I found a very similar recipe in a cookbook that my Grandma used in her high school Domestic Science (home ec) class. Indeed: that particular page of her book (p. 412) is firmly adhered to the facing page by hundred-year-old, dried-up cooking goo. (I didn’t dare try to peel the pages apart; instead, I found a scanned version of the book online.) Some of the many kuchen dough recipes and variations in that book are very similar, too. So perhaps Grandma learned this recipe from her high school cooking text, The Settlement Cook Book, 11th ed., 1921. (Digitized versions of several editions of this book are online at the Hathi Trust; here’s a link to the 1921 edition.)

So here you go, another family secret unveiled . . .

Grandma Schroeder’s Peach Kuchen Recipe

Overall ingredients list:

• 2 + ¼ cups flour (divided)
• 2 tsp. baking powder
• pinch salt
• ½ + ½ + ½ cup sugar (divided)
• ¾ stick butter
• 4 eggs (divided: 1 beaten; the other 3 separated)
• ½ + ⅓ cup milk (divided)
• 2–3 cups fresh peaches, sliced (or other fruit)
• ½ tsp. vanilla (optional)
• ¼ tsp. cream of tartar

1. Make the dough. Combine the following:

• 2 c. flour
• 2 tsp. baking powder
• pinch salt
• ½ cup sugar
• ¾ stick butter (it helps to use a pastry cutter and rather softened butter)

. . . then, add 1 beaten egg and enough milk (about ½ cup) to make it the consistency of cookie dough (e.g., rather stiff and sticky).

Spread the dough in the bottom and slightly up the sides of a 9 x 9 inch baking dish (Pyrex is good); with the dough so sticky, I spread it with moistened hands.

2. Make the custard. Separate the 3 eggs (reserving whites for meringue); beat together the 3 yolks, add ⅓ cup milk, ½ cup sugar, and about ¼ cup flour. This is for the custard matrix for fruit: depending on the juiciness of the fruit, consider making less, or using less milk, or including a whole egg instead of a couple of the yolks. (I usually make the full amount of custard; then whatever isn’t drizzled over the fruit in the kuchen I pour over additional/extra fruit in a couple of single-serving ramekins and cook in a bain-marie as a fruit custard.)

3. Fill the kuchen. Spread approx. 2–3 cups fresh fruit (sliced peaches, or whatever) evenly over the dough. It helps to gently press the fruit down into the kuchen; the crumb will raise and puff up, and the fruit will add moisture to the crumb. Drizzle custard on top of fruit. (See previous comment about not using too much custard—you don’t want it too full of liquid in the center.)

4. Bake at 350F for about 20–30 minutes. Watch it, because ovens vary; it’s done when the dough is cooked (browns) and the custard is relatively firm. Sometimes it never quite firms up due to the juices; it usually firms nicely with apples but rarely with grapes, blueberries, or peaches.

5. Make the meringue. This is a standard meringue recipe, as I don’t have any indication about how Grandma made her meringue. Beat the 3 room-temperature egg whites on medium with ½ tsp. vanilla (if using) and ¼ tsp. cream of tartar for about a minute (until soft peaks form); then switch to high speed and gradually add up to about ½ cup sugar; beat for about 4 minutes, or until shiny and stiff peaks form. If making meringue seems like kind of a pain, remember that Grandma used a manual rotary eggbeater.

6. Finish the kuchen. You’re in the home stretch, now. Spread the meringue carefully on top; dabbing it into artistic shapes, and return it to the oven to brown the top. Let it cool gradually. Store it in the refrigerator.

If it falls apart when you cut it, who cares? It's delicious! And I'm sure you'll love it.

. . . My people do.

Berardi’s Restaurant, Huron, Ohio

One of my favorite restaurants anywhere is Berardi’s Restaurant in Huron, Ohio, just about a fifteen-minutes’ drive north from where Sue grew up. It’s a restaurant with a long history in northern Ohio. It started in 1942 as a French fry stand at Sandusky’s world-famous amusement park, Cedar Point. In 1978, the park stopped allowing independent food concessionaires on its property, so Berardi’s opened a sit-down restaurant in nearby Huron in 1979. (There is another Berardi’s Restaurant in Sandusky, which opened in 1978; it has a slightly different, more Italian-focused menu.) Both are run by third and/or fourth-generation members of the Berardi family. The service is exceptional, even when it’s busy.

Although what I’m about to crow about focuses on traditional and ethnic dishes, I should point out that Berardi’s in Huron keeps it fresh by offering a variety of newer, healthier dishes, like a quinoa breakfast, gluten-free options, fruit and nut salad, grilled salmon and asparagus salad, chicken or tuna salad fruit plates, breakfast options with lots of veggies, and lots more.

I’ve been visiting with Sue’s family in northern Ohio since 1994, and it wasn’t until May 9, 2013, that I finally got to have a meal at Berardi’s. We’d been driving past the place for ages, and I’d always wondered what it was like in there. Hmm. Look at all those cars in the parking lot; that place must be good! One afternoon, when we were sitting around wondering what to do for a meal, I said, “How about that place up by Cornell’s—Berardi’s, or whatever?” They were like, “Oh, yeah. We could go there.” Then they were surprised: “Wait, you’ve never been there? We’ve never taken you to Berardi’s???”

I think Sue’s family had somehow forgotten it existed. Maybe they thought it was too snooty (Sue’s dad had an aversion to cloth-napkin, “fancy” places), or too pricey? . . . But it really isn’t. And it’s got something for everyone. Anyhow, we went; we were all delighted; and so we’ve been going back since then. It’s become a favorite place for the whole family to get together. Whether for breakfast, lunch, or supper, Sue and I try to find a way to dine there at least once per trip.

Indeed, Sue’s family came to realize that Berardi’s is one of my “happy places.” One year when we were in Ohio for my birthday, they conspired to surprise me with a trip to Berardi’s. (I could tell from a mile away that’s where we were heading, but I played along. Surprise! Sue’s mom and dad were so pleased to see me happy! Yayyy! Ber-aaarrrrr-di’s!!)

There are so many interesting dishes at Berardi’s. It’s basically a homestyle cooking restaurant—Americana—but it’s certainly different than what a similar restaurant here in Missouri would offer.

• There’s a lot more seafood (which makes me ponder that many Missourians, indeed, are skeptical of seafood, unless it’s fried catfish). Especially, being less than a mile south of the Lake Erie shore, Berardi’s proudly offers the tasty fresh yellow perch and walleye so famous from that body of water.
• There are a lot of Italian dishes, served matter-of-factly, because the ethnic Italian Berardis are surrounded by plenty of other Italian-derived people in the area, so this is just good home-cookin’, not “ethnic” food from a “foreign land,” like it is so often in Missouri. (In Missouri, we serve southern food and barbecue, like cornmeal-breaded fried catfish and BBQ porksteaks, as if it were normal food that everyone eats everywhere.)
• Likewise, there are a lot of eastern European dishes that we rarely see here in Missouri. Sauerkraut balls, pierogis, and haluski (cabbage and noodles with kielbasa), chief among them. You may also encounter specials like stuffed bell peppers and cabbage rolls.
• Of the straight-up Americana dishes, I have to note that liver and onions is on the menu; also a tuna melt, a “mile-high meatloaf,” and an open-faced roast beef and gravy sandwich. The latter two were big favorites of Sue’s dad. These old-fashioned blue-plate diner dishes have pretty much disappeared from around here in Missouri.
• Berardi’s is also famous for its homemade pies and cookies. Lots of people get these to go; they beckon to you from a cold case near the entryway.

I won’t go into the whole menu; you can look that up online. But I do want to mention a few favorite dishes—especially things we can’t get around here in Missouri.

• The famous Berardi’s French fries. “Thick, hand cut, made to order.” Many people enjoy these with a bit of malt vinegar, but good-ol’ ketchup is also perfect. These are exactly the same as they were made at Cedar Point back in the day. Sue says they taste exactly the same. A blast from the past! The only difference is that now they’re served on plates instead of in a paper cone like they did at Cedar Point.
• Sauerkraut balls. “Hand breaded and stuffed with cream cheese, sauerkraut, and sausage. Served with bistro sauce.” We here in Missouri are missing out on a beautiful thing by not having sauerkraut balls. These are so good, they’re available everywhere in northern Ohio. Like, at bars. Even at goofy golf places, soft-serve ice cream stands, and bowling alleys. You hear that, German-heritage Missourians? Sauerkraut balls are so delicious, they’re even served at bowling alleys. At bow-ling-al-leys!. Naturally, the ones at Berardi’s are in a higher class, having been made fresh instead of prepackaged frozen things supplied by a food service.
• Potato knoephle and seafood bisque. These soups are always on the menu, and both are perfect. The knoephle (pronounced NEFF-luh, though they’ll know what you mean if you say NIP-fluh, NOP-fluh, K’nop-flee, K’neff-lee, or any other thing that sounds close) is a hearty, chicken-broth-based soup with potatoes, dumplings, and onions. The seafood bisque is creamy and velvety, with clams, shrimp, and lobster. They keep containers of these soups in a refrigerator next to the cash register, because so many people pick them up to go.
• Lake Erie yellow perch and Lake Erie walleye. Available as dinners or in sandwiches. Sue’s mom, who grew up on an island in Lake Erie, always gets the perch and relishes every single bite. Berardi’s fries it to perfection and serves it, as nature intended, with French fries and coleslaw.
• Pierogies. I’ll bet many Missourians have never heard of these. Pierogies (peer-OH-ghees) are like big, mild raviolis, stuffed with mashed potato and cheddar cheese. They’re boiled in water until cooked, then they are sautéed in butter and grilled onions and served with kielbasa and sour cream. Berardi’s serves them with a side of applesauce. It’s sort of like potato pancakes. Look for pierogies in the freezer section of supermarkets, or find recipes online. There are many traditional stuffings, including prunes, apples, cabbage, ham, sausage, bacon, sauerkraut, and more.
• Cabbage and noodles (haluski). My favorite! “Homemade cabbage and [egg] noodles topped with kielbasa and sour cream. Served with applesauce.” . . . And a piece of garlic toast. I honestly don’t want to know how much butter these are swimming in—I’ve seen traditional recipes online, and it frightens me. When I make it at home, I halve the amount of oil, and then use half olive oil and half butter. But eating at Berardi’s is a treat, and I relish every bite—which, given the ample serving, takes me about halfway through the dish. The rest of the meal comprises lunch the next day! It’s simple, hearty home cooking. So good!

While I’m at it, I should mention the joys of breakfast at Berardi’s. Until recently, we have never been there for breakfast, since we have always had breakfast made in the kitchen of Sue’s mother. (Did I mention how much she loves the Lake Erie yellow perch?)

But since she has moved into an assisted living place, Sue and I have occasionally gotten breakfast at Berardi’s. So a few comments are in order.

• First, you can order a wide variety of traditional breakfast foods—the old-fashioned heavy favorites such as sausage gravy on biscuits, the usual variety of steak and eggs, omelets, pancakes, sausage, bacon, homefries, corned beef hash, and even creamed chipped beef on toast.
• But there are a variety of newer, fresher, healthier ideas: bran muffins, an “oatmeal breakfast” with a choice of topping, fresh fruit, and a bran muffin,” “fresh fruit, yogurt, and muffin,” and quinoa patties. And here’s a nice idea: a breakfast called “the uno,” which has one of each: a single pancake or piece of French toast, a single egg cooked to order, and a single piece of bacon or sausage. Along the same lines, there’s also the “1-1-1,” where you get a single egg, a single piece of bacon or sausage link, and a single slice of toast and homefries. I love the idea of scaling down the quantity of the food while keeping the variety!
• If you visit Berardi’s for breakfast in the fall and early winter—during “pumpkin-spice-everything” season—I encourage you to get the pumpkin spice pancakes, because they’re the bomb! Tender, tasty, and buttery, “here for a limited time only.”
• Finally, the coffee at Berardi’s is organic and fair-trade.

What’s not to like about this place? I hope that if you ever find yourself in northern Ohio, that you make it a point to eat at one of the Berardi’s restaurants. I know you’ll love it!

Berardi’s Restaurant
218 Cleveland Rd. East
Huron, Ohio 44839
419-433-4123

Full disclosure: The owners of Berardi’s in Huron are personal friends of Sue’s niece, but though I’ve met them a few times and told them how much I adore their restaurant, I certainly don’t receive or expect personal favors from them. In their business, they know tons of people, and I’m sure I’m just another fan.

The Mützens of Elm Street: Mützen, Müzen, Mutzens, Mootsens

By any other name (or spelling!), a mützen would still taste as sweet . . .



Of course, it’s about much more than a delicious “donut”; it’s about our tradition of eating them. The pictures in this and the previous post hopefully give you a sense of how we associate them with fun and family.



I described our tradition of eating mützens on New Year’s Eve in my previous post, and I encourage you to read it first if you haven’t already.

But a quick recap: Apparently my grandma Edna Schroeder learned to make mützens from her mother, Wilhelmine Caroline Thomas, who grew up in the German-Dutch border region. In Holland, there is a similar recipe called Olle bollen (“oil balls”). In Germany, mützen are associated with Fastnacht (Mardi Gras) celebrations. Apparently the Thomases traditionally made them at New Year’s Eve.



I hesitate to call this “Grandma Schroeder’s Mützen Recipe,” because it’s only an approximation. Grandma Schroeder never seemed to use a written recipe for mützens; she generally cooked “by feel,” but for years we all knew that mützens were incredibly special, so some of us had made notes, following Grandma around the kitchen, during various years. Fortunately, then, I had someplace to start when Sue and I first tried to make them in 1997.

Particularly, we had three different versions of Grandma Schroeder’s “recipe” that were all written by different people at different times: My aunt Carole Schroeder, my mom, Pat Schroeder, and my brother, Paul, who was a kid at the time (his notes are especially entertaining). All these recipe notes were made approximately in the middle 1970s.



These recipes all differed (greatly!) in the relative amounts of various ingredients, particularly in the amount of flour. (Of course, flour is the one variable that changes the most, depending on humidity, how you spoon or scoop it out, etc.; you will just have to develop a feel for how much flour is sufficient for obtaining the “gukky” consistency young Paul described in his notes for the recipe.) Because of the meticulousness of her notes, we mostly followed my mom’s version.

Mützens

Small batch; good for about ten people, with plenty of leftovers to send home with them for breakfast.


Scald 3 cups milk, with

• 1/2 stick of margarine (or butter), and
• 3/4 cup sugar, and
• some salt.

Let cool. (Allow time for this to happen; it can’t be too hot, or it will kill the yeast when you add it.)

--------------------------------------------------------------

Dissolve 1 package of dry yeast with

• a little warm water (ca. 1/4 cup), and
• 1/2 tsp. sugar.

This will get foamy.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Slightly beat 2 eggs, and add

• about 1 tsp. of ground mace to them. (Mace quantity varies depending on how strong or fresh your mace is. It is probably better to add a little too much than not enough.)

--------------------------------------------------------------

When the milk part is cool enough, combine the milk, yeast, and eggs mixtures in a big mixer bowl. Using a hand mixer, start adding flour gradually, about a 1/2 cup at a time. (Have plenty of flour on hand; you will need approximately 4–6 cups.) The batter should be sticky and thick enough to not be runny. It should be cohesive enough so you’ll be able later to nudge it off the spoon in globs or blobs and not in runny strings.

Fold in the currants: About one cup, more or less, to taste.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Set the dough aside in a big bowl someplace warm and preferably humid. Cover with a damp clean dish towel. We put it in our oven, whose pilot light keeps it nice and warm. In the past, with small batches, we have heated a Pyrex measuring cup with water in it in the microwave to make it humid, then put the bowl of batter in beside it. With the microwave door shut, it made a nice environment for the yeast to work.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Let rise until double in bulk; then stir it down and let it rise again. You can repeat the rising and “punching down” until it’s time to fry! Thus, you can prepare the dough in late afternoon before your guests arrive. Just check on it every once in a while and punch it down.



Frying. Grandma used a big pot on a burner, but we recommend using a FryDaddy or other frying appliance that will keep the grease at a constant temperature. We started using one of these in 2006 or 2007, and it makes deep-frying a lot easier. Or you can do it the old-fashioned way:

Get a big pot. A thermometer will help, if you have one that can clip to the edge of the pot. You’ll want the Crisco to be between 350 and 375 degrees F. You’ll need about 2–3 inches of hot grease so the batter can bob around, so you will probably need an entire (large-sized) can of Crisco.

Nudge the batter off of a spoon and into the hot grease, taking care not to splash. Remember, the dough will puff up a lot as the mützens cook. So smaller blobs are better: They will cook faster and more evenly, and they will serve more people; larger blobs will become “belly bombs,” especially if they are still doughy in the center.

It’s good to cut into one of the first ones to make sure it’s cooking right.

Drain mützens on paper towels or paper grocery sacks. (I hoard paper grocery sacks in December for this purpose!)

Take one large paper grocery sack and dump a bunch of powdered sugar in the bottom.

Batch by batch (about 6 at a time), shake the hot, drained mützens in the paper sack with the powdered sugar in the time-honored tradition. This is a great job for young people. Make sure they understand they need to roll the top of the bag and hold it closed while shaking it! Watch for holes developing in the corners; but then, hey, resign yourself to having powdered sugar dust everywhere. It always makes me smile the morning after.

Of course, you could try sprinkling on the powered sugar with a sifter or sieve. But what fun is that?



We have an enormous circular platter that we pile the finished mützens onto. At midnight (after we’re done outside making all kinds of noise), we carry the platter of mützens into the living room for everyone to enjoy with their champagne.

Happy New Year!




Mützens: Doubled Recipe for a Larger Group

This is a thumbnail recipe; see above version for important notes regarding dough consistency, etc.

1. Scald together, and then let cool:

• 6 c. milk
• 1 stick margarine
• 1 1/2 c. sugar
• some salt

2. Dissolve together:

• 2 packages dry yeast
• ca. 1/2 cup warm water
• 1 tsp. sugar

3. Slightly beat together:

• 4 eggs
• 2 tsp. [actually, more like 2 Tbsp.; see note above] ground mace

4. When milk is cool enough, combine all of the above. Then starting adding the flour, 1/2 cup at a time, to desired consistency. Fold in currants.

• ca. 6–8 cups flour, added gradually
• ca. 1 box of Zante currants

5. Set aside in warm moist place to rise; punch down occasionally, until time to fry.

6. Fry in hot grease, ca. 350–375 degrees F; drain on paper grocery sacks; shake with powdered sugar; serve immediately.

• Crisco
• powdered sugar

Hey, if you make these, I hope you’ll let me know how they turn out!


Finally: This is a very special recipe that belongs to my family. Please do not copy it and pretend that it’s yours, or republish it without crediting my blog and this post. Thanks!