Don't try this at home, eh?
Hallelujah. After a torturously long weekend of caring for our daughter, now affectionately called “the non-sleeper", she finally, spontaneously, collapsed in an unconscious heap for a nap Sunday afternoon.
I was at my parent’s house, making the world’s most insanely futzy cookie. The Krumkake. We decided that the crazy Scandinavians came up with the worlds most fucked up convoluted cookies because they were bored out of their goddamned minds during their dark, cold, empty, barren 6-month-long winters.
I can imagine the coin toss: “Okay Lena, if it’s heads, we go out behind the shed, strip down naked, and wait for the hypothermia to bring sweet relief from this never-ending dark frigid Hell-on-earth. If it's tails, we make cookies with a simple pancake batter, branding irons, and boiling hot lard. We’ll call them rosettes!”
"Okay Ollie! Tails it is! Yah! You betcha we'll make them cookies, eh?"
Somehow I got tagged “the krumkake daughter”. My sister Betsy makes lovely gingerbread cutouts which she rolls out and decorates carefully. Me, I got tagged the krumake Subject Matter Expert. Krumkake are cookies that you make ONE AT A TIME with something called a krumkake Iron. A Krumkake iron is an archaic torture device which you load with batter, hold over a hot flame, flip over, burn yourself with, and finally roll around a wooden cone with your oozing, blistered fingers. The krumkake iron. It burned. Dough got stuck, and when I tried to spray a little Pam to loosen the gunk, a flame three times the size of my head shot up. The little pieces of excess cookie fell down onto the gas burner and started mini-fires. It was dangerous work. The first seventeen cookies typically don’t work out, and they take approximately two and a half hours to make. After I've worked out the kinks, the remaining three hours of skin-searing labor produce approximately 22 cone-shaped cookies which crumble to pieces as soon as they are placed in a bag.
Don’t make krumkake. Not unless you are stuck in an isolated cabin in the dark frigid cold for 6 months out of the year. Only then should you make krumkake. And only then, if your one and only alternative to making krumkake is heaving yourself off an icy crevasse.
The Instrument of Midieval torture:
I made krumkake, and I started fires, and I suffered several second degree burns. But the child, she slept in her pack ‘n play in the upstairs bedroom. I had to call Jim during the Vikings game to share the news. Our suffering had come to an end. The day was a complete success. When it was time to go home, I took my well-rested daughter to her car seat and gingerly buckled her up with my blistered stubs. We went home and proudly showed Jim the bag of broken krumkake bits. The cookie shards did not impress him (fucking krumkake), But the fact that I got our daughter asleep for a nap left him completely speechless and awestruck.