I am not Danish.
This is remarkable because between my
mother's and father's families, I can claim relatives from nearly
every corner of Europe. This melting pot attitude contributes to the
mishmash of holiday traditions we indulge in every year. German
Stollen for breakfast in the week leading up to Christmas, sour cream
takes the place of cream of mushroom soup in the green bean
casserole, Christmas crackers and paper crowns, we talk to animals on
Epiphany (I still do anyway), an almond is stashed into porridge and
there's more food than even thirty odd family members can devour at
once. We make Christmas cookies starting a few days before Christmas,
all homemade, no exceptions.
Save one. Danish butter cookies. This
tasty little morsels arrive in a tin (that will next year be used to
pack pecan fingers), nestled in white paper. They last long into
January. One a night is the hard and fast rule. Gorge on brownies and
spice cookies covered in buttercream frosting, but the Danish butter
cookies are to be savoured. Cherished.
Maybe because we're not Danish and thus
do not have a yellowing recipe card that divulges the secrets of
these perfect treats are they so loved. The cuteness of the pretzel
one, the crunch of the sugar-encrusted rectangle, the ridged one's
sweetness, the fun of looking through the rough circle's hole at the
others seated around the table, and lastly my favourite, the one with
just the subtlest hint of cocoa.
Glædelig jul!
