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dragonlady7This is a reprint of a blog entry Dave originally posted 13 December 2003. At that point, we lived in Westchester, and were kind of tired of it. We had moved there from Jersey City, NJ.
Warnings: Language, mention of violence against old ladies.
The editor has said all she needs to and henceforth the rest of this is all vintage Dave unless otherwise specified.
Piparkukas, or, The Penitent Man Kneels Before God
[File under: Latvianism, Indomitability]
So let me tell you a little story about piparkukas. The noble piparkukas is a thin, crunchy, distant Latvian cousin of the noticeably more squishy, doughy gingerbread. It is fuckingood, but you can't just make piparkukas. No, you must first prove that you are worthy of making them.
First, you have to find the recipe. The first year I tried making piparkukas I had to negotiate with my Latvian aunt. It was fairly easy to convince her [my family hadn't had a decent piparkukas since my grandmother died a decade earlier]. 'I'll see what I can do,' she said. So I went back to New Jersey, and she called up one of her old Latvian lady friends. After a hushed conversation in a darkened alley somewhere out by the Broadway market, my aunt got not one but two piparkukas recipes ... in the original Latvian. See, you also can't just get a recipe for piparkukas. No, because you get that from your mother or your grandmother or whoever, when you're ready, and if they die before you get the recipe, well, then I guess you were just never ready for it, now were you? So if you want to get somebody else's recipe, you'd better make a damn good case [perhaps with a nightstick]. And even if you do, you're going to get whatever their Latvian cookbook says, which is nothing like what they actually make themselves, and you're just going to have to translate it yourself. Luckily, my aunt translated them for me, before mailing them off to me, along with a few packets of some of the more esoteric spices the recipes called for that she thought I might not be able to find.
Then, you've got to assemble a veritable spice rack just for the piparkukas. I mean, how many times are you really going to use cardamom? Or mace, for that matter? Luckily I didn't have as much trouble doing this as my aunt had thought. This year, however, I couldn't find lard, despite going to three separate grocery stores who have just officially made my shit list. As if nobody in the Hastings-on-Hudson/Dobbs Ferry metroplex has ever needed purified pork fat. I mean, I understand that lard is not exactly a best-seller, but I can't conceive of a life in which you don't need it at least once in a while. I grudgingly substituted vegetable shortening. We'll see how that turns out.
Once you've assembled your ingredients, you've got to mix them. This doesn't sound hard, but after you've broken off three spoons in the dough, you start to question the intelligence of basing a cookie dough on honey and molasses. Indeed, above temperatures of about fifty degrees, the dough is a completely unworkable sticky mess. Below fifty degrees, the dough is a completely unworkable rock of spiced belligerence.
Which makes rolling this stuff out to its recommended thickness of about 1/8" a Herculean effort. 'Keep the dough cool,' the recipe keeps repeating, or you'll offend it. 'Well, the recipe knows best,' you might say, keeping the dough in the fridge, and maybe even turning down the thermostat ... until you realize how incorrigible refrigerated honey and molasses really are. Refrigerated honey and molasses are uninterested in changing shape. Refrigerated honey and molasses are quite fine the way they are, thank you very much. Refrigerated honey and molasses don't give a flying fuck what the recommended thickness for piparkukas is. If you want to impose your will upon refrigerated honey and molasses, you're going to have to regulate wit da rolling pin. [I always wondered why my grandmother had pipes like a repo man. As with so many things in life, piparkukas is the answer.]
Sooner or later you discover how much more pliable the dough is at room temperature. What you don't realize immediately is how much more sticky the dough is at room temperature. It sticks to your rolling pin. It sticks to the table. It sticks to the wax paper you put on the table. It sticks to your hands. It sticks in your hair. It sticks on the ceiling. You get the idea. So you reflour the rolling pin and the table. In response, it eats the flour and sticks to the rolling pin and table anyway.
Ever wonder what happens when you roll out a sizeable ball of dough to a thickness of approximately 1/8"? You get about 100,000 cookies. Which means the toil never ends. By the time I finish rolling out a batch of piparkukas for Christmas, it's just about Advent again.
So, why bother with piparkukas? Well, as I believe I mentioned at the beginning of this entry, they're fuckingood, and really are worth the effort. And you really can't screw them up, as long as your heart is true and your intentions are pure and your pipes are diesel.
Since I couldn't find a reasonable recipe for piparkukas on the 'net, here are the two my aunt gave me. Suffice it to say that this is just whatever the Latvian cookbook says, and is nothing like what I actually make myself. But I won't be cruel and make you translate them yourselves.
1/2 c corn syrup
1/4 c molasses
1 1/2 sticks butter
4 T lard
5/8 c sugar
3 1/2 c flour
1 egg yolk
1/2 t baking powder
1/4 t baking soda
1/4 t white pepper
1 t ground cardamom
1 t cinnamon
1/2 t ground cloves
1 t coriander
1 t ginger
1/2 t ground allspice
1/4 t nutmeg
1/4 t mace (optional)
1 egg for glazing
In a large saucepan heat the fats, sugar, and syrups till large
bubbles form. Remove from heat. Add the spices and baking soda. Put
the mixture into a large bowl and mix well. Add half the flour and
beat well with a wooden spoon. Allow the dough to cool a bit. Add
egg yolk and beat with a spoon a few more times. Let the dough cool.
Sift remaining flour with baking powder and gradually add to dough.
Knead the dough until all the flour is absorbed. Let the dough rest
in the refrigerator at least 24 hours. Roll out small portions of
dough very thin on lightly floured surface. Cut with cookie cutter.
Place on greased pan, paint with beaten egg, and bake at 350° 8
minutes or till golden brown.
Gingerbread Cookies from Latvian Cookbook
1 1/2 c honey
3/4 c molasses
1 c butter
1 1/2 c brown sugar
1/2 c shortening
Combine the above ingredients in a saucepan, bring to a boil. Then
remove from heat, add the following:
3 3/4 c sifted flour
1 1/2 t ginger
1 1/2 t cinnamon
3/4 t cloves
3/4 t nutmeg
1/2 t coriander
1/2 t ground allspice
Mix together until dough comes away from sides of pan. Cool, then add:
4 beaten egg yolks
5 c flour sifted with
1 t baking soda and
2 1/2 t baking powder
Use your hands to mix the dough. Once mixed, turn dough onto lightly
floured surface and knead until it becomes shiny. Roll out onto
floured surface till very thin. Cut with cookie cutter. Place on
greased cookie sheet. If desired, brush with beaten egg and bake at
350° for 10 min or till lightly browned.
ed. note: That recipe's huge. If you want to attempt that, for the love of God cut it in at least half.
back to the editor now (that's me):
But I was thinkin', if anyone wants to sample Dave's version, for which he is determined not to divulge the recipe (or, God forbid, the Secret Ingredient), we could possibly be persuaded to mail some out to people. Being poor, however, I might have to ask for donations to cover the shipping. I have to find out what the shipping would be. But it's a thought. Is anyone interested?
Warnings: Language, mention of violence against old ladies.
The editor has said all she needs to and henceforth the rest of this is all vintage Dave unless otherwise specified.
Piparkukas, or, The Penitent Man Kneels Before God
in which our hero proves his heart is true and his intentions are
pure, by making some kick-ass gingerbread.
[File under: Latvianism, Indomitability]
So let me tell you a little story about piparkukas. The noble piparkukas is a thin, crunchy, distant Latvian cousin of the noticeably more squishy, doughy gingerbread. It is fuckingood, but you can't just make piparkukas. No, you must first prove that you are worthy of making them.
First, you have to find the recipe. The first year I tried making piparkukas I had to negotiate with my Latvian aunt. It was fairly easy to convince her [my family hadn't had a decent piparkukas since my grandmother died a decade earlier]. 'I'll see what I can do,' she said. So I went back to New Jersey, and she called up one of her old Latvian lady friends. After a hushed conversation in a darkened alley somewhere out by the Broadway market, my aunt got not one but two piparkukas recipes ... in the original Latvian. See, you also can't just get a recipe for piparkukas. No, because you get that from your mother or your grandmother or whoever, when you're ready, and if they die before you get the recipe, well, then I guess you were just never ready for it, now were you? So if you want to get somebody else's recipe, you'd better make a damn good case [perhaps with a nightstick]. And even if you do, you're going to get whatever their Latvian cookbook says, which is nothing like what they actually make themselves, and you're just going to have to translate it yourself. Luckily, my aunt translated them for me, before mailing them off to me, along with a few packets of some of the more esoteric spices the recipes called for that she thought I might not be able to find.
Then, you've got to assemble a veritable spice rack just for the piparkukas. I mean, how many times are you really going to use cardamom? Or mace, for that matter? Luckily I didn't have as much trouble doing this as my aunt had thought. This year, however, I couldn't find lard, despite going to three separate grocery stores who have just officially made my shit list. As if nobody in the Hastings-on-Hudson/Dobbs Ferry metroplex has ever needed purified pork fat. I mean, I understand that lard is not exactly a best-seller, but I can't conceive of a life in which you don't need it at least once in a while. I grudgingly substituted vegetable shortening. We'll see how that turns out.
Once you've assembled your ingredients, you've got to mix them. This doesn't sound hard, but after you've broken off three spoons in the dough, you start to question the intelligence of basing a cookie dough on honey and molasses. Indeed, above temperatures of about fifty degrees, the dough is a completely unworkable sticky mess. Below fifty degrees, the dough is a completely unworkable rock of spiced belligerence.
Which makes rolling this stuff out to its recommended thickness of about 1/8" a Herculean effort. 'Keep the dough cool,' the recipe keeps repeating, or you'll offend it. 'Well, the recipe knows best,' you might say, keeping the dough in the fridge, and maybe even turning down the thermostat ... until you realize how incorrigible refrigerated honey and molasses really are. Refrigerated honey and molasses are uninterested in changing shape. Refrigerated honey and molasses are quite fine the way they are, thank you very much. Refrigerated honey and molasses don't give a flying fuck what the recommended thickness for piparkukas is. If you want to impose your will upon refrigerated honey and molasses, you're going to have to regulate wit da rolling pin. [I always wondered why my grandmother had pipes like a repo man. As with so many things in life, piparkukas is the answer.]
Sooner or later you discover how much more pliable the dough is at room temperature. What you don't realize immediately is how much more sticky the dough is at room temperature. It sticks to your rolling pin. It sticks to the table. It sticks to the wax paper you put on the table. It sticks to your hands. It sticks in your hair. It sticks on the ceiling. You get the idea. So you reflour the rolling pin and the table. In response, it eats the flour and sticks to the rolling pin and table anyway.
Ever wonder what happens when you roll out a sizeable ball of dough to a thickness of approximately 1/8"? You get about 100,000 cookies. Which means the toil never ends. By the time I finish rolling out a batch of piparkukas for Christmas, it's just about Advent again.
So, why bother with piparkukas? Well, as I believe I mentioned at the beginning of this entry, they're fuckingood, and really are worth the effort. And you really can't screw them up, as long as your heart is true and your intentions are pure and your pipes are diesel.
Since I couldn't find a reasonable recipe for piparkukas on the 'net, here are the two my aunt gave me. Suffice it to say that this is just whatever the Latvian cookbook says, and is nothing like what I actually make myself. But I won't be cruel and make you translate them yourselves.
1/2 c corn syrup
1/4 c molasses
1 1/2 sticks butter
4 T lard
5/8 c sugar
3 1/2 c flour
1 egg yolk
1/2 t baking powder
1/4 t baking soda
1/4 t white pepper
1 t ground cardamom
1 t cinnamon
1/2 t ground cloves
1 t coriander
1 t ginger
1/2 t ground allspice
1/4 t nutmeg
1/4 t mace (optional)
1 egg for glazing
In a large saucepan heat the fats, sugar, and syrups till large
bubbles form. Remove from heat. Add the spices and baking soda. Put
the mixture into a large bowl and mix well. Add half the flour and
beat well with a wooden spoon. Allow the dough to cool a bit. Add
egg yolk and beat with a spoon a few more times. Let the dough cool.
Sift remaining flour with baking powder and gradually add to dough.
Knead the dough until all the flour is absorbed. Let the dough rest
in the refrigerator at least 24 hours. Roll out small portions of
dough very thin on lightly floured surface. Cut with cookie cutter.
Place on greased pan, paint with beaten egg, and bake at 350° 8
minutes or till golden brown.
Gingerbread Cookies from Latvian Cookbook
1 1/2 c honey
3/4 c molasses
1 c butter
1 1/2 c brown sugar
1/2 c shortening
Combine the above ingredients in a saucepan, bring to a boil. Then
remove from heat, add the following:
3 3/4 c sifted flour
1 1/2 t ginger
1 1/2 t cinnamon
3/4 t cloves
3/4 t nutmeg
1/2 t coriander
1/2 t ground allspice
Mix together until dough comes away from sides of pan. Cool, then add:
4 beaten egg yolks
5 c flour sifted with
1 t baking soda and
2 1/2 t baking powder
Use your hands to mix the dough. Once mixed, turn dough onto lightly
floured surface and knead until it becomes shiny. Roll out onto
floured surface till very thin. Cut with cookie cutter. Place on
greased cookie sheet. If desired, brush with beaten egg and bake at
350° for 10 min or till lightly browned.
ed. note: That recipe's huge. If you want to attempt that, for the love of God cut it in at least half.
back to the editor now (that's me):
But I was thinkin', if anyone wants to sample Dave's version, for which he is determined not to divulge the recipe (or, God forbid, the Secret Ingredient), we could possibly be persuaded to mail some out to people. Being poor, however, I might have to ask for donations to cover the shipping. I have to find out what the shipping would be. But it's a thought. Is anyone interested?
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no subject
Date: 2005-11-30 06:12 am (UTC)Of course, other types of dough apparently need extra kneading.
And don't know whether any of this is true...
no subject
Date: 2005-11-30 01:34 pm (UTC)But the problem with the piparkukas is simply that its binding agents are honey and molasses, which mean that if they are cold, they are hard, and if they are warm, they are too sticky to work with. It just means you need a sturdy table and a strong back. Z's mom confirmed that they were always a pain in the ass to roll out, which is why she went and invested in huge cookie cutters.