The Immigrant and the Custard Bun

On being a stranger in a strange land

Dear reader,

I’ve read a few things recently about how frustrating some people find it when simple recipes are prefaced by long-winded memoir essays.

If you are one such person, boy howdy is this not your day.

All I can say in my defence is it makes sense to me, and if it makes sense to you, then I’m glad to have found you.

Thanks for being here with me.

Wil

“To emigrate is always to dismantle the centre of the world, and so to move into a lost, disoriented one of fragments.”

John Berger - and our faces, my heart, brief as photos

You can tell a foreigner from a local, here in Finland, by their feelings toward “mild” winters. As the one we’re having right now could safely be described as.

If you’re the kind of immigrant I am, then this mild winter is largely welcome. No -20° Celsius temperatures. Fewer ice-covered sidewalks to slip and crack a rib on. Less need to wear those interminable Long Johns that, after many winters, still just don’t feel right.

But this isn’t how your average Finn sees things.

To them, the mild winter means wet and mud and misery. It means brown and grey. Sludge. Chief among what they miss is the snow itself. Not in a childlike, longing for snowmen kind of way, though I know this is much of the fun of it as well.

The snow is missed for the light it brings.

The days are so short this time of year. For Finns, the bright white of the snow becomes an ersatz sun in these winter months. To be robbed of it is to find the world a little darker. The nights a bit more severe.

But, for now, I’ll still take that over Long Johns.

But if learning to understand a new home is like those first few months of a new relationship, then this kind of disagreement is the fun and frivolous sort. It’s the not knowing which movie to choose or restaurant to go to. Pulp, or no pulp.

I’m learning the value of cold, snowy winters in Finland the same way I've learned to:

• Keep (at a minimum) 10 metres distance between me and the next person at bus stops.

• Not spark up conversation with strangers in the supermarket queue as I might more readily in the UK.

• A hundred times definitely not wear a swimsuit in the sauna (unless I want to ostracise myself from everyone here entirely.)

But, like I said, this has been the easy stuff to get my head around.

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I remember the first time I sensed an aspect of Finnishness that runs a little deeper than whether or not I get my kit off with my father-in-law in the dark and steamy room in our basement.

I sensed it in conversation with my wife, Silja.

We were still in the pulp or no pulp stage of love then. And, because I obviously know how to show a girl a good time, we were discussing NATO. Specifically, the fact Finland wasn’t a member. Being British and confident that if Britain is a member then surely it must be a good idea for everyone to be, I suggested Finland would be better off joining.

She seemed so frustrated by me. By my naivety.

Finland has one of the largest armies in Europe and, thanks to conscription that is still in effect today, they can call on 280,000 soldiers during any time of war.

Silja knew, after a lifetime of knowing, that conflict with Russia meant the possibility of friends of hers, young men mostly, being put in harm’s way.

I could tell her fears were not overblown or unmerited or the product of a neurotic mind. They were simply the way things were to her. Real in a way I’d never thought possible in a life that had thought of war as something that coloured history books or news reports from countries far away.

Growing up in Finland, it wasn’t considered far away at all.

My understanding of this view of the world has grown in time. I see it in the basement of our apartment building, which, as well as having a sauna, is designed to function as a bomb shelter. As all buildings of such a size are required to have here.

I see it in the fact every bridge, overpass, tunnel and similar construction in Finland is built with demolition charge pits, ready to be filled, and used, in the event of invasion.

What I’ve come to think this means is that even though my life is lived hand in hand with my wife, I will always know the world as safer than the one she knows.

Perhaps this is why Finland has been such an ally to Ukraine, from both ends of the political spectrum. They and the Finns share a knowledge of the world those like me are privileged enough not to know.

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How to reconcile this with Finland being, so they say, the Happiest Country in the World?

Perhaps Finnish happiness is not in spite of past hardships, but because of them. A country that has had to know war, and learned to endure the ongoing possibility of it, might also learn to savour the small, everyday joys of life particularly well.

I’ve written about how “happy” the people here are said to be, and, though most Finns I know would roll their eyes at being named “happiest”, I do wonder if there is some truth to this. Taking cues from the Finns around me, I try to focus more on the here and now. I try not to promise to myself, or to others, more than I know I can give. And I try to take time for those simple, modest joys that, when I think of it, are most of the joys we’re afforded in life anyway.

In Finland that means joys such as getting out in nature, of that cherished sauna, and, importantly for me, the ritual of good eating. There is no British “high tea” or equivalent to “fika” as the Swedes enjoy. It is as though food rituals of good coffee and sweet things are simply a standing option at hand to brighten any moment of the long (or short) day.

I hesitated to juxtapose these thoughts of war and struggle and conflict with a joy as simple as food. But I’m not so certain it’s all that silly. Maybe it’s the family around me, but so much of the ritual joy I experience here in Finland comes with food. It gives me a chance to connect with my new family here, often by sharing with them the things I love from the home I’ve left behind.

And I know this isn’t unique to me.

My mother-in-law helps teach Finnish to a group of Ukrainian refugees. At Christmas, it was a cake popular in Ukraine called Medovik that one of her students gave her as a gift. It reminds me that food doesn’t just take us home. It helps us find our place when home is taken from us.

The bun I share with you today is a taste of Finland I’ve come to truly love. A Finnish bun called Dallaspulla that has a custardy filling running through it. But one thing I love about Finnish sweet things is their passionate use of liquorice. Particularly in creamy things such as ice cream. That’s what gave me the idea of adding a little liquorice seasoning to this very creamy vanilla bun.

I do love this place, but I know there’ll always remain a part of me that is deeply foreign here. I’ll likely always be a hopelessly emotional and neurotic Brit who blushes at the sight of the old men in the public sauna, far from the stoic, silent Finn the stereotype of people here suggests. But sharing this small bit of Finland with you, something I consider a joy of this strange land, helps make me feel a little bit more at home here, a little less of a stranger.

I hope you try it for yourself.

Liquorice “Dallaspulla” buns

I’ve been on a journey figuring this recipe out for you.

Here in Finland we have a magical baking ingredient called vaniljakreemijauhe, which is basically a vanilla custard powder that is very stable when baked with. Since I can’t find anything online quite the same in the UK/USA/anywhere outside the Nordics, I’ve tried to work out something for you that can replace it. Also, though we use a product called quark in Finland, I also understand skyr is more readily available elsewhere in the world.

My solution is a thick creme pâtissière which we’ll fold into the skyr/quark. I think it works really well.

Enough for 10 buns

For the bun dough:

250ml milk
7g sachet of dry active yeast
100g sugar
500g flour
75g butter

For the filling:

50g caster sugar
1 large egg yolk
20g corn flour
125ml whole milk
3 teaspoons of vanilla extract
200g Vanilla flavoured Skyr (or fromage frais or, even better, quark if you can find it)
1.5 teaspoon liquorice extract powder (leave this out if you’re not a fan, I won’t hold it against you)

Method

First, we start with the dough. Mix the flour with the yeast in a large bowl.

Heat the milk to just below boiling then add the butter and sugar and let it come down again to warm body temp. Mix it a few times to dissolve the sugar.

Once the milk’s cooled, add it to the flour. Bring them together with your hand and let it sit for 20 minutes, then knead into a nice smooth ball and set aside covered to double in size.

While the dough is rising we can make the filling.

In a bowl, whisk the sugar, egg yolk, cornflour, and 1 tablespoon of milk with a whisk until pale and smooth.

In a small saucepan, gently heat the remaining milk until it just reaches a boil. Gradually pour the hot milk into the egg mixture, whisking all the time until fully combined. Return the mixture to the pan and cook over low heat, whisking continuously, until it becomes very thick. Transfer the crème pâtissière to a bowl, add the vanilla and liquorice, cover the surface to prevent a skin from forming, and let it cool. When room temp or near about, fold in the skyr/quark. Refrigerate until set.

Once the dough is risen, roll it out make a 40 cm x 40 cm square (should be less than 1 cm thick). Check your filling is firm enough to be spreadable but not too soft (you don’t want it squeezing out while you roll the dough). Spread out 2/3rds of it over the dough. Roll the dough up tightly and cut into 8-10 slices and lay them spiral side up. I like to tuck the end of each roll under the bun so it doesn’t unwind while it cooks. Cover these with cling film and let rise again for 30 mins while your oven heats to 200°C.

When they have risen again (they should feel very soft and pillow-y when pushed with a finger) press a divot into the top of each and fill this with the remainder of the filling.

Bake for 15-20 mins until gold and the smell of all your dreams coming true fills your kitchen!

My non-liquorice version for those of that persuasion

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