I know, I know, I’ve been on hiatus. A busy, busy bee. And not cooking as much as I’d like. But I think things are on the upswing.

This weekend, for starters, was a Very Good Food Weekend. The supper club met again on Saturday, in honor of some New York City guests. We stuffed them with Southern things - fried chicken, fried pickles, sweet potato casserole with cornflakes and marshmallows (considerately arranged in diagonal stripes, so you could avoid the marshmallow if that’s just not your thing), collards for vegetarians and collards very much not for vegetarians, refrigerator pickles, mac and cheese. A certain New Yorker showed us up a bit. He made 72 - 72! that’s three dozen eggs! - deviled eggs. Then, he made the best banana pudding I’ve ever had. Ever. It was revelatory. I didn’t know banana pudding could be this way. It was run quickly under the broiler, I think, capped with an airy meringue blanket, tanned and crunchy.

All of this was washed down by copious amounts of red wine, and apparently a lot more than I knew. Kelly warned me, but I didn’t hear, or I pretended not to hear - I was sticking to red wine only and I thought I was fine. I thought I only get in trouble when I mix and match. No sir, not any more. I paid for it dearly the next morning. Oh, yes. Those Easter bells from the church around the block sounded as if they were clanging inside my head. But though eating was the last thing I felt like doing, I dragged myself out of bed and into the car. “Put on your sunglasses,” Kelly said. “You can sleep an hour until we get to your mom’s house.” Sixty minutes later, when the dogs started whining, I knew we were close (the dogs get very spoiled at their grandmother’s house).

Easter dinner has always been a wonderful part of my springs. Easter’s a low-pressure holiday to start with. It’s like a Thanksgiving at the other end of long, cold winter, and if it’s situated at just the right time in April, oh, do we have things to be thankful for. Asparagus, grown in the same county, not at the other end of the country, grilled, then showered with slivers of salty, intense Serrano ham. A leg of lamb, raised on a farm one county over, then marinated in pomegranate juice, garlic and rosemary and grilled medium rare. Baby carrots, and butter, and herbs. Arugula and roasted beets and paper-thin fennel. My mom’s pound cake, laced with sour cream, and dribbled with an early batch of North Carolina strawberries and Meyer lemon curd the color of a sunset. Oh, thank you!

But lest you think us fancy people, our favorite part of Easter dinner has much more humble, Midwestern roots. It’s sweet, but its background is about as salt-of-the-earth as you can get. A quivering, ruby-red rectangle of strawberries and crushed pineapple, bound with Jello, isn’t retro just for the sake of it. Easter at my mom’s house honestly, truly isn’t the same without this. Truth be told, this Jello salad never went out of fashion.

I know what you’re thinking. But this isn’t lime Jello. I don’t have any cottage cheese up my sleeve, I promise.

So lamb marinated in pomegranate juice is…well, really good. The asparagus with the Spanish ham…even better. Can any of them now make the same claim as The Strawberry Jello Salad, Hangover Balm? I think not.

Strawberry Jello Salad
When I called up my mom last night to ask her for this recipe, she said “The Jello salad doesn’t have a recipe.” Then she made one up on the spot, so it’s fair to call it a reasonable approximation. It’s important not to make the Jello the way the package tells you to. It calls for too much water, and this salad’s joy is in its intenseness. I like a lot of fruit, and not much Jello, and sliced into two layers sandwiching a tangy, cool smear of sour cream. It’s traditionally served at Easter dinners where there are Midwesterners present, and First Communions, and my uncle says Thanksgiving, too.

Serves about 10

1 small package strawberry Jello
1 box frozen strawberries
1 small can of crushed pineapple (about the size of a can of tuna)
1 cup boiling water
sour cream or cream cheese, enough to make about a 1/4 inch thick layer on a loaf pan

Mix the Jello with the boiling water. Drain the pineapple, save the juice. Add strawberries (don’t drain). Add pineapple and juice.

Pour half the Jello into a bread loaf pan, or a pretty mold. Put in freezer and let set. Take out when set and smear about 1/4 inch sour cream or cream cheese on top to create a second layer. Put back in freezer until cold. Take out and pour the rest of the Jello to create the third and final layer. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate until ready to serve. Use a wet knife to coax the Jello out of the pan or mold, and invert onto a plate for serving.

For months now, a group of friends and I have schemed about a potluck dinner of our fantasties, an occasional gathering of amateurish cooks all obsessed with making one another sigh “Mmmm…” (we all win that way). Life’s gotten in the way, many times, but I am so happy to say that we had our first installment this weekend.

As hostess, Mary K. had dibs on the theme. She choose Sweden, and we planned a Nordic Thanksgiving of salmon and schnapps, ABBA washed down with lots of red wine.

So Saturday night found us feasting on a salmon and potato bake, a Swedish grandmother’s sexy version of tuna casserole; fingerling potatoes; baked beans napped with vinegar; an orange and red onion salad dressed with allspice, star anise, salt and brown sugar; strawberries, mint and cream fraiche. One neighbor actually ground lamb himself for Lihamurekepiiras, a meat and pastry centerpiece that we later discovered was of Finnish origins - no matter. We stuffed ourselves silly with Mary K.’s meatballs, pork and beef swimming in a creamy sea and woken up with a jolt of garnet-colored ligonberry jam. It was chilly outside, but around the dining room table, we patted our lips with silly paper Swedish napkins with a rainbow pattern of robots, and dined on a heart-speckled Swedish tablecloth as a blaze burned away in the living room fireplace.

Brad (who lived in Sweden with his smart and beautiful wife Clare, of the potato bake) taught us how to toast - you must, must look at everyone in the room before you down your shooter of schnapps and yell “Skol!” A custom that dates from the Vikings, the eyeballing-tradition is so you know your drinking buddies won’t stab you in the back, or at least feel more reassured about those chances being slim.

My contribution was dessert. Semlor are found all over Sweden any time between New Year’s and Easter. They are the Swedish version of King Cake, that Shrove Tuesday treat that is meant to fatten you up before Lent’s long fast.

On their own, these small, unassuming buns are rather homely, and even dull. Flavored with cardamon and just a touch of sugar, they are plain Janes compared to other desserts. But pump them up with almond paste and whipped cream and a generous drift of powdered sugar, and you’ll understand why King Frederick ate a more than dozen after a meal of lobster, smoked herring, sour cabbage, Champagne and caviar. Soon after, the story goes, he keeled over and died, and the buns were banned, blamed for his greedy Highness’ death.

I like them because they are really the sum of their parts, not too sweet but a lovely, dreamy ending to an evening of good food and friends.

Brad and Clare said they never heard of any of their Swedish friends making semlor at home, but don’t let that intimidate you. Give them patience and time to let them rise. Eat them soon after you fill them, or put them in an airtight container unfilled until you’re ready.

Special thanks to Anne of Anne’s Food for the inspiration.

Semlor, adapted from Swedish Kitchen.com

Preparation Time: 1 and 1/2 hours
Yield: about 12 buns

5 tablespoons butter
1 cup whole milk
3 packages dried activated yeast (about 21 grams)
3 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon sugar
1 egg, beaten
1/4 teaspoon salt
3 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoon ground cardamon

Glaze:
1 egg white, beaten

Filling:
7 ounces almond paste (not marzipan)
1/3 cup whole milk, approximately
whipping cream
powdered sugar

Melt the butter in a small saucepan, add the cold milk and let cool until 97 degrees Fahrenheit - tested with a finger, the mixture
should be feel warm but not hot, but use a thermometer if you really want to be sure. If the milk is too hot, it will kill the yeast. Pour the butter and milk mixture into a large bowl. Sprinkle the yeast on top, along with about a teaspoon of sugar. Allow yeast to proof about five minutes in a warm, draft-free place.

When yeast has formed little bubbles in the liquid, add the rest of the sugar, one egg, the salt, cardamon, and the flour. Mix well with a fork. Knead dough on a lightly-floured surface for a couple of minutes. Form dough into a ball and place in a bowl, covered with a cloth, and let dough rise for 30 minutes.

Remove the dough from the bowl and knead on a lightly floured surface for a few minutes. Divide dough first into two parts. Divide
each part into about 5 smaller pieces and roll into balls that are slightly smaller than a tennis ball. Place these balls of dough on a
greased baking sheet, cover with a cloth, and let rise in a warm place for 20-30 minutes (you can turn on your oven at this point to pre-heat, and setting the bowl on top isn’t a bad place to let the dough rise). Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Brush the top of each bun with the beaten egg. Bake 15 to 20 minutes, until tops of the buns are golden brown.
Remove from baking sheet and let cool on a rack.

Filling:

When cool, cut a small slice off the top of each bun and set aside (a triangle is supposed to be traditional). Using a fork, scrape out the center of each bun and put in a medium bowl. Crumble about half of the bun filling into a bowl. Mix with almond paste and milk unless a paste forms, using an electric or stand mixer. Spoon this paste back into the buns. Whip the cream until stiff. Using a spoon or a pastry tube, put the whipped cream on top of the filling. Place the lid back on each bun and, using a sieve or tea strainer, sprinkle the top of each bun liberally with powdered sugar. Semlor can be served at room temperature or, more traditionally, in a bowl with hot milk.