"Tanta Inga was a cook for the logger barons," Mom explained. "She was so precise with her cooking that she only used white pepper in her mashed potatoes. That way no black specks would mar the beauty of her dish."
Tanta Inga was my father's paternal aunt. As one of the oldest of many children ( 9, I think), her opinions loomed large in Dad's family. She left a deep impression on my mother as well. I grew up hearing stories about Tanta Inga. On their first meeting, Inga peeked under Mom's skirt to see the layers of crinoline that billowed under Mom's dress to emphasize her tiny waist.
Tanta Inga played cards (a sin in my mother's family). She sometimes smoked a little cigar, and had a career, and laughed a big laugh. Her home was always filled with people. She was a character. . . just the kind of woman my mother adored.
Mom remembered that Inga's coffee kettle bubbled on the stove all day long. More guests required another scoop of grounds. Egg shells simmered in the kettle to clarify the dark brew. Dad remembered it as thick, strong, and delicious.
My memories of Inga are my parents memories. In my imagination I see beautiful braided breads sometimes filled with candied fruit and nuts. Succulent roasts of goose and beef served on large platters ceremoniously carved at the table. Schaum tort filled with fresh strawberries and sweet cream. Cookies made with cardamom or almond paste and graced with bits of citron served next to fragile cups filled with coffee so thick a spoon would stand in the center. And of course, mashed potatoes white as snow. My parents remembered people lingering at Inga's table. Memories of memories. The faded stories wisp through my mind's eye.
I never met Tanta Inga, but I feel as though I have know her. So far, I've not found any recipes identified as Inga's but this one, written on lovely watermarked stationary in a shaky hand, somehow feels "right".
I made Berliner Krunce for Christmas this year. The recipe is huge so I divided it in half. It's been decades since I've baked these little cookies, and I couldn't quite get them formed into a figure 8. I remember Grandma Ellingson making them as wreaths. Mine look more like Grandma's. Tender and delicate, Berliner Krunce glisten with sugar and bits of citron. A lovely little "two bite" as Amelia called them. Amelia asked that we make them every Christmas. You know I will. I have to smile at the new memories of a memory of a memory.
Love to you all,
Patti
