Wrong country, different name, but I knew what they were the moment I set eyes on those little spirals of deliciousness. The taste and smell of them was imprinted on my brain thirty years ago.
My mother made them according to a traditional recipe, passed to her by Finnish friends in Mt Isa. I would watch her prepare them with love, and the house would fill with a cinnamonny-yeasty smell. Warm and sticky, hearty and sweet.
They are called Bullar in Sweden, but I know them as Pulla.
While we’re in Stockholm, we’ll be eating one a day. And I’ll think of mum.
I am so jealous
ReplyDeleteHi there Cathy, I am reading your blog with Maria and we are salivating and so looking forward to september.
I love your writing and we are taking in all your experiences in with a view to following in some of your steps.
Looking forward to your next stop
Gerry
Gerry
gerry,
ReplyDeleteyou really should have a good look at sawdays. there are really expensive things and then absolute bargains in chateaus (how do you spell that!!!??).
keep me posted on your travels - by the ay how's the new french teacher?