Swedish Rye Bread

My grandparents were American born children of immigrants from four different countries.   They were raised in households with the languages and customs of their parents.   By the time I was born, at the close of World War II, America was swelling with national pride.  In the McCarthy era, pride in any other culture was considered un-American.  The European languages and customs of my grandparents were virtually erased.  Except on Christmas Eve.

Every December 24^th my family magically became Swedish.  We listened to recordings of Yogi Yorgesson singing carols in mixed languages. We heard stories of horse drawn sleigh rides at the Swensen farm.  There was a large Scandinavian population in my hometown in northern Michigan with the phone book more than half full of names like Carlson, Nordstrom, Nielsen, Olafson, and so on.  Therefore, the local grocery stores carried an assortment of Swedish sausages and pickled fishes. But most of the feast was made at home.

In preparation for the celebration, I would spend afternoons with my grandma making Swedish rosettes and other traditional sweet treats.

The star of the table was the Swedish Rye bread with a texture and flavor unlike any bread sold in stores and bakeries. The recipe was a series of general guidelines, with no mention of measurements.  Mom’s practiced attention to the texture and feel of the dough ensured the bread was perfect every year.

Time passed. A new generation was born. My brother and I brought our spouses and children to my parents’ home to experience the magic of Christmas in Cadillac. The little kids sang along with Yogi and enjoyed the traditional feast (except for the pickled fishes).  As they grew into young adults, they urged me to learn the secret of the bread while my mother was still able to teach.  The first time I baked it with my Mom, I wrote down the measurements and directions.

Eventually, the hosting of Christmas Eve came to me.  For weeks in advance, I baked all the traditional sweets.  On December 23^rd I made the rye bread.  One year I injured my shoulder, so my daughter came to make the bread under my supervision.  She asked to take over the responsibility for the bread for future years.  I felt wounded.  It was my duty to honor the tradition of my family.  And then I realized that being the sole survivor of my ancestors, I needed to see their traditions being kept by my children.

I am the only person alive to remember the Christmas Eves in my grandparents’ living room with the faded drapes and well-worn furniture.  The only one to have seen the tree decorated with paper chains and shiny tinsel icicles swaying in the drafts from the old windows.

No one else to have smelled the wood burning in the stove mixed with the scents of allspice and nutmeg. No one else to have heard the joyful sounds of Grandpa at the piano accompanying the family orchestra on homemade instruments.  Sometimes these memories seem heavy to carry alone, but way too precious to be considered a burden.   But now I am content in believing that the family that lives after me will share the traditional taste through my daughter’s homemade Swedish Rye Bread.

Swedish Rye Bread
from the kitchen of Bernice Malmstrom

Ingredients

1 qt. milk
4 Tbs shortening
½ tsp salt
3-4 cups white all-purpose flour
3 cups rye flour
2 dry yeast cakes (or 2 pkgs)
1 cup brown sugar
½ cup white sugar
½ cup molasses (with a pinch of baking soda)

Directions

Bring milk, shortening & salt to a boil then cool to lukewarm (do not rush this)
Add 2 dry yeast cakes, and enough white flour to make a sponge (about 2 cups)
Let rise 20 minutes then thoroughly mix in the sugars and molasses
Mix in the rye flour and enough white flour to knead (about 1 ½ cups)
Knead for at least 10 minutes until smooth and elastic (adding flour if needed)
Put into a well-greased bowl, cover with a towel
Let rise until double in bulk (about an hour) punch it down
Shape into 3 loaves and put into well-greased loaf pans
Let it rise again (about an hour)
Bake at 375 for ½ hour or more (test the doneness by “thunking” the bread)
Turn out onto cooling racks and spread butter all over the outside.

[After you read Karolyn’s “bio”, scroll down for our announcement.]

Karolyn Pargo, né Kay “Sue” DeButts, was born and grew up in Cadillac, Michigan, a small northern Michigan “city” with more Swedes than it knew what to do with. Her father, Preston, worked at the St. John’s Table Company, a firm that manufactured fine maple furniture. In high school she dated the Editor of the school newspaper. She took her degree in Primary Education at Eastern Michigan University and recently retired from her career as the City Assessor of Dearborn Heights, Michigan.