Almond Paste — The Quiet Filling at the Heart of the Bread

The lake was doing what the lake does this week: changing color hourly, sometimes by the minute, the way grief does. Iron gray at dawn. Steel blue by ten. Almost green by noon when the sun broke through. Pewter again by four. Black by six. I walked the lakefront with Sven on Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday and Saturday, and the lake was different every time, and the lake was the same every time, and both things are how it works. Jakob (Anna's middle, recently graduated) has a job. He hates the job. He is figuring it out. He called me Tuesday for advice. I told him: that is what your twenties are for. The first job is supposed to be unsatisfying. The first job teaches you what you do not want. He said, "Grandma, that is not super helpful." I said, "It is the truth. Helpful is not always the same as comforting." He laughed. He hung up. He kept the job for now. He will figure it out. Lena (Anna's youngest, college freshman) is in college now. She calls me sometimes. The calls are about boys, mostly. I listen. I do not give advice. I am eighteen-year-old's grandmother. My credibility on boys is suspect at best. I tell her the kinds of things a grandmother is supposed to tell her: be careful, be brave, trust your gut, do not date the one who reminds you of someone you do not like. She thinks I am wise. I am, in fact, just old. The two get confused sometimes in the right direction. I cooked Cardamom coffee bread this week. The braided loaf of late winter — enriched dough scented with fresh-ground cardamom. The bread is best in the dim months when the kitchen needs to smell like more than it actually contains. Damiano Thursday: soup. The crowd was the usual size — about a hundred and twenty plates served between five and seven. Gerald and I worked side by side without talking. The not-talking was the friendship. The work has its own rhythm: ladle, hand, smile, ladle, hand, smile. The rhythm carries us through. I sat in the kitchen at 11 PM with a glass of wine and Paul's photograph. I did not cry. I just sat. The not-crying is its own form of being with him. We did not need to talk all the time when he was alive. We do not need to talk all the time now. The companionable silence has carried over. It is enough. It has to be. And on a morning like this, with the lake doing what the lake does and the dog at my feet and the bread on the counter and the kitchen warm enough to live in, it is. Paul used to say that the difference between a place and a home was that a home was a place where you knew, from any room, what was happening in any other room. I knew, from the kitchen, when he was reading in the living room. I knew, from the bedroom, when he was getting coffee in the kitchen. The Kenwood house is still that kind of home. From the kitchen I know that Sven is asleep on his bed in the dining room (the small specific snore). From the kitchen I know what time the radio in the living room is set to come on. The home is the body of knowledge of itself. I still live inside that body of knowledge, even though Paul is not the one creating most of the data anymore. I keep a small notebook on the kitchen counter — green spiral-bound, from the drugstore. I write in it most days. The notebook holds the things I do not want to forget — Erik's stories about Pappa, Karin's notes about Mormor, Sophie's first words about her babies, the recipes I have changed slightly and want to remember in their changed form. The notebook is a small museum. The museum will go to Anna eventually, and then to Sophie, and then to Sophie's daughter Ingrid, and then onward. It is enough.

The cardamom coffee bread I mentioned — the braided loaf that made the kitchen smell like more than it contained — has a filling at its center that I have been making the same way for twenty years: almond paste, mixed by hand in a small bowl, spread across the rolled dough before braiding. It is the part of the recipe that cannot be rushed and cannot be bought in a version that tastes right. I make it myself because Paul always noticed when I did not, and the habit has outlasted the noticing. Below is the paste exactly as I make it — simple, a little sweet, faintly bitter the way almonds should be.

Almond Paste

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 10 minutes | Servings: Makes about 1 cup (enough for one braided loaf)

Ingredients

• 1 cup blanched almonds, finely ground (or 1 cup almond flour, packed)
• 1/2 cup powdered sugar, sifted
• 1 tablespoon almond extract
• 1 egg white (from 1 large egg)
• 1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt
• 1–2 teaspoons cold water, as needed to bring dough together

Instructions

1. Grind the almonds. If starting from whole blanched almonds, pulse in a food processor until very finely ground — about 45 seconds. Stop before the oils release and the meal clumps. Almond flour works equally well here and saves the step.
2. Combine dry ingredients. In a medium bowl, whisk together the ground almonds and sifted powdered sugar until evenly mixed and no lumps remain.
3. Add wet ingredients. Add the almond extract, egg white, and salt. Stir with a fork, then knead briefly with your hands until the paste comes together into a smooth, pliable ball. It should hold its shape without crumbling and should not be sticky.
4. Adjust consistency. If the paste feels dry and crumbly, work in cold water one teaspoon at a time until smooth. If it feels tacky, add a small amount of powdered sugar and knead again.
5. Rest before using. Wrap tightly in plastic wrap and rest at room temperature for 10 minutes before rolling or spreading into your dough. The paste firms slightly and is easier to handle.
6. Store. Unused paste keeps well wrapped in the refrigerator for up to two weeks, or in the freezer for up to three months. Bring to room temperature before using.

Nutrition (per serving, based on 8 servings)

Calories: 130 | Protein: 4g | Fat: 8g | Carbs: 12g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 40mg