Easy Lemon Cream Cheese Danish -- The Light We Bake Before the Crown Comes Out

The first real snow arrived on Tuesday. Six inches. Wet, heavy snow that bent the branches of the spruce in the front yard and silenced the city in the way only the first snow can — the muffling, the white, the sense that the world has paused to acknowledge that something has changed. I went out at 6 AM with Sven and the snow shovel and we cleared the driveway together (he supervised; I shoveled). The cold was sharp and clean. The streetlight at the end of the driveway threw a yellow cone onto the snow and the snow caught it and held it. Duluth in early December: a city that knows what it is. Lucia is Monday — December 13. The Swedish festival of light, originally a Catholic saint's day, adapted by the Lutherans into a celebration of the eldest daughter wearing a crown of candles and serving saffron buns and coffee at first light. The youngest day of the year (in Sweden, with their latitude, the sun barely rises in mid-December; Duluth is gentler but still gets only nine hours of daylight on the solstice). Mamma did Lucia in our house when I was a girl. I was the eldest daughter. I wore the crown (electric, thank God, not real candles — Mamma was not insane). I served the buns and coffee in bed to my sleeping parents at 6 AM on December 13, in a white nightgown with a red sash, with my brothers Erik and Lars trailing behind in their star boy cones (those white pointed hats with the gold stars, the most ridiculous and beloved garment of my childhood). Karin and Astrid took over the role when they were old enough. The tradition died out in the 1980s when Mamma got tired. We resurrected it for Anna in the 1990s. Anna did Lucia for a few years. Then the kids were too old. The tradition went into hibernation. Sophie wants to do it this year. She called me last week. She said: "Grandma, I want to bring the kids up for Lucia. Marcus too. Can we?" I said yes before she finished the sentence. Sophie's daughter is two months old (Sophie is not married; the baby was a surprise; the baby is also the most adored thing in the family; her name is Mira and she is perfect). The two-month-old will not be wearing a crown of candles. But Sophie will. And Sophie will wake me up at 6 AM with saffron buns and coffee and I will weep into the coffee and that will be Lucia, 2021, and it will be the best Lucia I have had in twenty years. Wednesday I made the real batch of lussekatter. Twelve saffron threads, as Mamma instructed. The buns were the color of late afternoon. They tasted of butter and earth and sunlight. Thursday at the Damiano Center: wild rice soup as usual, plus a tray of saffron buns and a thermos of glögg (non-alcoholic, with the cinnamon stick and the orange peel and the cloves and the almonds, served warm). Gerald said, "What is this?" I said, "Christmas in a cup." He said, "I will have two cups." Friday I made glögg for the house. The proper kind, with red wine, port, vodka, citrus peel, cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, ginger, raisins, almonds. Simmered slowly. Strained. Stored in glass bottles in the basement to age for a week. Saturday: I shoveled again. Another four inches overnight. The lake was iron gray. The wind off the water was raw. Sunday: church. Pastor Eriksson lit the second advent candle. The choir sang "Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming" in Swedish. I closed my eyes. I was twelve years old, in this same church, with my parents and my brothers and my sisters, listening to the same hymn in the same language, and I was sixty-eight years old, alone in the same pew, and both things were true and both things were Christmas and the candle on the altar burned and the snow kept falling outside and I held my own hand because there was no one else's to hold. Lucia is Monday. Sophie is coming Sunday night. The buns are baked. The glögg is aging. The crown is in the basement (electric, of course). The white nightgown is in the dresser, slightly yellowed, but it will do. The light is coming. The Lucia is coming. It is enough. It is so much more than enough. It is everything.

The lussekatter were already done — twelve saffron threads, Mamma’s count, golden and cooling on the rack — but after that Sunday at church, the second advent candle still warm in my memory, I needed to keep my hands busy and the kitchen bright. This lemon cream cheese danish is what I make when I want something that feels like a feast but comes together without ceremony: bright and tender and a little rich, the way the best Lucia mornings always are. Sophie will find these on the counter Sunday night when she arrives, right next to the glögg, and that will be enough of a welcome.

Easy Lemon Cream Cheese Danish

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 22 min | Total Time: 37 min | Servings: 8

Ingredients

• 1 sheet (about 8 oz) refrigerated crescent roll dough or puff pastry, thawed if frozen
• 8 oz cream cheese, softened
• 1/4 cup granulated sugar
• 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
• 1 teaspoon lemon zest
• 1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
• 1 egg, beaten (for egg wash)
• 1 tablespoon milk
• 1/2 cup powdered sugar (for glaze)
• 1–2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice (for glaze)

Instructions

1. Preheat oven. Heat oven to 375°F (190°C). Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
2. Make the filling. In a medium bowl, beat softened cream cheese, granulated sugar, 2 tablespoons lemon juice, lemon zest, and vanilla extract together until smooth and creamy, about 2 minutes.
3. Prepare the dough. Unroll the crescent or puff pastry dough onto the prepared baking sheet. If using crescent dough, press the seams together firmly to form one solid rectangle, approximately 12 x 9 inches.
4. Score the sides. Using a sharp knife, cut diagonal strips about 1 inch wide down each long side of the dough, leaving a 3–4 inch solid panel down the center for the filling.
5. Fill the center. Spread the cream cheese filling evenly down the center panel of the dough, stopping about 1/2 inch from the top and bottom edges.
6. Braid and seal. Fold the diagonal strips over the filling, alternating left and right, overlapping slightly in the center. Tuck and press the top and bottom ends to seal.
7. Apply egg wash. Whisk together the beaten egg and milk, then brush gently over the entire surface of the danish.
8. Bake. Bake for 18–22 minutes, until deep golden brown and puffed. Remove from oven and let cool on the pan for 10 minutes before glazing.
9. Make the glaze. Whisk powdered sugar with 1–2 tablespoons lemon juice until smooth and pourable. Drizzle over the cooled danish in long strokes.
10. Slice and serve. Cut into 8 portions crosswise. Serve warm or at room temperature alongside coffee — or, if it’s Lucia morning, alongside whatever glögg is left in the bottle.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 280 | Protein: 4g | Fat: 16g | Carbs: 30g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 310mg