Gingerbread Two Ways: Truffles and Popcorn

December begins. The official start of the julbord season — the season of preparation, of list-making, of grocery-store conferences with myself in the spice aisle, of the kind of joyful overwork that defines the Christmas Eve buffet that I have hosted in this house since 1990. Thirty-two julbords. Including this one. The math astonishes me when I write it down. The list (compiled at the kitchen table on Tuesday morning, with coffee, with Sven at my feet, with the radio on the public station playing the Vivaldi I listen to every December): Pickled herring (three varieties: mustard, dill, onion) — order from Russ Kendall's by Dec 10. Cured salmon (gravlax) — make myself, start curing Dec 18. Meatballs (köttbullar) — make Dec 22, refrigerate, reheat Dec 24. Jansson's temptation — make Dec 23, bake Dec 24. Boiled potatoes — Dec 24 morning. Red cabbage (rödkål) — make Dec 22, improves with sitting. Brown beans (bruna bönor) — soak Dec 21, cook Dec 22. Limpa bread — bake Dec 23 (loaves) and Dec 24 morning (the rolls). Saffron buns (lussekatter) — bake Dec 13 for Lucia, again Dec 22. Pepparkakor — bake throughout (have been baking since November; freeze). Rice pudding (risgrynsgröt) with hidden almond — make Dec 24 afternoon. Glögg (mulled wine) — Dec 23. Cardamom coffee bread (kardemummakaka) — Dec 24 morning. Princess cake (prinsesstårta) for Christmas Day — make Dec 25 morning. Fifteen items. Plus the things I always forget I'm making until I'm making them. Plus the side dishes Sophie or Anna will bring. Plus the wine and the akvavit and the coffee. The list is its own document. The list is the spine of December. I started baking on Wednesday. A test batch of saffron buns (lussekatter) — the saffron-yellow buns shaped like the letter S, with a raisin in each curl, made for Saint Lucia's Day on December 13 and again for Christmas. The saffron is from the co-op, ten threads soaked in milk, the milk turned the color of sunset. The buns rose for two hours. The kitchen filled with the smell of saffron and butter and yeast. I baked two dozen. They were perfect — soft, slightly sweet, the saffron earthy and floral and unmistakable. I ate three. I gave six to Mamma (her saffron threshold is high; she said "more saffron next time" and she is right; I will use twelve threads in the real batch). I gave six to Erik (Erik does not appreciate saffron buns; Erik will eat them anyway because Erik is a Johansson). I froze the rest. The Damiano Center on Thursday: wild rice soup as usual, plus a tray of pepparkakor that I have been baking from a freezer-resting batch. Gerald said, "You smell like Christmas." I said, "It's the saffron." He said, "I don't know what saffron smells like. Now I do." Friday: I dug out the Christmas boxes from the basement. The crèche (Mamma made it from clay in the 1960s; the camel has lost a leg; I will not replace the camel; the camel earned its disability). The advent candles (four of them, in a pewter holder Paul's mother left us). The Christmas tablecloth (the red linen with the Swedish pattern; embroidered by an aunt I never met). I set up the advent wreath. I lit the first candle on Sunday at dinner. One candle. Three more weeks until Christmas. The light is small. The light is everything. December begins. The season begins. The list begins. The house smells of saffron and the dog is asleep and Mamma is wrong about my saffron quantity but right about everything else and I will be in this kitchen for the next three and a half weeks doing what Johansson women have always done. It is enough. It is more than enough. It is the season.

The pepparkakor have been running in the background of this whole story—baked in November, frozen in batches, pulled out for the Damiano Center on Thursday—and when Gerald said “you smell like Christmas,” it was the gingerbread he was smelling as much as the saffron. This recipe for gingerbread two ways, as truffles and as popcorn, carries that same spirit: the deep warmth of molasses and spice, dressed up in a form you can share easily, bring to a neighbor, leave on a tray at a community lunch. It is not lussekatter—nothing is, right now, except the test batch cooling on my rack—but it belongs entirely to the same season, and to the same impulse to fill every corner of the house with something that smells like December.

Prep Time: 30 minutes | Cook Time: 10 minutes | Total Time: 40 minutes | Servings: 24 pieces (truffles) + 8 cups (popcorn)

Ingredients

For the Gingerbread Truffles:
1 cup gingersnap cookie crumbs (about 20 cookies, finely crushed)
4 oz cream cheese, softened
1/2 tsp ground ginger
1/4 tsp ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp ground cloves
1/8 tsp freshly grated nutmeg
1 tbsp molasses
8 oz dark or semi-sweet chocolate chips, for coating
1 tsp coconut oil or vegetable shortening (to thin chocolate)
Flaky sea salt or crushed gingersnap crumbs, for topping
For the Gingerbread Popcorn:
8 cups popped popcorn (plain, unsalted)
3 tbsp unsalted butter
2 tbsp molasses
2 tbsp brown sugar, packed
1 tsp ground ginger
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp ground cloves
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp baking soda

Instructions

Make the truffle filling. In a medium bowl, beat the softened cream cheese until smooth. Add the gingersnap crumbs, ginger, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and molasses. Mix until fully combined into a firm, rollable dough. If the mixture is too soft, refrigerate for 15 minutes.
Roll the truffles. Using a tablespoon or small cookie scoop, portion the mixture and roll between your palms into smooth balls about 1 inch in diameter. Place on a parchment-lined baking sheet and freeze for 20 minutes until firm.
Melt the chocolate. Combine chocolate chips and coconut oil in a small heatproof bowl. Microwave in 30-second intervals, stirring between each, until fully melted and smooth. Alternatively, melt over a double boiler.
Coat the truffles. Using a fork or dipping tool, lower each chilled truffle into the melted chocolate, tap off the excess, and return to the parchment-lined sheet. Immediately sprinkle with flaky salt or gingersnap crumbs. Allow to set at room temperature or refrigerate for 10 minutes until the coating is firm.
Prepare the popcorn base. Preheat oven to 300°F (150°C). Spread popped popcorn on a large rimmed baking sheet lined with parchment. Pick out any unpopped kernels.
Make the gingerbread glaze. In a small saucepan over medium heat, melt the butter with the molasses and brown sugar, stirring until the sugar dissolves and the mixture just begins to bubble, about 2–3 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in ginger, cinnamon, cloves, salt, and baking soda (the mixture will foam slightly).
Coat and bake the popcorn. Pour the warm glaze over the popcorn and toss quickly with a silicone spatula to coat evenly. Spread into a single layer and bake for 10 minutes, stirring once halfway through, until the coating is set and fragrant. Watch carefully—molasses burns fast.
Cool and break apart. Remove from oven and let the popcorn cool completely on the pan, at least 15 minutes. Break apart any clumps. Store in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 4 days. Store truffles refrigerated for up to 1 week.

Nutrition (per serving)

Gingerbread Two Ways: Truffles and Popcorn — The Pepparkakor Spirit, Between Batches