Swedish Christmas Rice Pudding (Risgrynsgröt) — The Almond Hidden in Every Johansson Christmas

Christmas week. The Kenwood house is in full production mode. Every surface in the kitchen is covered — cooling racks, serving platters, covered bowls, labeled containers. The refrigerator is a game of Tetris. Paul has been banished from the kitchen except for coffee runs, which he makes with the frequency of a man who knows his role in the Christmas operation is supporting, not starring. The julbord preparations continued all week. Monday: pickled herring — I made the dill sauce for the matjes herring and the mustard sauce for the sill, and both are sitting in jars in the fridge, the fish curing in their respective baths. Tuesday: Jansson's temptation assembled and refrigerated — it'll go in the oven Christmas Eve morning. Wednesday: the ham. Swedish Christmas ham — julskinka — is not like American ham. You boil a bone-in ham, coat it with a mixture of egg, mustard, and breadcrumbs, and bake it until the coating is golden and crusted. It's the centerpiece, along with the meatballs. Thursday: final meatball rolling. Two hundred meatballs, done. My hands ached. Sophie wasn't here to help — she's back in Minneapolis with Anna's family, and they'll all drive up on Saturday. I rolled alone, in the quiet kitchen, with Sven at my feet and the radio playing Christmas music and the snow falling outside, and the rolling was meditative in the way that repetitive work is meditative when you let yourself sink into it. Roll, place, roll, place. Two hundred times. Mamma does three hundred. Mamma's hands don't ache. Mamma is a different species. I called Peter on Wednesday. "Are you coming for Christmas?" He said, "I'm trying, Mom." I said, "Try hard." He said, "I will." I think he will. I need him to. Christmas without Peter is a table with an empty chair and I've already got one empty chair — Lars's, which has been empty since 1979 and which I never fill because some absences are permanent. Friday: the rice pudding. Hours of stirring. I use Mamma's recipe — rice, whole milk, cream, vanilla, a cinnamon stick — and you stir it on low heat for two hours and you don't leave and you don't rush because rice pudding knows if you've been impatient and it punishes you with lumps. The single almond goes in at the end. Whoever finds it gets good luck for the year. Every Johansson grandchild has found it at least once. The distribution is statistically improbable. I am not involved in this. I plead the fifth. Paul's contribution: he bought the akvavit. Two bottles of Linie Aquavit, which has crossed the equator twice in oak barrels on a Norwegian ship, which Paul knows and will tell everyone at dinner because Paul turns everything into a history lesson. It'll be served ice-cold in small glasses, and everyone will drink exactly one and wince and Mamma will drink two and not wince because Mamma is made of Swedish steel. The house is ready. The food is ready. All we need are the people. I lit the candles in the window on Friday night and stood at the kitchen door and looked at the table — set for twenty-two this year, if everyone comes — and the candles made the glasses glow and the silver shine and the empty chairs wait, and I thought: come home. All of you. Come home.

Standing at that kitchen door, looking at twenty-two empty chairs waiting to be filled, I knew the meal had to begin the way it always has—with the risgryngröt, slow and warm and patient, the dish that says we are still here, we are still us. There’s something right about a pudding that can’t be rushed, that asks you to stand at the stove and stir while the house fills with people and noise and the smell of akvavit and pine. This is the recipe I’ve made every December since I was tall enough to reach the pot, and the one I’ll keep making as long as there’s a table to set.

Swedish Christmas Rice Pudding (Risgryngröt)

Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 2 hours | Total Time: 2 hours 5 minutes | Servings: 10–12

Ingredients

• 1 cup short-grain white rice (such as arborio or Swedish grötris)
• 2 cups water
• 4 cups whole milk
• 1 cup heavy cream
• 1/2 cup granulated sugar
• 1 cinnamon stick
• 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract, or 1 vanilla bean, split and scraped
• 1/2 teaspoon fine salt
• 1 whole blanched almond
• Ground cinnamon and butter, for serving

Instructions

1. Start the rice. Combine the rice and water in a heavy-bottomed saucepan or Dutch oven over medium heat. Bring to a gentle simmer, stirring occasionally, and cook until the water is almost fully absorbed, about 8–10 minutes.
2. Add the dairy. Pour in the whole milk and heavy cream. Add the cinnamon stick, vanilla, sugar, and salt. Stir well to combine. Reduce heat to the lowest possible setting — the surface should barely tremble.
3. Stir slowly and do not rush. Cook on the lowest heat for 1 hour 45 minutes to 2 hours, stirring every 5–10 minutes with a wooden spoon, scraping the bottom and sides of the pot each time. Do not walk away for long. Rice pudding knows if you’ve been impatient, and it punishes you with lumps.
4. Check for doneness. The pudding is ready when it is thick, ivory, and coats the back of a spoon in a heavy layer. It will continue to thicken slightly as it cools. Remove and discard the cinnamon stick.
5. Hide the almond. Stir the single whole blanched almond into the pudding just before serving. Whoever finds it in their bowl receives good luck for the coming year. Distribution across family members will be statistically improbable. You are not required to explain this.
6. Serve. Ladle into bowls while warm. Top each serving with a small pat of butter and a dusting of ground cinnamon. The pudding may also be made a day ahead and served cold from the refrigerator — stir in a splash of cream to loosen it before serving.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 215 | Protein: 5g | Fat: 9g | Carbs: 29g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 135mg