You’re obviously Scandinavian. From your blonde hair to your blue eyes, you look every bit of the ice princess/goat farmer. You, more specifically, are Norwegian.
You don’t know much about your culture, but from the little you know you can tell that you would like it. You know that you like the food.
Norwegians don’t breed skinny women. Women are built sturdy and strong, with enough on them to survive the cold winter and take care of their family. You recognize this as an asset and you love your body for all that is can do. You have a healthy relationship with food. You now it’s supposed to take care of you, keep you moving.
You admit that if there’s one thing Norwegians do well, it’s coffee and kringla. Kringla is a sweet, doughy shortbread that melts in the mouth.
You wake up one morning feeling particularly cultural. Perhaps it’s the braids you slept in the night before or the biting winter chill that creeps through your house.
You get out of bed and turn the heat up. You stumble into the kitchen and make your way towards coffee, that nectar of the gods. You lay a filter into the machine, add enough coffee to put hair on the chest of a grown man, and fill the pot with water. You dump the water into the reservoir and replace the pot. Before you close the lid and power up the machine, you go to the fridge and get an egg. You crack it open and pour the yolk and whites over the ground coffee. You leave the shell as well, crushing it slightly with your fingers. You close the lid with the heel of your hand, wash thoroughly, and start the machine up.
You pull out a bowl for your dry ingredients. You stir together three cups of flour, two and a half teaspoons baking powder, and one teaspoon baking soda, as well as a pinch of salt. You set these aside and brush white powder off your front. You realize you’re till in your plaid pajamas. Two thick plaits swing back and forth and you smile. You wonder if there are any long lost grandmothers you look like right now.
Next, you get a larger bowl. With a mixer, you beat one half cup of butter and one cup of sugar until it’s fluffy. Add one egg and one teaspoon of vanilla. From there, add some of the four mixture and some of the one cup of buttermilk. Beat until it is well mixed. You cover the bowl with cling wrap and wash the dishes. You pour yourself a cup of coffee and go sit down. You bundle yourself in a blanket as you fight back sleep.
You wake from a happy dream when your timer blares. It has been five hours and your dough is now ready. You wonder how you could have slept that long. You reheat your coffee, turn your oven on to the four hundred twenty-five degrees, and flour your countertop.
You roll out the dough: twisting, shaping, forming the sticky mass into ordered circles. You try to make some into pretzel shapes, but that doesn’t work too well. You try to keep them all similar sizes so they bake at an even pace. You put the cookies on a baking sheet about two inches apart, and when your oven dings, bake for five to seven minutes, or until they are light gold.
You take your first batch out of the oven and try a piece. You smile as the pastry singes your tongue but warms your body. You don’t feel so cold anymore.