Aebleskiver!!

My husband and I first encountered aebleskiver in the tiny tourist trap of Solvang, California.  We had gone to California on a business trip for my husband to San Diego and LA, and stayed a little longer for the fun of it, riding a motorcycle along the scenic coastal or mountain highways.  Originally, we had thought to go a little farther north, but when we rolled into Solvang, we knew that was as far as we were getting.

It was cute to the point of adorable, aimed at bringing a little bit of Denmark into the United States.  The motels had character, with names like "The Viking Motel" or doorways sporting quaint tole-painted flowers.  Between my Danish ancestry and my husband's Norwegian ancestry, we felt we somehow belonged, and we knew we would have an absolutely wonderful time exploring the shops and the food.

And explore we did.  We ate a wonderful Scandinavian-style supper that night in a small restaurant in the middle of the tourist trap.  It was there, for dessert, we first tasted the roughly spherical, apple-filled, powdered-sugar-covered pancakes of Danish origin called aebleskiver.  (Raspberry jam on the side.)

Oh.  My.  Goodness.  Yum.

As soon as we got home, I did some research.  I had seen an aebleskiver pan hanging on the wall of the restaurant, so I knew they were made in pans with about 7 half-sphere indentations, or "wells".  But I had no idea there were so many kinds.  There were cast iron ones, aluminum ones, ones with solid bottoms, ones supposed to be more ideal for glass-top ranges, etc.  There was even an electric one you could put on your table and make aebleskiver as a spectator sport.  Unfortunately, the ones recommended for electric stove tops ran somewhere between $35-40, and I just couldn't see the sense in spending that much money on a pan for a single dish.

About a year later, my husband and I visited a more local (100 miles away) cooking supply store.  The stock was rather sparse, and I commented, "What are the odds they have an aebleskiver pan?"  We laughed, figuring there was no way.  As we were about to leave, we passed on the other side of one of the shelves we had passed before, and lo and behold, there was an aebleskiver pan, staring at us.  It still set us back about $35, but we figured it was money better spent, because it was helping the local economy, instead of just ordering something on the Internet.  (The things we do to justify buying things we want, hm?)

When I showed my daughters the aebleskiver pan, they had an unexpected reaction.  "Ooooh!" they cried.  "Pancake puff!"

Apparently Billy Mays used to market a pan billed as the Pancake Puff pan or something like that--an aebleskiver pan in disguise.  What followed was rather predictable.  My daughters insisted it was a "Pancake Puff" pan, while I, determined to have my daughters embrace their Danish heritage, insisted they repeat after me, "Ae . . . ble . . . skiv . . . er."  (Yes, I finally won, but throughout the evening, if they wanted to see me cringe, they would say, "Pancake puff!"  It's kind of like my reaction when people have no idea how to pronounce "karaoke", which is what usually happens in the United States . . . How someone came up with "carry-oky" is beyond me.)

So one fine fall evening, armed with my aebleskiver pan, Granny Smith apples grown on my in-laws' tree, and a wooden shish-ka-bob skewer in lieu of a steel knitting needle (which might scratch the surface), I set out to learn the fine art of making aebleskiver.

I found an aebleskiver recipe to try at the About.com section on Scandinavian Foods and gathered my ingredients.

2 apples, peeled, cored, and chopped into 1/2-inch pieces
2 Tablespoons butter, plus extra to grease the pan
2 teaspoons cinnamon
2 eggs
1 Tablespoon sugar
2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 1/2 cups buttermilk  (I use a standard substitution called "soured milk":  for each cup, 1 T. vinegar, plus milk to make up one cup.  Let stand 5 minutes before using.)

Preheat the aebleskiver pan over a medium-high burner until it is hot enough for butter to sizzle on the surface.

In a separate pan, lightly saute the apple pieces in the 2 Tablespoons butter until they are softened, but still firm.  Sprinkle them with cinnamon.  (By the time you're done, it's more than a sprinkle, but you really do want that much.  Next time, we might add some cinnamon to the batter recipe, too, just for giggles.)

Separate the eggs, then beat the egg whites until they form stiff peaks.

In a separate bowl, whisk the eggs yolks with the sugar until they are creamy.  The directions say to sift together the flour and baking soda, but I find that cumbersome.  Instead, I take the trace item--baking soda--sprinkle it evenly and mix it in.  Then I proceed as normal.  Gradually stir flour and buttermilk (or the soured milk substitution above), alternating with each 1/2-cup addition, into the egg mixture.

Gently fold the beaten egg whites into the batter.

Yes, it will be evenly distributed, more or less, by the time it is done.

Reduce the heat under the aebleskiver pan to medium, and place about 1/8 teaspoon butter in each well.  Use a pastry brush to make sure the wells are coated evenly.

After watching me put the butter in the wells, my husband leaned over my shoulder.  "Remember what Julia Child said in that movie," he said. "'More butter!'"  I put in more butter.  It was a good choice.

Spoon batter into each well, filling half-way (about one teaspoon, not kidding).  Place an apple chunk on the batter.

Spoon enough additional batter over the apple to cover it and fill the well to the top.  (About another teaspoon, maybe a little more.)

Allow to cook until the edges of each aebleskiver begin to brown and pull away from the sides of the wells.  You may not be able to see this happening very well, actually, but if you take your knitting needle, skewer, or whatever, you can check it out to see if it has reached this point.  Don't let it cook too long, however, or you won't end up with terribly round aebleskiver.  (Because all the batter on the inside will set, and nothing will move down into the well when you turn it over.)

The directions told me to run the knitting needle (ok, skewer), around the edge of each aebleskiver, then flip it over.  Unfortunately, the directions neglected to tell me exactly how this flipping was to be accomplished.  After a lot of trial and error (mostly error), I discovered what worked best for me.

I ran the skewer around the edge of the aebleskiver, just to make sure it wasn't sticking, then ran the skewer down along the inside curve of the well, straight across the middle of the half-sphere.  (Basically, I traced a half-circle through the middle of the well, my skewer following the interior edge.)  This flipped the aebleskiver over just fine.  Sure, a little bit of the batter got on my skewer, but nowhere in the directions did it say my skewer would remain batter-free.  After flipping all the aebleskiver, I quickly rinsed and dried my skewer, and all was well.

I'll get better with more practice.  ;)

Remove the aebleskiver to a plate and sprinkle them with powdered sugar to serve.  None of these lasted very long on the plate, as they were snatched up quickly by various members of the family and munched, usually with fingers.  Although I've usually seen people eating them with a fork, it was all right in this case; I was making them as a treat to go along with a movie.  (And how can you argue with such enthusiasm?)

After tasting these fun little treats, the girls no longer try to call my pan a "pancake puff" pan.

If I had stayed in Solvang any longer, I might have started begging the ladies at the Danish bakeries for secrets.  Instead, I guess I'll just have to do a little more research before I start on more Danish bread adventures.

I just had a sudden brainstorm . . . I wonder if this technique is somewhat similar to how the Japanese make takoyaki, much smaller batter-made spheres with a bit of octopus in them.  The street vendors used to flip them with toothpicks, and I absolutely loved them whenever I could get them.  Hmmmmmm.  Wonder if I can find a takoyaki pan (and some octopus . . . and the right sauce . . . figure the odds . . .)  A dream for another day.