Mustikkakeitto (Spiced Blueberry Soup) Sorbet

Our sense of smell continues to transport us to our memories, long after other senses have faded. Writing about travel now requires me to tap that sense, for the idea of starting a day in one place and ending it in one halfway around the world sounds these days to me like something I only ever read about in dusty old books. My only real connection to faraway places in the last seventeen months has been in my kitchen, casting spells over the stove.

This strange, silent time where I’ve spent so much time alone evokes my trip to Helsinki in the spring of 2016. Finns revere silence, they even have a chapel dedicated to it in the middle of Helsinki’s bustling city center. I’ve made several Finnish dishes in my kitchen, cooking with cardamom and cinnamon, and often fruit, as a way to travel out of my tiny New England galley kitchen. I eat them in silence, even the mustikkakeitto (spiced blueberry soup) sorbet I’m going to share with you.

I ventured to Helsinki in part to try and awaken memories in my bones, to see if this land of my grandmother’s resonated within me. I do not look Finnish, well, on first glance, anyway, nor am I a quiet person, just ask anyone. I am someone who would not have existed if it were not for the American experiment and the mass movement of peoples, which makes me feel both curious about my place in this world, and also rootless, restless, and a little melancholy sometimes.

Of all the places on this Earth where those who came before me lived, Finland’s tie is the most recent. So, offered the chance, I tacked on a ten-day holiday in Helsinki at the end of a work conference in Vienna to find out if any part of me felt rooted in the place.

Snow greeted me upon arrival in Finland, and I watched it fall from the train from the airport to the central train station, a gorgeous and imposing Jugend (art nouveau) building, famous for the four tall men holding what appear to be stained glass orbs. I’d planned to walk from the train to stretch my legs and to get my bearings, but the snow had turned to rain in Helsinki proper.

After trying for a few minutes to orient myself through the city center with Google Maps (really, “head North/South/Widdershins and touch your nose” is not particularly useful to me), while holding an umbrella and dragging my suitcase, I gave up. I hailed a cab, pointing at the address in Ullanlinna on my map. The driver, an older man with graying hair, nodded stiffly, helped me with my suitcase, and drove me the short distance to where I’d be staying, a couple of blocks away from Kaivopuisto, a beautiful greenspace on the Gulf of Finland where the Vappu (May Day) celebration I looked forward to attending would be held toward the end of my trip.

Ullanlinna is a wealthy area, with tall, often colorful, Jugend buildings. Interspersed, however, were newer, to my eye, more utilitarian structures. My apartment was on the top floor of a Jugend building, with a tapas bar on the ground floor. I texted my host from the taxi, and waited for her huddled under a construction awning and my umbrella after I was dropped off. She turned the corner, smiling in a way I suspected might have been practiced for tourists, and unlocked the main door. I huffed and puffed my suitcase up the many flights of winding stenciled stairs. At the top, she let me in, showed me where I could stash my suitcase for now, asked me with genuine curiosity what brought me to Helsinki. I told her about my Finnish relatives and that I’d hoped to see if any part of this place felt familiar. She asked me if I knew of anyone here. I did not, thinking that I probably should have asked my older aunt—she might have known of a few old people still about in the country.

As part of my orientation to my apartment with a traditional (non-working) stove that had charmed me so when I checked out the listing, she told me where the grocery store was and which market hall would be good to check out, as well as to make sure to go to the park. She then asked me if I had any questions. I did. I said that I had reservations at Chef and Sommelier (a Michelin starred restaurant that has been reimagined as Ora, which also has a star, and remains one of my most memorable meals) and Spis (an exquisite restaurant that specializes in Nordic vegetables), as well as Kuurna (a modern bistro), but what I’d really love to do is get a very traditional Finnish meal—did she have any recommendations?

“You’re in luck,” she said. “The Sea Horse is right around the corner. It’s not fancy at all. It’s a place that grandparents go to, but if you are looking for traditional Finnish food, you will find it there.”

Splendid. Assured that I had been properly oriented, she left a few minutes later, and then so did I, as the rain had lifted. First I went to the little supermarket, a favorite activity of mine when I visit a new place. Not reading any Finnish at all, I accidentally bought some plant-based yogurt, along with my cheese and milk (the cashier looked at me strangely, but I thought that it was just because I was obviously not from around there). I only figured out why the yogurt tasted a bit strange a day later when I really looked at the label. What I thought meant organic meant soy.

In the market, I noticed a few “American” foodstuffs tucked into an isle toward the back of the store, including something called “Amerikansk dressing,” which I think might have been an attempt at Special Sauce, judging from the picture of a hamburger on the bottles. There were three brands of the stuff. I did not buy it, but I did chuckle a little.

Groceries secured, I then set out to explore Kaivopuisto. I climbed up one of the hills in the pristine park, and looked out to the sea as the sky cleared. Inhaling deeply, I found the cool air as clear and fresh as Switzerland. While I’d traveled all day after challenging work conference, I found myself energized by my new surroundings and the clean air. I tromped along down to the city center, checking out the Helsinki Cathedral, the statue of Havish Amanda (this would figure into the Vappu celebration the next week), and getting my bearings. While still a ways off from the summer solstice, this was still about as much daylight as I’d ever experienced, certainly a lot more than I’d left in Boston the week before. Late April in Helsinki is more like the light we have in June and July in New England, the sun setting as I write this.

Around 20:00, I wandered over to Ravintola Sea Horse, open since the mid-1930s, exactly what I wanted. Wood paneled, with white table cloths, tables in the middle, and teal covered booths, with pink light shining through the windows, I was absolutely delighted to be there (I didn’t notice that the sign was green neon until I left after dark. I nearly clapped). In the booths, a family celebrated a birthday, and another family in front of me was enjoying their Saturday supper. Two men enjoyed a pile of fried fish with beer.

My server, a youngish man, blonde and tall with a face I recognized in my uncle’s, spoke English, which was fortunate, as I do not speak Finnish (I’d picked up Hei, Hyvästi, kaffe, kiitos, and anteeksi—hi, bye, coffee, thank you, excuse me. I practiced “Hello, I have a reservation, my name is Sara” relentlessly on my way to restaurants, forgetting it the moment I garbled it. Thankfully kiitos is used for multiple encounters). He encouraged me to try the Beef Steak a la Sea Horse, steak with fried onions, pickled cucumber, sour cream, and fried potatoes for my main! But of course! I had a salad and a red wine as well. A dish of yore arrived at my table. I was a bit dubious about the combination, but I cleared my plate, and kind of wanted to lick it. It was delicious.

Restaurant workers in Helsinki seem to be of the more curious sort, as I had a lot of sincere questions about what brought me to Finland, what life was like where I was from, what I thought about Donald Trump (who was running for president), and where I planned to visit while in the country. Eating alone, quietly, and enjoying myself seemed to make me interesting to them. I find this often in my travels, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen it please people the way that it seemed to in Finland. The curiosity I encountered among them was the thing that I most connected with while I was there.

I told the server about my grandmother, which intrigued him, and that I’d been in Europe for work and had decided to take advantage of it to visit Finland. At the time I didn’t think that Trump would actually become president; and that I’d planned on visiting Tallin, Estonia; and that I was going to go to Turku as well. He tried to talk me out of Turku, encouraging me to visit a seaside village instead, but it was not easy to get to without a car.

“Will you be having dessert?” he asked. I asked him what he recommended.

“Oh, that’s easy. Cloudberries with squeaky cheese.” He laughed when I looked surprised.

“Cloudberries are these little berries that grow in Lapland, and they are absolutely delicious. We serve them in a jam, as they are very tart. Squeaky cheese, well … squeaks. Sounds strange, but you will enjoy it.”

I took his word for it, and I am so glad that I did. I had more refined desserts during my time in Finland. And a licorice mousse that haunts me. But this simple dessert of literally jam and cheese (that did indeed squeak), with some confectioner’s sugar sprinkled on top remains one of my favorite desserts that I have ever eaten, up there with the after-midnight dulche de leche gelato from Tulfric I had after midnight on the streets of Palermo in Buenos Aires after steak at Don Julio’s. The jam, not so sweet, with these berries, some still whole, that looked like little yellow raspberries, was something that I would happily eat a vat of.

On a bitter cold morning when I visited Hakaniemen Kauppahalli, the food market in Kallio, I made sure to pick up some squeaky cheese for my stay.

I brought home cloudberry jam for my mother. And, I have bought some for myself on occasion, though it’s not the same.

The next day, I had a cinnamon roll from Café Regatta, in the Töölö neighborhood in Helsinki, right near the park with the Sebelius statute. Café Regatta is a little red shack, with an outdoor grilling area, right on the sea. It reminded me of a shop my mother used to frequent with the little old ladies in her life, stuffed with crafts worthy of a church fair.

Every guidebook said that one absolutely had to try their cinnamon rolls. I’ll be honest, my first impression of Finnish baked goods was less than great. I looked down at my cinnamon bun at Café Regatta and thought, “There was a line of Finnish people out the door for this?” It looked like something you’d have in the basement of that church, bought in day-old by some well-meaning parishioner. Maybe people liked the kitschy location?

No, they were there for the cinnamon buns. That little bun tasted like the pearly gates had opened and angels had flown out to present me with their favorite treat. What looked like a stale bit of sadness instead had a perfectly crisp crust, yielding to an impossibly soft interior. I gasped, audibly, in the café, which embarrassed me. I made sure to not actually say anything, mind you. I was in Finland. Oh my goodness, was that thing delicious.

And then there were the voisilmäpulla, or butter-eye buns that I first had at Café Sucess, right around the corner from my apartment in Ullanlinna. Again, the bun looked a bit disappointing. A big roll, with an eye in the center. I ordered it, because it was in front of the case, and I could easily point to it after ordering a kaffe. There were people waiting behind me. While not as kitschy as Café Regatta, Café Success had been in business forever, and I should have known from my previous pastry revelation that things can taste better than they look. Beneath the crisp crust and sugar, was the softest cardamon spiced bread. Unless you’ve had one, you really won’t get it.

The only thing close is the “bread bomb” my mother makes for Christmas, which until I had these, I had no idea was based on Finnish nisu. Mom doesn’t usually use cardamom in it, because when I was little, I didn’t like it. Instead, she glazes it with a sugar wash and frosts it. The interior isn’t as soft as voisilmäpulla, but the idea is there.

This past winter I found a recipe for and baked voisilmäpulla. On a bitter, snowy afternoon, I sat down to one with a cup of strong coffee, and it resonated. I’d been alone, largely quarantined for months, my only communication with the outside world through Zoom or chilly, brief, walks with friends. I am a single person, and a happy solo traveler, but I did not know before this past year that I could spend so much time alone and feel content.

While I had spoken with servers and a few other curious souls, much of my time in Finland was spent in silence with my thoughts. I thought of the moments I spent in the Kamppi Chapel, or the Chapel of Silence. The simple, pale wood benches blending the bent wood framing of the walls, the utter respect for silence, and the single candles burning on either side. Or, the silence of the sauna, where I realized another connection. My body does not conform to American standards of beauty, but in the silence of the sauna, I sat, naked and purified by the heat, inhaling the scent of woodfire.

Still, I haven’t forgotten about cloudberries, and the tart fruit. As I’ve said, I can’t really get good cloudberry jam here. However, I could experiment with other types of fruit. Not long after I returned from Finland, I picked up Fire and Ice, a Nordic cookbook by Darra Goldstein, which contained a recipe for mustikkakeitto, or blueberry soup.

I’d read the recipe when I got the cookbook, but I didn’t make it until last summer. Odd, my mom texted me not long after I’d made it the first time asking me if I’d had fruit soups in Finland, because her mother had made the best fruit soups. I had not had mustikkakeitto, or any other fruit soup in Finland (I suspect because it was not in season, and probably also because this is a simple dish), but the idea of it resonated with me. Blueberries, spiced with cinnamon, cardamom, and nutmeg, brightened with lemon, and sweetened with sugar, simmer on the stove for a few minutes, making your house smell like a blueberry pie made at Christmas. And yet mustikkakeitto tastes exactly like summer. You can swirl a bit of cream or yogurt into it, but, honestly, it doesn’t need it.

Around the same time I started making mustikkakeitto, I’d also bought an ice cream maker. I’m a true American, mind you, and I love ice cream. I’d been dropping a small fortune on fancy ice creams and sorbets, and I figured that if I may as well learn how to make it myself. Mustikkakeitto would make a fantastic sorbet, I thought. And I was right. This combines the tartness of the cloudberries with the spice of the pastries. Smelling cardamom and cinnamon simmering on my stove transports me back to Helsinki. And the chill of the sorbet hits the spot on a record-breaking summer’s day.

While this requires an ice cream maker, I suspect that it would make an excellent granita, though I haven’t tried it. Otherwise, it’s about as easy as it gets.

Mustikkakeitto (Spiced Blueberry) Sorbet

When making this and ice creams, put your containers and scoops you will use to package your sorbet in the freezer. It’s also a good idea to put your serving dishes in the freezer for a minute or two just before serving. Homemade sorbets can be soft. It will still be delicious.

One word of caution: This stains EVERYTHING it touches. Don’t wear nice clothes when making it, and be careful when eating it.

Ingredients:

For the simple syrup (note that you will have extra—use it to make another batch!)

1 cup of sugar

1 cup of water

1 small cinnamon stick

A generous pinch of cardamom

A couple grates of nutmeg

One half a lemon, sliced in 1/4 inch thick

For the sorbet

4 cups blueberries fresh or frozen. Wild blueberries are better, if you can get them

1/3 cup water

To make the spiced simple syrup

In a small saucepan, add the sugar, water, lemon, and spices. Heat over low heat until the sugar is dissolved. Cool completely. Remove the cinnamon stick and the lemon. Refrigerate. Keeps about one month. You'll have extra (make another batch!)

To make the sorbet

In a blender, combine the berries and the water. Puree to combine. Note that you might want to give it a little stir, especially if you are using frozen blueberries part way through (if you are using frozen blueberries, you might want to allow them to thaw a bit before blending). Stir in 1 cup of spiced simple syrup.

Strain through a fine mesh strainer, pushing on the blueberries to try and extract as much flavor as possible. You might want to strain it again to get rid of any trace of pulp (I tend not to do this, but your sorbet will be smoother if you do). You’ll have about two cups of liquid

Refrigerate for at least eight hours, preferably a whole day. Letting this chill for a bit longer really allows the flavors to develop. Your patience will be rewarded

Churn in your ice cream maker, according to the manufacturer’s instructions

Transfer to containers and freeze in the deepest part of your freezer for at least a few hours before serving