It started with Gary asking me to make Springerles, the German anise cookies his childhood neighbor, Mrs. Schlobaum, used to make. Three Christmases later, I am still in Springerle Hell.
Year One
Two days before Christmas I realize the cookies must mellow in an airtight container for two weeks. I abandon the project.
Year Two
I start earlier. My recipe requires a Springerle rolling pin engraved with pictures. I can’t find one anywhere. I find a new recipe that only calls for spooning the dough onto a cookie sheet.
Beating eggs and sugar for twenty minutes as instructed, I wonder if Mrs. Schlobaum had an electric mixer. I imagine a sturdy woman in a dirndl with a braid circling her head and Popeye muscles from beating Springerle dough. At nineteen minutes my mixer grinds to a halt. Overheated. Kaput.
What now, Mrs. Schlobaum? I still have to mix in the other ingredients. She tells me to do it the old fashioned way. I wonder if I need to wear a dirndl for that.
Baking Springerles is a two-day project. After letting the unbaked cookies dry at room temperature overnight, I bake them and store them in Tupperware until Christmas Eve.
“They’re really good,” Gary says.
“Like Mrs. Schlobaum’s?” I ask.
“Yes, except hers were rectangular and had pictures on them.”
Hmmmm.
Year Three
To help me channel Mrs. Schlobaum, I ask Gary to tell me more about her. Here’s what he remembers: She had white hair and a thin face. She wore flowered housedresses and aprons. She had a real elephant foot ashtray. Her grandson mowed her lawn until he cut off his finger in the mower. This is not helpful. I prefer my Mrs. Schlobaum.
I am determined to roll out the dough and put pictures on top. I still don’t have a Springerle rolling pin, but I have a cookie mold with Christmasy designs, a nonstick baking mat and nonstick rolling pin. I feel hopeful.
I prepare the dough and chill it several hours. I flour everything in sight to prevent sticking, but the gloppy stuff sticks to every nonstick surface anyway. I start over several times until finally the dough is rolled out. I push the cookie mold into the dough and lift it off.
Happy little snowmen and Santas smile up at me. Mrs. Schlobaum and I smile back. I start to cut them into rectangles, but I can’t cut around one without cutting into another or smushing them all up. I try to pick them up, but blobs of Santa and snowman bodies stick to the mat, leaving holes in their once plump middles.
“No! No!” they scream.
I realize I am the one screaming when Gary rushes into the kitchen. Springerle dough hangs from my fingers, my cheek, my hair.
“I will never make these damned cookies again,” I growl.
Gary nods solemnly and wisely backs away.
I end up making plain old rectangles - no pictures. I don’t care anymore. I’m done with Springerle.
But Mrs. Schlobaum won’t leave me alone. I am, after all, descended from a long line of stubborn Germans who hate to admit defeat. I Google Springerle rolling pins and contemplate ordering one.
Copyright 2009 by Liz Zuercher
