Fastelavn: an epidemic of bun violence

I did not make these.

Welp, friends, it’s Fastelavn in Denmark (just google it, okay?), and I figured that since we’ve been here for three years I’d try making the fabled fastelavns boller (a sweet bun) that drive the normally peaceloving Danish children to make violent demands of their elders and beat us with sticks.

In true Danish fashion, they sing a happy little song that is full of darkness: “Fastelavn er mit navn, boller vil jeg have, hvis jeg ingen boller få, så laver jeg ballade.” That’s right. You read that right.

“But what does it MEAN?” you ask. “I don’t speak Danish,” you insist.

Well, sit back, friends. I will translate if I must. In a nutshell, the entirety of the song is a threat to wreak havoc upon you, your house, your life, your family, your pets, your job, your environment, your professional identity, your dreams, your wastewater system, any marquee signs you may own, your sense of self, etc… if you do not give up the boller. Let that sink in. I’ll wait.

OK?

And there’s this other thing about fastelavn, which is not referenced in the song. The children are allowed to wake their parents by beating them with a stick early on fastelavn morning. This last bit — the part about the children beating the parents with a stick — is the part that motivated me to bake the boller. The teachers at my younger son’s kindergarten sent home just such a stick (a fastelavnsris) on Friday, which he had capriciously decorated along with his classmates, and told me he’s allowed to swat me awake early Sunday morning while demanding fastelavns boller. So, I made a batch of fastelavns boller on Saturday night, if only to quell an early morning swatting, thus allowing me to sleep longer.

“How did it go??” you ask, with baited breath.

Wellllll people, it was my first time making these, and I’ve really only eaten maybe two or three Fastelavns boller in my whole life, plus one Swedish Fastelavns boller from my Swedish friend (She claims the Swedish ones are better. Although my friend eats hers in a puddle of milk. It’s not HER in the milk, it’s the boller. In a shallow bowl/dish thing. It was okay, but you can’t pick it up and stuff your face with it. As we Americans like to do.)

Aaaaaaaand, perhaps you have already guessed, my Fastelavns boller were not so glorious, as I had convinced myself they would be. In fact, Finn almost vomited when he bit into the custard filling. (Note to self: work on the custard filling next time.) Lander, struggling to remain polite over the abomination of a fastelavns bolle I had served him, was unusually quiet until he suggested, in a constructive tone, that I should try something different with the dough next time. And to try making them round, rather than squarish. And also… instead of making the brown glaze (chocolate! It was a chocolate glaze!), maybe go for something white or brightly colored, like the ones at school. With sprinkles.

Finn before reaching the custard filling, Lander being diplomatic. They are wearing crowns because they both successfully broke down the cat barrel at school (think piñata, sort of, but with a darker history — google it) on Friday and were thus crowned the “Cat Kings” of their respective classes. It’s just too much to go into here.

I like to think of these failures as more than culinary low points — they are social experiments, with research questions such as, “Does a family fall to pieces if mom makes a shitty version of a treasured cultural symbol?” “What if the cultural symbol in fact comes from an adopted culture?” And lastly, “What if mom doesn’t really give a fuck how the bolle turn out? Huh? What if she actually thinks it’s FUNNY? What THEN, people??”