Finnish Christmas

I started preparing for our Christmas Eve feast a few weeks ago, but the cooking proper began today. A day late due to some emergency pampering required for the cook who has been suffering from a series of ailments, but I shan't bore you with that anymore...(you can read about my autumn of unwellness here and  here).

Anyway, the first thing I did today was to prepare the Gravad Lax for the Finnish Christmas. And since there have been so many variations on this dish, I shall recount mine, one which I, as a purist in a family of purists, prepare in the old-fashioned way. My Father used to make this dish all through the year - we'd go and buy the salmon from Helsinki market and he'd talk me through the process while preparing the fish.

Helena's Gravad Lax


Two salmon fillets - sides of the same section of one fish
300 ml coarse sea salt
300 ml sugar
1 tbls white pepper
2 packets of dill (about 30 grammes)

I use a middle section of salmon, filleted by the fishmonger. Mine was done by the helpful staff at a local Waitrose. Luckily, as is often the case this time of year, whole salmon was on offer. I asked the fishmonger to make steaks out of the rest of the fish which I put in the freezer. I declined having the head, even though I know Son will think me crazy...I should now be letting a fish stock slowly simmer on the stove in the background. But in a small kitchen with just the one fridge freezer I have no room for extras this year.

The first task in this simple recipe is the nastiest: you have to - really you do - remove all the bones from the fillets. The best tool is a set of fish tweezers which make it somewhat easy. Plus a pair of disposable gloves. (I had a manicure yesterday after all!) Salmon fish bones are really large; you can imagine how they would totally mess up the slicing of the Gravad Lax later.  Feeling along the fillet with a finger, make sure you get rid of every one.

When both sides are clean of bones you can mix the salt, sugar and white pepper and spoon liberal amounts of it on the flesh side of both fillets. Do be liberal, it needs all of it to make it into delicious cured fish.

Next chop two packets of dill (or as much as you have) over the top of the sugar salt mixture.

Now comes the difficult bit; you need to join the two pieces together so they fit snugly, thin edge against thick one, cut side against cut side. All this without losing all the sugar salt and dill. You should end up with a parcel which you can then wrap in cling film and put on a plate, or a plastic container. But remember there will be liquid, so the plate needs to accommodate that. I use a container but you need to make sure the fish doesn't get too wet.

Place the parcel in the fridge and - this is where I take issue with messieurs Jamie O and Nigella L - do not cover it with anything, particularly not anything heavy. (And on no account should any olive oil pass anywhere near Gravad Lax - I mean!) If you do put tins of this and that on top of the fish, you'll end up with a very dry Gravad Lax. Instead you should turn it over once per day, pouring out any liquid that comes over the top of the parcel. (A little should be left behind but the fish should not be lying in liquid.) You can leave the salmon in the cure for up to 4 days, but only two will suffice for it to be really tasty.

When you want to serve the fish, brush away most of the dill and replace with chopped up fresh herbf.  I serve my with dill sauce, which I usually make myself, but this year it's Waitrose shop bought, I'm afraid. But don't tell the troops; I'll be getting complaints on Christmas Eve!

How I came to be in England - Part 13

My father, who had two daughters, called me 'My Best Girl.' As I grew up his obvious favouritism became a burden to me, rather than a source of pride. So when my parents finally split up after years of fighting, it was a relief to both of their two daughters.

Our parents gave us a choice of which side to take. My sister was fifteen and I was thirteen. They sat us on our plush velveteen sofa and asked us each in turn who we wanted live with. My father didn’t take the rejection well. ‘You’ve made your bed. There’s no more money from me.’ He stormed out. That night he came home drunk again.

But in 1981 I had no choice but to go and live with my father. In spite of the threats, over the last few years he occasionally invited his two daughters to lunch. As we parted, he always handed over a few dark purple 100-mark notes. When I told him about the School of Economics, he gave me a small allowance. And when I eventually phoned him from Stockholm, he promised me a temporary home in his house in Espoo, a town of suburbs just outside Helsinki. Of course I hesitated, but my mother said, ‘It’s about time he took some responsibility for his daughters.’

The Englishman on the phone from Scotland couldn’t understand what the problem was, ‘But he’s your father?’

I couldn’t tell him about the drinking or the violence.

At the School of Economics, I was greeted with a hug from my friend. ‘Coming back to study is absolutely the best decision you could've made.’

The blonde haired woman at the students’ advisory office agreed. ‘Why don’t you change your subject? Commercial Law is a difficult one to specialise in,’ she remarked, ‘especially as Swedish is not your mother tongue.’ Her kind eyes were fixed on me. ‘The next Committee meeting is early December. If you get two exam passes by then, we can re-approve your grant.’

So I became a student of Political Science at the School of Economics. The department was small and homely. We studied the theories of Karl Marx as well as those of Keynes. My horizons were widened. While the other students at the university learned how to make money, or account for it, our department taught us the principles behind the desire for wealth and power.

At the house in Espoo, my father got drunk only rarely now. He’d given up his bedroom for me and was mostly staying over at his new girlfriend’s flat in Töölö. I cooked for him when he was at home, and when he was in a good mood, he made Gravad Lax.

While I tried to forget about the Englishman, his letters wouldn’t allow me to. He wrote to me at least once a week and called when he was on dry land. Most often he was away with the submarine, to unknown destinations, for weeks on end. Then one night, I was woken up with a phone call.

‘We’ve just sailed in, and I’ve been told I can take leave for Christmas. Can you come to England?’

My grant came through in December and if I continued to live with my father, I’d be able to afford the fare. I told the Englishman I'd think about it, but I knew what my decision would be.

My friend at university shook her head. ‘Are you sure that’s wise? You remember what happened last time you came home from England?’ We were standing in the semi darkness of the student’s union disco in centre of Helsinki. We’d started going out a lot, most often to Monday night ‘Ladies Nights’ at the club when girls were let in free. The disco was full of students from all the Helsinki universities, but mostly students from the School of Economics. The gang of year 4 guys were always there, and I’d see them laughing and gazing at me and my friend. I wondered what would've happened if I'd agreed to go with the dark haired one. Would I now be arm in arm with him instead a tall red-haired girl he was with that week.

‘Nonsense,’ my friend remarked, ‘you know exactly what would have happened. He would have fucked you and that’s that. It’s what they do: as many as possible in as little time as possible.’

I laughed. But was this what all men were like? Was the Englishman like that too? Was he only so loving and seemingly committed to me because he was lonely up in Faslane, or Faslavatory, as he called it? Where he said there were no pubs or clubs. In other words, no places to meet girls in?

When I got home that night, I got another call. 'Well, are we going to meet up at Christmas?'

'Of course we are.'

I could hear the Englishman take a deep breath, 'Only two weeks!'