By Rob Olason, lifelong vínarterta enthusiast
Living on the edge of the far-flung Icelandic world can make it difficult to maintain connections to Icelandic tradition. With the arrival of each new generation, more and more chunks of that tradition float away, lost to the outgoing tide, while we stand firmly on the lands of our present home, which is not Iceland.
My great-grandparents, born in Iceland, left for North America in their early twenties never to return to Iceland except for one great-grandfather who went back in his sixties to see what was left of his family in Iceland. They came to North America steeped in their language, culture, and history. As they began families in this new land, their children were also raised in the language, culture, and history of Iceland.
Their children, in turn, also passed on some of these Icelandic traditions to their offspring. But in the course of one generation born in North America, the world had changed. In this new generation, some of the older offspring still learned Iceland’s language, culture and history. By the time the younger members of the new generation arrived, the focus on language switched from Icelandic to English, and with that one change, the younger generation’s Icelandic heritage lost much of it's cultural and historical detail.
The next generation, my generation, was born eighty years after the great-grandparents emigrated, and decades before the internet, which would knit the world closer together. We were raised in the English language of classrooms, newspapers, magazines, and television and we had only a very limited exposure to Icelandic culture.
One source of information available to my generation was grandparents who would tell us abbreviated stories about the golden era of the Sagas, and the near magical land of Iceland.
In my childhood, the main saga story I heard repeatedly was the story that Leifur Eiríksson was the first European to discover North America. The other Iceland story that stood out for me was the tale of a hapless polar bear adrift at sea, who rode an iceberg to Iceland. The polar bear’s epic journey of survival concluded when the bear encountered frightened Icelanders who decided the bear was too dangerous to share Iceland with.
What little printed information I could find while researching Iceland for my fifth-grade essay on “a foreign country of your choice,” was drawn from the few books in the Blaine Public Library about Iceland and the World Book Encyclopedia. In the mid-1960s these sources were current up to the mid-1940s to 1950s. The state of Iceland in the sixties was unknowable to me. I might have found more current information in the Lögberg-Heimskringla newspapers at my grandparents’ home, but not knowing Icelandic impeded my comprehension.
This brief history brings me to why I am a member of The Global Vínarterta League of Icelandic Descendants. By the time my generation arrived, our Icelandic heritage consisted mostly of a vague pride for our Icelandic heritage, a few Icelandic curse words, and an assortment of Icelandic foods: lifrarpylsa, hangikjöt, rúllupylsa, slátur, pönnukökur, and of course, vínarterta. The meat-based offerings seemed like an acquired taste: if you hadn’t grown up eating lifrarpylsa or slátur, not even a generous topping of sugar, brown or white, would vault those two offerings into your top ten foods of all time. Hangikjöt and rúllupylsa had greater attractiveness with their smoky flavor and spices. And who could ever turn down a pönnukökur, rolled in sugar, filled with whipped cream and/or jam? Vínarterta held a unique position in this pantheon of Icelandic delights because its unusual flavor was melded into our generational memories of the good times where it was brought forth to celebrate: the birthdays, the weddings, the family gatherings.
Vínarterta was the food that shined brighter than the other Icelandic foods of my youth, mainly because it was held in the highest esteem. Every large gathering, special event, and even a solemn occasion would feature vínarterta as the Icelandic centerpiece of the event. Vínarterta was the perfect companion to that ever-present staple of such occasions, the cup of strong kaffi.
I’ve enjoyed vínarterta from youngest childhood. Tentatively at first. “What an unusual taste,” “I don’t think I can finish it” Until years later my response was, “Oh, maybe I will have another slice after all.” “Sure, I’d love to take some home with me.”
I’ve come from a long line of vínarterta eaters, enjoying the fruits of the vínarterta makers in my family and community, well into adulthood. My six decades as a vínarterta consumer made me feel as if I knew all there was to know about this Icelandic delicacy. However, as I entered my mid-sixties a sad realization struck me: the vínarterta makers in my family, the ammas, and the aunts had nearly all passed away, and the vínarterta opportunities were passing with them. Realizing that I had grown up and lived in the Garden of Vínarterta for so much of my life, the future began to appear bleak, my path into the garden seemingly lost.
Then a few years ago in early December, I thought, “How hard could it be to make a vínarterta?” I knew it had been getting more difficult for Mom to make a Christmas vínarterta, so I thought maybe I could give it a try. In my naivete, I got out the recipe my maternal grandmother passed down to Mom.
Following many phone calls to Mom for clarification as I worked step-by-step through the sacred family recipe, I produced my first vínarterta. It wasn’t easy. The dough was sticky and wouldn’t roll out. The prune filling wasn’t chopped finely enough. I had too much baking powder and each cake layer was as thick as a buttermilk pancake, not a thin cookie. Mom advised that with this family recipe, there could be only five cake layers, seven would make the vinarterta too tall, and the vinarterta slices too unmanageable to eat. I also put too much prune filling between each cookie layer. As the layers mounted during assembly, they began to shift on their slippery prune-filling foundation. My first vínarterta began to resemble the leaning tower of Pisa.
At age sixty-nine, most vínarterta makers have made hundreds of vínartertas.
At age sixty-nine, I have made less than ten.
Like many vínarterta makers, I started with a recipe that was not so easy (for me) to use and I had to make modifications. But as I near the milestone of my tenth “model” I am starting to feel I understand how to make a decent vínarterta. Rather than worrying about what I did wrong on the last cookie layer, I’m feeling confident that the next layer I take out of the oven will be perfect. Or at least perfect compared to all the previous layers I’ve produced.
Last year I started a new tradition in my family. We always gather at mom’s home for a potluck Thanksgiving dinner. I made a vínarterta and some vínarterta cookies. Mom was delighted. I was also delighted when I asked my adult nephews and nieces if they would like to take some vínarterta home. Several said, “Sure, I’d love to!”
This year I brought another round vínarterta and vinarterta cookies to the Thanksgiving dinner. Mom was delighted as usual. And today my sister told me that Mom has a new routine since our Thanksgiving meal.
As Mom counts down the days till Christmas, she has a slice of vínarterta with her morning coffee. This simple ritual brings her closer to the good times she remembers as a young person long ago.
She recalls gathering with her family, the whole gang is there (her parents and their thirteen offspring). The scene is a merry one. They are all laughing at the rollicking stories that filled their lives, stories that grew more fantastical with each retelling.
As she remembers it, they are enjoying their time together crowded around the ancient family table drinking coffee, savoring the conversation, and their slice of vínarterta.