Today is the official day for eating semlor in Sweden. Of course, I've been eating them for WEEKS now. *grin*

Sweden hasn't been Catholic since the 1500s, but the custom of feasting on Fat Tuesday, the day before the Lenten fast began, is symbolised here by the fettisdagsbulle (Fat Tuesday bun) This is also known as semla, after the Latin word for wheat bun, simila. These buns came from Germany to southern Sweden's upper class households in the 1600s. Originally, semlor were unfilled caraway buns baked from finely ground wheat flour, a luxury reserved for the well-to-do.

In 1737, a recipe by cookbook author Susanna Egerin called for scooping out the inside of the bun and mixing the crumbs with raisins, dried currants, sugar, and unwhipped cream; this mixture was cooked together and stuffed back into the buns. Then in 1755, another cookbook writer, Cajsa Warg, described cutting a lid from the top of the bun, scooping out the contents and blending those crumbs with unwhipped cream or milk, egg, almonds, sugar, and butter. She then tied the lid back on and cooked the bun in milk for half an hour; the bun was served swimming in warm milk.

These buns became infamous in 1771 when the Swedish King Adolf Frederick (1751-1771) died after a meal of oysters, lobster, meat with turnips, caviar, smoked Baltic herring, champagne and semlor. Blamed for the royal death, the buns were immediately banned. But by the early 1800s, wealthy Swedes were buying the buns from bakeries and distributing them, along with alcohol, coffee and other treats, to their serving folk on Fat Tuesday.

By the end of the 1800s, almond paste and whipped cream were used to fill semlor and the buns were eaten on a plate accompanied by a cup of coffee. Today, this yeast bun filled with a mixture of scooped-out crumbs, almond paste and milk; topped with whipped cream; and dusted with confectioner's sugar can be eaten either on a plate or in a bowl of hot milk. First limited to Fat Tuesday, then to Tuedays during Lent, semla can now be purchased in some Swedish bakeries from the week after Christmas until Easter, and in some places, even year-round.

It's a veritable blizzard outside today. The snow is pelting down horizontally in a blind fury. The wind is howling straight up our street and I'm looking out of my window at a kind of bizarre Marcel Marceau show outside as people attempt to walk against the wind and fail miserably. I'm dreading taking the dog out in it.

At the moment, I'm listening to a medley of Ted Gärdestad songs. The songs all make me smile, they are so light and full of joy and faith... The medley has made me decide to get a CD-collection of Ted Gärdestad-songs.

But then... I can't help thinking... How does a guy who writes music like that carry around so much pain inside, that he eventually ends up committing suicide - and in a most violent way too. Where did he hide it? Was there really no help to give him? I think the world would have been a better place with more of his music in it...