The Swedish Cookie from Mexico

 My maiden name is Gustafson, a good Swedish name that my grandfather brought to the United States at the age of 12, his passage paid for by a Minnesota farmer. He worked on the farm, with room and board included, for a year to pay the fare back. He also got a suit of new clothes. He moved on after his indenture ended and finally settled in North Dakota, where he worked for the railroad.

John brought his many younger brothers and at least one sister to America from Sweden over the next several years. They settled in the Mandan, ND area. Some interesting tidbits about the Gustafson brothers appear in the rousing memoir Whoa… Yuh Sonsabitches by Edgar Potter and include drunken carousing, fighting prairie fires, and more. Apparently, the early 1900s was an exciting era.

 Although I proudly say I’m Swedish, my ancestry did not do me much good beyond the name. Grandfather married a nice German girl in 1917 and, unsurprisingly, German cooking and German traditions reigned in the household instead of Swedish. We didn’t ordinarily eat Swedish food, but one unforgettable cookie found me anyway.

 As a teenager, babysitting for a neighbor, I discovered a Swedish delight I had never heard about: Christmas rosette cookies. The rosette iron, which closely resembles a branding iron, is dipped in a runny batter and then plunged into a deep fryer until the browned rosette falls off. This took, it seemed, a matter of mere minutes.

 The crispy, crunchy rosettes were placed on a rack to cool and dusted with powdered sugar. I was hired to keep the kids safe and out of mom’s way while hot oil was in play. Besides collecting my pay—35 cents an hour—I’d get a couple of rosettes to savor on the way home. They tasted so good!

 I loved those cookies—though they weren’t exactly cookies. My mother, a DAR Methodist by upbringing, never made them. My German grandmother never made them. And after I went off to college, I never had another one. I thought about them from time to time, a fond but fading memory. Italian pizzelles are the closest I have come to a Swedish rosette.

 Until one amazing day, perusing the cookies and candy at a gas station convenience store, I chanced upon Bimbuñuelos. The picture on the package looked exactly like a Swedish rosette cookie! I immediately bought one. They were coated in granulated sugar, not powdered, but otherwise, I had found the mouthwatering, crispy, crunchy, messy treat of my teen years.

 Besides Bimbuñuelos, Bimbo Bakeries USA makes a wide variety of Mexican treats that I often see at gas stations and convenience stores. They also, as it happens, make Entenmann’s, Sara Lee, Thomas, and many other all-American bakery lines. Who knew?

 Back to the important stuff: Bimbuñuelos haven’t been readily available anywhere. Every time I go inside a gas station, I check the shelves. Ditto convenience stores. Recently, I found them in a gas station near my house and grabbed two packages. Each package contains four rosettes. Eating them requires finesse because they crack apart and drop sugar everywhere. Who cares?

 I ate one and hoarded the other because they might not be at the gas station when I went back! Last Sunday, Michael and I went on a Walmart run for kitty litter. Walking to the pet section, I noticed a stand-alone rack of Bimbo Mexican treats. There, gleaming in a metallic blue wrapper, was a multi-pack of Bimbuñuelos! Three packages in one for a price close to the gas station cost of a single package. Twelve rosettes instead of four!

 I gathered up two packages and nestled them in the top basket of my cart as if some rogue shopper might steal them from me. Back in the car, I clutched the bag in my arms protectively all the way home. When I finished the last 4-pack a week later, I went back to Walmart and bought three more. Walmart now has a Bimbuñuelos customer for life.

 How my beloved Swedish rosettes made their way to Mexico I may never know, but I don’t care—Mexico is a lot closer to me than Sweden is. I’m trying to rein in my appetite so that I don’t ever get tired of that mouthful of sweet crunch. It’s hard, though.

 What quiet yearnings—culinary or otherwise—tug at you?