Growing up, Sundays were sacred in our family, not just because of church, but because of the ritual that preceded it. Long before the rest of us rolled out of bed, our grandmother was already in the kitchen, a soft hum of hymns accompanying the gentle clatter of bowls and pans. She wore her favorite apron—the one with faded embroidery from years of love—and her hair was pinned up just so, though a few stubborn strands always escaped.
The star of these mornings was her Swedish thin pancakes, or “pannkakor” as she proudly called them. She swore it was a tradition passed down from her own mother back in Sweden, though over time, she’d added her own little twists. The batter would sit for just the right amount of time, resting like we all wished we could, while the cast-iron skillet heated to perfection. Grandma always claimed the secret was a dollop of melted butter whisked in at the very end, though it might have been the love she folded into every batch.
We’d shuffle into the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from our eyes, drawn by the irresistible scent of sizzling butter and caramelizing edges. Each pancake was paper-thin and golden, delicate yet sturdy enough to hold a generous smear of lingonberry jam or a sprinkle of sugar with a squeeze of lemon. She always encouraged us to make our own little rolls, tucking the filling inside like a tiny gift.
No one ever ate just one. Even if we were running late for church, she’d insist we “take another for the road,” wrapping a warm pancake in parchment paper and handing it to us with a wink.
Now, whenever I make Swedish thin pancakes, I can almost hear her humming and see her standing there in that cozy kitchen, flipping each pancake with a flick of her wrist, and somehow always making enough to feed a small army. This recipe is more than food—it’s a slice of her love and a reminder of those sacred Sunday mornings.
Swedish Thin Pancakes
Ingredients
Instructions
