Laskiainen has always been a nostalgic time, of recalling when Mother would be in the crosscut sawing contest with her pal from Palo, Marge Konu, and when my father would cut through a log faster with the one-man crosscut than somebody did with a chainsaw, of remembering when I played my guitar and sang Bob Dylan’s “The Times They are A-Changin’,” on the stage at a long-ago Laskiainen.
The other day as I went through my filing cabinet filled with newspaper clippings, I happened upon a real treasure—the Range Profile done in 1998 by then-photographer Derek Neas and me called “Biscuit Brigade.” A quarter-century has passed, and I wish to share it with you, just for old-time’s sake.
“They put on their aprons and kerchiefs and prepare for duty. They dip their hands in flour. They roll the dough to perfection. If it’s not up to standards, they’ll get it back to roll again until it’s done right.
Because they’re on official Laskiainen biscuit detail, and Karen Kiviluoma is the sergeant in charge. (Note: She would live well into her 90s, dying in 2021 a week before her 97th birthday.)
And a tough taskmaster she is. Kiviluoma has been braiding cardamon biscuit—Finnish pulla—for lots of years and she’s not ready for retirement. She says she plans to be rolling dough “until I’m 100 years old” and that she’s very lucky to have such a fine kitchen crew.
Kiviluoma, her biscuit-making veterans and a handful of recruitsrolled dough last week at the Loon Lake Community Center in preparation for the Laskiainen, the Palo winter ritual in its 61st season. The first day they made 150 loaves and 150 more the next day. The week before it was 300 loaves of bread to accompany the pea soup and the stew.
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“The young ones have to learn. We’re getting too old for this already,” said Marguerite Ekroos. (Note: Ekroos would live to age 93.)
Ruth Alto and Alice Maki agreed with Ekroos on the age factor, though to watch them in the kitchen, they show no signs of slowing down.
“Karen keeps rolling along,” said Alto.
Elvie Luoma has been a regular on biscuit duty several years. “It’s fun to get together. We have done it how many years already?” she said as the group took a break for coffee and Sylvia Maki’s homemade cornbread. The day before she had brought spaghetti for lunch, and on this day Laura Hakala, who’s just learning the biscuit craft, brought wild rice soup. (Note: Elvie Luoma lived to age 91.)
Biscuits fresh from the oven sat on wire racks on tables covered with sheets. The fragrance of cardamon floated from the biscuits. Cardamon (or cardamom) is an aromatic seed native to Asia, and it doesn’t come cheap. “I wouldn’t be biscuit if it were not in there,” said Ekroos.
“Oh, what a job to open the seed pods,” Luoma said. The ladies crush the pods in a blender as it’s more pungent than the pre-crushed variety. The cardamon appears as pepper-like specks in the creamy white dough.
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Sylvia Maki is the first to report for duty at 6 a.m. Everybody knows what they’re going to do, and Kiviluoma is the official braider. Others stand at the stainless-steel counter and roll the ropes of dough. If it’s not right, Kiviluoma tosses the dough back where it came from, and the process starts over—it’s all done with a smile.
The biscuit and breads and cakes require some 500 pounds of flour, 50 pounds of sugar, 45 dozen eggs and assorted other ingredients, including authentic Finnish ‘pearl’ sugar from Irma’s Finland House.
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The coffee break was over—Kiviluoma clapped her hands signaling it was time to get back to the task to be done. Sylvia Maki knows by touch when the dough is the proper consistency. “Because they’ve been doing this for 110 years,” Yolande Hakala joked. And Sylvia Maki joked back, “You’re making me younger. I usually say 150.”
Then the biscuit brigade was ready for the next batch.
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Columnist’s note: On February 2, I placed a call to Alice Maki, who had appeared in a group photo of the biscuit ladies in 1998. She lives in the Broadview Manor in Gilbert. She is 95, will be 96 in March. She told me she had been at the very first Laskiainen when she was a little girl.
Sylvia Maki, quoted in the biscuit story, turned a very sharp 97 in November.
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