A bilberry and vanilla meringue cake for Svante

Of moss, birch, and bilberries – ten years of love, carried through cake.

May 15, 2025

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This week’s post is about a birthday, a place we return to often, and a cake made from summer berries in the middle of spring. Layers of vanilla sponge, bilberries, softly whipped cream – and a crown of meringue, scorched just enough to taste of toasted sugar.

You’ll find the story, the recipe, and all the notes just below.

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A house with no wall

Ten years ago, when we first moved to Sweden, we lived with Svante. In the Kusmark house, where the living room is all windows and the birds welcome you in the morning. That first spring felt suspended – our belongings still in cardboard boxes, the light stretching longer each day, and snow falling in April as if winter had forgotten to leave.

Svante made us feel at home. He cooked the things he loved: ugnspannkaka with brined pork belly and lingonberry jam, poached cod with egg sauce, potatoes pulled from the garden over the summer and stored in his root cellar. I made dinners too – roast chickens, green salads – and on Saturday mornings, I baked croissants.

The cottage in the snow

A few weeks after we’d arrived, we packed the car and headed south to the stuga in Åsen. That day, it snowed and snowed and snowed. But we made it.

That house has a stillness I’ve never found anywhere else – the kind that settles into you. It is where the family used to gather for every holiday – Christmas, Easter, the endless summer months. K. spent his childhood fishing with his dad on the lake down the hill. Now we’re lucky enough to make our own memories there.

I’d sit out on the porch with too-hot coffee, a notebook full of sketches and scribbled recipes, a mug of brushes, film cameras scattered across the table, and a thick wool blanket on my lap. The logs Karl brought from the shed down the garden, in the wheelbarrow. The rain boots by the steps. The forest all around us.

There were lynxes who walked through the woods just across the dirt road. Svante said he’d heard them at night. We never saw them, but we followed the tracks they left in the snow.

Inside, the clock ticked softly. The dough rose slowly. The wood-fired cast-iron stove warmed the kitchen before the rest of us were awake. Some mornings I watched the sourdough bake. Other days, I fell back asleep with a book open on my chest. The boys came home from fishing, smelling of river water and woodsmoke, and the stories began.

A cake before the thaw

That April, we celebrated Svante’s birthday at the cottage. I made a bilberry and vanilla crêpe cake – dozens of thin pancakes layered with softly whipped cream and the same berries we now freeze by the kilo. The snow was still deep then. The lake had just started to open. But something in the light told us spring was near.

The stories I’ve told before

We’ve returned to Åsen many times since then. A month here. A week there. There are stories I’ve told before, but they don’t lose their meaning.

The frogspawn in the pond. The rhubarb leaves, big as umbrellas. The two deer grazing near the house. The first time Sienna tasted blackcurrants. The sound of rain through the birch branches. The hare who came every morning to visit the apple tree. The very first pair of rain boots we bought Sienna at the loppis in Ryssa. The shooting stars. The Milky Way we can almost trace with our fingers. The chanterelles we picked along the path behind the stuga, on the last summer my father came to Sweden. The rock at the top of the road where you can watch the sunrise like nowhere else. The late-night swims in Mångberg. The picnics at the little harbour on our way to Nusnäs. The days spent in Flenarnas fäbod, suspended in time. The sheep Sienna fed every evening after dinner. The summer thunderstorms and the spring snow.

And always, Svante.

The map in his body

He knows so much. Not in the way that needs to be heard, but in the way that simply is. He knows when the trout is biting, how to keep a fire going all day without it roaring, when the ice is thick enough to cross, and where to find the best cloudberries.

Once, in early August, he took me to the edges of Svarttjärn. Our feet sank into the moss, damp and fragrant. We didn’t speak much. Just picked the golden berries, and looked, and listened. The air felt thick with the end of summer, and the moss held the imprint of every step, like it remembered us.

He has a map of this landscape in his body. His voice softens when he speaks about the forest, the lake, the light.

He worked in the mines most of his life. Grew up between a military general and an art teacher. He has the rigidness of someone built to endure, and the softness of someone who sees beauty and keeps it to himself. He was never one for big gestures, but with his grandchildren, he has found something else – a lightness.

There was a time when he’d spend a week alone in the forest with just a backpack, a map, and his fishing rod. In winter, he skied across hills and frozen rivers. He never said much, but noticed everything: the way the sun caught on snow, the sound of a beaver in the stream, the perfect thickness of a pancake cooked over fire.

He still skis. Still fishes. Still knows the forest like the back of his hand. He’s steadier than ever. Calmer, perhaps. I sometimes wish Sienna had seen the way he once moved through the days, full of quiet momentum. But she knows him now. And that counts too.

Bilberry and vanilla meringue cake

This year, we stayed closer to home. Just the four of us and K.’s brother and his family – Sienna drawing birthday cards at the kitchen table, Karl making coffee, and Svante with his slice of cake, smiling the way he does when he’s truly pleased but won’t say much about it.

Most years, I bake him a prinsesstårta. A tradition now, almost expected. But sometime in January, I came across a photo of a vanilla meringue cake – snowy white and softly layered. I kept it in the back of my mind, like a note tucked into a pocket. When his birthday came, it felt like the right moment to try something new.

The cake was built from layers of vanilla sponge and memories of summer. Bilberries we picked last July, just off the forest path behind the house, stashed away for Sienna’s breakfasts and moments like these. Drottningsylt is spooned over the sponge and topped with crème légère. A snowy cap of Swiss meringue, scorched just enough to taste of toasted sugar.

It’s not the first bilberry cake I’ve made for Svante – and it certainly won’t be the last.

Notes

On timing
The crème pâtissière and jam can be made in advance – I usually make them the day before. The sponge keeps well, wrapped tightly in clingfilm, although I’ve sometimes made everything from scratch on the morning of.

On drottningsylt
Drottningsylt is a raspberry and bilberry jam that translates to “the Queen’s jam”. The recipe here makes a Swedish-style preserve – not too sweet, and barely set.

On mascarpone
I like to add a little mascarpone to the whipped cream for structure, and I whip my cream to stiff peaks before folding it into the crème pâtissière. The final texture should be soft, yet able to hold its shape when piped.

On slicing
For even layers, use a serrated knife. I find it easiest to start from the top down, rotating the cake as I go, slicing around the edge before cutting through. You’ll find a video of me doing so here.

On meringue
Use the meringue as soon as it’s ready, while it’s still warm to the touch. A kitchen blowtorch is a must for toasting.

SERVES 8–10 people

For the drottningssylt

60 g raspberries, fresh or frozen
60 g bilberries, fresh or frozen
80 g caster sugar
15 g (1 tbsp) lemon juice

For the vanilla crème pâtissière

250 g whole milk
1/2 vanilla pod
45 g egg yolks (around 2-3 yolks)
45 g cassonade or caster sugar
25 g cornflour
25 g salted butter
A pinch of salt

For the all-around sponge

3 eggs
125 g caster sugar
1 tsp vanilla sugar
A pinch of salt
2 tbsp whole milk
120 g plain flour
1 tsp baking powder

For the crème légère

360 g whipping cream 40%
50 g mascarpone
All of the vanilla crème pâtissière

To assemble

120 g bilberries, fresh or frozen

For the Swiss meringue

120 g egg whites (around 4 whites)
200 g caster sugar
A pinch of salt

Make the drottningsylt

Combine the raspberries, bilberries, sugar, and lemon juice in a small saucepan.
Bring to a simmer and cook gently for 5–10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until slightly thickened.
Remove from the heat, place into a heatproof container and chill until completely cool.
The jam will keep in the fridge for up to 2 weeks.

Make the vanilla crème pâtissière

Split the vanilla pod and scrape out the seeds.
Add both seeds and pod to the milk and bring to a simmer.
In a separate bowl, whisk together the egg yolks, sugar, cornflour, and a pinch of salt.
Slowly pour the hot milk over the egg mixture, whisking constantly.
Return the mixture to the pan and cook over medium heat, stirring continuously, until thickened and bubbling.
Remove from the heat, discard the vanilla pod, and whisk in the butter until emulsified.
Transfer to a heatproof container and clingfilm to the touch. Chill in the fridge until cool, for up to 3 days.

Make the all-around sponge

Preheat the oven to 175°C / fan 160°C. Butter a 20 cm cake tin and line the bottom with baking paper.
In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the eggs and caster sugar with a pinch of salt until pale and fluffy. Stir in the whole milk.
Sift in the flour and baking powder. Gently fold into the egg mixture until fully combined.
Pour the batter into the prepared tin and bake for 25–30 minutes, or until lightly golden and a skewer inserted into the centre comes out clean.
Leave to cool in the tin for 5–10 minutes, then unmould and cool completely on a wire rack.
Once cooled, gently peel away the baking paper from the base of the cake and fill.
If using later, wrap in several layers of clingfilm until needed.

Assemble the cake

When ready to assemble the cake, start by mixing the crème légère.
Whip the cream and mascarpone to hard peaks. Whisk the chilled crème pâtissière to loosen it slightly. Fold the whipped cream into the pastry cream until just smooth. Transfer to a piping bag and keep chilled.
Slice the cooled sponge into 4 even layers.
Place the first layer on a serving plate, securing it with a little crème légère.
Spoon over half the drottningsylt, then pipe with a layer of crème légère, and sprinkle with a handful of bilberries.
Top with the second sponge layer.
Pipe the crème légère and sprinkle with a handful of bilberries.
Top with the third sponge layer.
Spoon over the remaining drottningsylt, then pipe the crème légère and sprinkle with the last of the bilberries.
Top with the final sponge layer, then smooth the remaining crème légère over the sides.
Place the cake in the fridge while you get on with the meringue.

Finish with the meringue

Make the Swiss meringue.
Place the egg whites, sugar, and a pinch of salt in a heatproof bowl set over a saucepan of simmering water.
Stir constantly until the mixture reaches 65°C and the sugar is fully dissolved – rub a little between your fingers to check that there are no sugar granules left.
Remove from the heat and transfer to a stand mixer. Whisk on high speed until stiff, glossy peaks form and the meringue feels just warm to the touch – around 40°C.
Remove the cake from the fridge and spoon the meringue generously over the top and sides. Use the back of a spoon or a palette knife to create soft swirls.
Lightly torch the meringue until golden.
Chill for at least 1 hour before serving.

The bakers' cottage

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