In my cherished childhood memories, there exists a place sweeter than any other—the quaint kitchen of my grandma. There was no place on Earth I’d rather be than in my grandmother’s warm and welcoming kitchen, learning the art of baking pulla, a sweet and aromatic Finnish cardamom bread.

The 4th of October is here, marking the annual Cinnamon Bun Day / korvapuustipäivä in Finland and Sweden. To me, it’s a powerful reminder of the dearest moments from my childhood. My grandmother, known simply as mummi, was a treasure trove of wisdom and culinary mastery. She had the kind of wrinkled hands that told stories of years spent kneading dough and shaping traditions. I was captivated by her every word and gesture.

During my childhood, I frequently spent weekends at my grandparents’ home. My mummi and I would either sit together on her couch and watch “Little House on the Prairie,” or we would chat and bake. My siblings and I lovingly referred to our weekend visits there as “täysihoito,” which translates to “full board” in English. We were well aware that mummi considered her grandchildren to be her most precious treasures, and she consistently made us feel like the most significant people in her life.

As a child, I thought that every child had such a grandmother. I didn’t fully understand how blessed I was to have not just one, but two wonderful grandmothers. One was a practical person, and the other was an artistic soul who loved beauty. Both of my grandmothers had a significant impact on me in their own way.

One sunny morning, I eagerly joined mummi in the kitchen. The air was infused with the comforting scent of freshly ground cardamom. On Mummi’s wooden baking surface, she had arranged all the necessary ingredients: flour, milk, yeast, sugar, butter, and, naturally, the aromatic cardamom seeds. My eyes widened with curiosity.

Mummi began by dissolving the yeast in warm milk, her hands working with a grace that came from decades of practice. I watched intently, trying to mimic her every move. As we mixed the ingredients, my darling mummi shared tales of her own childhood, of baking with her own grandmother, and the importance of passing down family traditions.

Next came the cardamom. I marveled at how the tiny seeds transformed the dough, infusing it with a sweet and spicy aroma. Mummi smiled and told me that cardamom was like a little piece of Finland’s soul—a warm and comforting spice that connected us to our heritage. Even now, cardamom remains the spice that I most strongly associate with not just my grandmother’s kitchen but also with the entire country of Finland.

As we kneaded the dough together, my small hands working alongside mummi’s weathered ones, I felt a deep sense of connection to my grandmother and to the generations that had come before her. Mummi’s wisdom flowed like a river, and I soaked up every word.

After the dough had risen, I watched mummi shape it into delicate braids and spirals, each one a work of art. While my finished products were nowhere near as lovely as my grandmother’s, she praised my efforts as if they were masterpieces. Mummi explained that the shape of the pulla was like a wish, a blessing for those who would enjoy it. I couldn’t help but feel that each pulla held a piece of my grandmother’s heart.

I watched as mummi brushed the pulla with egg and sprinkled it with purl sugar. It was a moment of pure joy.

While the pulla baked in the oven, mummi shared stories and laughter. Both of my grandmothers possessed an abundant and effortless sense of laughter, a quality I held dear and now deeply miss. When I reminisce about my grandmothers, I still envision them as joyful and filled with laughter. My mummi would often emphasise the significance of having the ability to find humour in oneself and not taking oneself too seriously. She would sometimes search for her glasses even when they were perched on her nose, and when I pointed it out, she would laugh with the innocence of a young girl. My father’s mother too, would hunch her shoulders and giggle at the slightest of triggers. Now as an adult, I often contemplate how both of my grandmothers, who had lived through two world wars, managed to retain such a sense of brightness and joy.

In my mummi’s kitchen I discovered that pulla wasn’t just bread; it was a vessel for love and tradition, a symbol of family and togetherness. When the pulla was golden brown and the kitchen was filled with its irresistible aroma, we took it out of the oven.

As I sat down to enjoy our freshly baked pulla with a glass of cold milk, I felt a profound sense of gratitude. I had not only learned the art of baking from my grandmother but also the importance of preserving our family’s heritage and passing it on to future generations.

In that cosy kitchen, amidst the scent of cardamom and the warmth of love, my mummi and I shared a bond that would forever be woven into the fabric of my life. The memory of those childhood days, baking pulla and learning from my mummi’s wisdom, would stay with me long after the seasons had changed, reminding me of the enduring power of tradition and love.

Even now, I frequently find myself recalling my grandmother’s words of wisdom. She had a treasure trove of sayings and life advice that she believed was her duty to impart to me, her only granddaughter. I absorbed every word like a sponge. In our household, my husband humorously remarks that my grandmother’s presence remains constant and meaningful even today. I often catch myself saying things like, “But my grandmother used to say…” or “Mummi wouldn’t have approved of that,” and so on.

In my kitchen here in Melbourne, Australia, the scent of freshly baked pulla fills the air, evoking memories of my beloved mummi and the beautiful legacy she left behind. Now, my mother has taken on the role of the master pulla maker in our family, carrying on the tradition from her own mother. These days, I often find myself baking pulla with my children and grandchildren, hoping to pass down the warmth and wisdom that my grandmother imparted to me. If I can be even half as wonderful a grandma as she was, I’ll consider it a job well done.

The memories of my darling grandma are as comforting as the cardamom-infused bread she used to make. Her wisdom and sayings continue to enrich our lives, much like the cardamom that remains a vital ingredient in the recipe of our cherished family traditions. In our home, she remains an ever-present and beloved figure, woven into the very essence of our family gatherings.