Carnavalssoep

For the last several years, online recipes for a dish called carnavalssoep (a rich tomato based soup with peppers, leeks, white beans, ground beef and smoked sausage) have been appearing with increasing frequency. Depending on where you look, it may also be called truujensoep, oudewijvensoep, or aldewievensoep. I first encountered it while searching for oudewijvenkoek and was immediately intrigued. I am a Limburgse at heart and grew up immersed in local carnaval traditions, from the festivities beginning on November 11 through Ash Wednesday, yet I had never heard of this soup before.

Unlike many Dutch dishes whose origins can be traced through old cookbooks, regional archives, or family notebooks, carnavalssoep seems to appear quite suddenly. There are no clear references in older culinary literature, no mentions in early twentieth-century household manuals, and no obvious regional variations passed down through generations. Instead, the soup enters the internet already presented as something familiar and traditional from the start. 

Dutch food culture has always absorbed new influences and made them its own. What begins as a personal preference, a local joke, or a practical solution can, within a generation, be remembered as tradition. A well-known example is the kapsalon, now a staple in snack bars across the Netherlands. Yet the dish did not exist before 2003, when a Rotterdam hairdresser asked his local shoarma shop to combine fries, meat, cheese, and salad into one tray. Other customers began ordering “the kapsalon,” and within a few years it had spread nationwide: a modern invention that already feels deeply rooted in Dutch food culture.

But back to the soup. The earliest version of the carnavalssoep recipe I have been able to find dates from 2009. Many online descriptions for this soup repeat the same claims almost verbatim: that it is traditional, that it was made by old women, and that it follows a familiar set of ingredients, with only minor variations. The repetition itself gives the impression of age and authenticity, but this is perhaps a gentle reminder that not everything presented online as tradition truly is one. 

Carnavalssoep may therefore not be an old tradition at all. Perhaps it is something more interesting: a new tradition in the making. Food history, like memory, is easily reshaped through repetition. A story told often enough begins to feel true, even when its origins are recent. That does not make the dish any less enjoyable (it's a hearty stick-to-your-ribs kind of soup, perfect for cold weather!) but it does invite us to remain curious about where our food stories come from. 

The recipe can be adjusted to your liking. I rolled the beef into small balls and simmered them in the soup. If you don't have access to beans in tomato sauce, use regular white beans and two tablespoons of tomato paste. Pork and beans is also an option. 

Carnavalssoep

1 Tablespoon (15 grams) butter

1 lb (500 grams) ground beef

1 large onion, diced

2 garlic cloves, minced

3 bell peppers, diced (one red, one green, one yellow)*

1 large leek, cut in half moons

1 can (15.5 oz/ 440 grams) beans in tomato sauce 

3 cups (0.75 liter) tomato sauce

3 cups (0.75) water

1 smoked sausage, sliced

3 bouillon cubes

2 bay leaves

1 Tablespoon brown sugar

1 Tablespoon sambal or hot sauce

Salt to taste

Melt the butter and fry the ground beef until no longer pink, then add the onion, garlic, peppers, and leeks. Sauté the vegetables until they have a little bit of a char and the onion is no longer raw. Add the can of beans, stir everything well and then transfer the content to a crockpot, slow cooker, or stockpot. 

Add in the tomato sauce and the water, the bay leaves, the smoked sausage and the bouillon cubes. Simmer for a good fifteen minutes, then taste and adjust the salt level. Stir in the brown sugar and the sambal or hot sauce, and you're ready to party! 

* the traditional Limburg carnaval colors!

Vrijerskoek

Long before text messages, before flowers delivered with printed cards, and long before dropping on one knee in front of clicking cameras, young men relied on baked goods to express intent. One of those baked goods was the hylikmaker (literally a “marriage maker”) also known as vrijerskoek, a suitor’s cake. 

The young man would purchase this cake at the kermis, the funfair, or at the bakery, when he was ready to declare his love for someone. Often, the cake was rectangular and decorated with almonds or sweet words in piped icing, other times it was in the shape of a person, like the ones in the larger wooden speculaas molds. 

We can see an image of such a vrijerskoek in the Feast of Saint Nicholas painting, by Jan Steen, ca. 1665–1668. In the lower left part of the painting, we observe a basket with baked goods, traditional for this time of year: waffles, rolls, ontbijtkoek, and right underneath it, a long elongated flat cake: the hylickmaker. It is not surprising to see this cake in a painting about Sinterklaas. His moniker, goedheiligman, is said to stem from "goed hylick man", good marriage maker, probably referencing the story that Saint Nicholas provided gold coins for three young women so that they would have a good dowry and not have to go into servanthood. 

In another painting by Jan Steen, De Koekvrijer, (The Cake Suitor, ca. 1663 -1665), we see a young man lifting his hat towards a young woman who is seated. In his other hand, he holds a large hylickmaker. The woman does not immediately take it. Instead, she looks straight at us, slightly amused. We can read a lot into the details in the painting (the woman is sewing, the bed behind her has opened curtains, the door is open to the outside, the way he is holding the cake...but I'll leave that to your imagination!). 

Presenting the cake was one part. Accepting the cake meant more than enjoying something sweet; it meant acknowledging the possibility of a future together. If the girl was partial to the young man, she would break the head of the cake and gave it back to him. If instead she handed him the feet, well....then he better get walking! In the case of the rectangular cake, the young man would be invited to have coffee at the house. If the cake appeared on the table, uncut, the proposal was declined. If the cake appeared on the table, and the young man was offered a piece of that cake and a cup of coffee, his proposal was accepted! 

Recipes for hylickmakers appeared in cookbooks as early as 1746, but they unfortunately are no longer part of the proposal tradition. The Volmaakte Hollandsche Keukenmeid lists as ingredients for the "hylikmaker": flour, brown sugar, honey, nutmeg, cinnamon and cloves, a pinch of potash, and candied citron and orange peel. She then casually mentions: "Neemt dan de rolstok en maakt het deeg daar mede plat" (Take a rolling pin and make the dough flat"). 

Now....I have tried this recipe, and our keukenmeiden (kitchen maids) back in the day must have been as strong as an ox, because the moment the honey with the sugar cools down, this dough is tougher to roll than concrete! Annie van 't Veer warns us about this in her "Oud-Hollands Kookboek", explaining that bakers back in the day used to knead this dough by pushing down on it with an iron bar, a so-called breaker bar. I could have used one of those! 

These were not everyday treats. They were baked with purpose and offered as part of a quiet negotiation between families, intentions, and futures. The citron, orange peel, and warm spices signal luxury and intention. Because the dough was so hard to roll, the second time I baked these cakes I decided to add a little bit of additional luxury, and added butter and an egg. I still rolled it out thin, like both Annie and the Keukenmeid suggest, but it was a bit easier to do! I rolled the dough out between two plastic sheets to make it easier to lift from the table.

For this recipe, I included both candied citron and candied orange. If you don't have any left over from your Christmas baking, don't worry. I don't know that the citron added that much special flavor to the cake, and the candied orange can easily be substituted with orange zest. 

This recipe baked 3 nine inch (23 cm) gingerbread men and a rectangular 11 x 7 inch (28 x 17.5 cm) cake, as can be seen in the picture. Since not many of us have those large speculaas molds, I chose a large gingerbread cookie cutter instead. You can also use heart shaped cookie cutters, or any other Valentine Day cutters! These cookies crisp up when they cool. If you prefer a breadier, thicker cake, don't roll it too thin. 

Vrijerskoek

3/4 cup (150 grams) brown sugar

1/4 cup (90 grams) honey

1 1/2 cups (250 grams) all-purpose flour 

1 teaspoon (5 grams) baking powder 

1 1/2 teaspoon (3 grams) cinnamon

1 teaspoon (2 grams) nutmeg

1 teaspoon (2 grams) ground cloves

1/4 cup (30 grams) candied citron (optional)

1/4 cup (30 grams) candied orange peel (substitute with 1 Tablespoon orange zest)

1 stick (115 grams) butter, cold and diced

2 eggs

For decoration: almonds, edible glitter, heart shaped candy, etc. 

Carefully warm the sugar with the honey on the stove, until the sugar is melted. Mix the dry ingredients
in a bowl, and when the sugar honey mix has cooled enough to handle to the touch, pour it in the bowl and mix. Then add in 1 egg, the cold butter, and continue to mix until all the ingredients have blended.  If you are using citron and orange peel or zest, mix it in now. 

Roll out the dough thin, and cut into shapes. Beat the second egg, and brush the cookies with egg wash. If you make gingerbread men, remember to poke a hole in the head (I used the lid of a pen) so you can tie a ribbon through it. 

Bake on a parchment lined baking sheet at 350F/175C for about 15 minutes, middle rack. Keep an eye out for those last several minutes, as the amount of sugar causes the cookies to go from golden to burnt in no time. 

Let cool. Store in a cookie jar, or hand it to your intended on Valentine's Day. Let's revive a centuries old tradition! 

Likkepot

If you grew up in the Netherlands, the meaty bread spread likkepot probably needs no explanation. You’d find it behind the glass at the slager's (butcher) or deli counter (often next to that other meaty bread spread, Filet Americain), where it is scooped fresh into a little container and spread generously on a slice of bread at home. Creamy, savory, and deliciously rich, likkepot is made from leverworst (liverwurst), herbs, and a few well-kept butcher’s secrets. It may well have been a way to use up those leftover ends of tubes of leverworst - we are frugal! - but that's just an assumption on my part, so don't take it for truth.

The name may remind you of the children’s "Naar bed, naar bed, zei Duimelot" rhyme (I've posted it below the recipe to refresh your memory!), but this likkepot is something else. It's a creamy, savory spread, blended with mayonnaise or whipping cream, and seasoned with herbs and spices. The result is smoother and richer than traditional liverwurst and often slightly tangier and more flavorful. 

Many versions are garnished with small pieces of onion, parsley, or red pepper for color and texture. The exact recipe varies by butcher, and you’ll find many different takes on the spread. Some are smoother, some a bit chunkier; some add pickles or other aromatics for extra zing. It's also very versatile. You can enjoy it on fresh bread or toast for breakfast or lunch, as part of a sandwich platter at gatherings, with raw vegetables or crackers as a snack, or even paired with cheese and other cold cuts on a "borrelplank", a charcuterie board, to enjoy with friends while watching TV or playing a board game. 

So because there is not a traditional, standard recipe, likkepot is a dish that you can make your own. I'm sharing two versions: one with pickles, onion and bell pepper, and one with whipping cream and cognac. The first one is a little sweeter and lighter, the second one has a more grown-up taste. I used Braunschweiger liverwurst that's readily available at grocery stores here in the US, but you can use any spreadable liverwurst. If you need a suggestion of what to use where you are, drop me a message and I'll help you look for a good substitute!

For both versions, the same rule applies: taste as you go and adjust to your liking. If there’s an ingredient you’re not fond of (capers, for example), feel free to swap it out for something else, like olives. Want it spicier? You can choose to add Tabasco or sambal. 

This will keep for a few days in the fridge. 

Slager's Likkepot 

16 oz (454 grams) liverwurst

2 Tablespoons mayonnaise

2 Tablespoons tomato ketchup

2 Tablespoons pickles, chopped fine

2 Tablespoons white onion, chopped fine

2 Tablespoons red bell pepper, small dice

Pinch of white pepper

Chop the liverwurst into small pieces. Mix all the ingredients in a bowl. Use a hand mixer or fork to blend all the ingredients until you have a creamy spread. Refrigerate until ready for use. 

Bistro Likkepot

16 oz (454 grams) liverwurst

1/3 cup (75 ml) unsweetened whipping cream

2 Tablespoons capers, chopped fine

2 teaspoons cognac

Pinch of black pepper

Chop the liverwurst into small pieces. Mix all the ingredients in a bowl. Use a hand mixer or fork to blend all the ingredients until you have a creamy spread. Refrigerate until ready for use. 

Kersenpap

Before bread became widely affordable, pap or porridge made from grains, milk, or water was one of the most common Dutch meals. It was often eaten for breakfast or supper (avondeten), especially in rural areas. With the Netherlands’ strong dairy tradition, many pap dishes are milk-based: havermoutpap (oatmeal), griesmeelpap (semolina), rijstebrij / rijstepap (rice pudding), or karnemelksepap (buttermilk) are probably the most common porridges. Nowadays, pap is usually reserved for breakfast, or dessert. 

As dessert, pap can be paired with fruit, especially preserved or seasonal fruit: in a previous post, we talked about appelepap (apple porridge), and today we're looking at kersenpap, cherry porridge, both old-fashioned and traditional porridges. 

Kersen, just like apples, are grown abundantly in the Netherlands. Old-fashioned varieties such as Mierlose Zwarte (or Udense Zwarte), Varikse Zwarte, Udense Spaanse, Meikersen, and Morellen (pie cherries) are still grown in areas such as De Betuwe or the Kromme Rijnstreek, close to Utrecht. The dark, sweet cherries are often used for dishes such as kersenstruif, kersenvlaai, or for today's recipe, kersenpap. Delicious both warm or cold, the sweetness of the cherries cuts through the custardy texture of the pap.

For this recipe I used frozen cherries, but you can also use fresh cherries, or canned. Makes four servings.

Kersenpap

For the cherries

16 oz (450 grams) cherries, pitted

1/2 cup (125 ml) water or the syrup from canned cherries

1 tablespoon sugar*

For the porridge

6 cups milk (1.5 liter)

4 heaping tablespoons (30 - 35 grams) cornstarch

2 tablespoons sugar*

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Pinch of cinnamon (optional)

In a pan, warm the cherries with 1/2 cup of liquid (either the canning juice, or water) and a pinch of cinnamon. If you are serving the porridge warm, let the cherries simmer on low while you prepare the pap. If the dessert is going to be served cold, retire the cherries from the stove and let them cool before saving them in the fridge. 

Mix the cornstarch with 5 tablespoons milk and stir into a slurry, a paste. Heat the rest of the milk with the sugar and the vanilla on the stove. When the milk is hot, stir in the cornstarch and continue stirring constantly over medium heat until the mixture thickens and just begins to boil. It will thicken further as it cools. 

If serving immediately, divide the pap over four bowls and top with the warm cherries and juice over the porridge. If you plan to serve both cold, pour the pap in a container, top with plastic film touching the pap to avoid a skin, and let it cool, then hold in the fridge. 

*you can also use honey, or a sweetener. If the cherries are canned on heavy syrup, sugar may not be necessary: taste and decide if it's sweet enough. 

Oudewijvenkoek

We were not raised to say cusswords, so even speaking the name of this particular ontbijtkoek had us in stitches when we were kids: oudewijvenkoek, old woman's cake. In Groningen, where this spiced breakfast cake is especially beloved, people even shorten it to olwief, which only made it sound funnier to our young ears.

The Dutch word wijf originally meant simply “woman”: nothing rude, nothing sharp-edged. But over the centuries, the meaning drifted. Nowadays it’s generally used in a not-so-friendly way, summoning the image of a coarse woman with few social graces, shouting across the street with her hair in curlers and a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth. You can hear it in familiar insults like stom wijf or viswijf, neither of which you’d ever want applied to you.

And yet, Dutch can be wonderfully contradictory. That same word, "wijf" is also used in prachtwijf, a term of admiration for a strong, capable woman who’s confident, honest, and not afraid to speak her mind, a real treasure of a person.

Language is funny that way: it remembers where it came from, but it also adapts, stretches, contradicts itself, and sometimes gives us words that can mean an insult or a compliment depending on how they’re said. And nestled somewhere inside all of that is this charming old-fashioned loaf cake with the mischievous name that used to make us giggle. 

The reason behind this bread's name is not entirely clear, although generally research says that it's because it's so soft that even old women with no teeth can enjoy it. I think that can probably be said for all ontbijtkoeken. The distinguishing factor for this cake is however the taste of anijs, aniseed.  

Anise is not a stranger to our kitchen, of course. It shows up in bread toppings like muisjes, in flavorful rolls like the anijskrollen from North Brabant, and in nightcap drinks like anijsmelk, sweet and hot anise flavored milk. Once anise made it to the Netherlands from the Mediterranean, it became a tradition to give kraamanijs (crushed anise seeds) to women who had just given birth, as it was believed to help the uterus recover and stimulate milk production. This led into the commercial production of muisjes, anise seeds coated with sugar, that are served on rusks to celebrate the birth of a child. Anise was also given to the elderly because it was supposed to help with appetite, gout, and rheumatism. 

We may never find out why this cake is called what it is. But what I do know is that it's a delicious addition to your breakfast table (or midnight snack) - as long as you like anise! 

Oudewijvenkoek

1 cup (150 grams) rye flour

1 cup (150 grams) all-purpose flour

3 Tablespoons baking powder

2 teaspoons cinnamon 

2 heaping teaspoons ground anise*

1/2 teaspoon ground cloves

1/2 teaspoon ground ginger

1/2 teaspoon ground coriander seeds

1/2 teaspoon ground cardamom

1/4 teaspoon nutmeg

1/2 cup (100 grams) sugar

Pinch of salt

1/2 cup (150 grams) honey

2 Tablespoons (40 grams) unsulfured molasses

1 cup (250 grams) milk

2 eggs

Heat the oven to 325F/165C. Mix the dry ingredients and the wet ingredients in separate bowls. Grease a 9 x 5 inch cake pan (23 x 13 cm). Gradually mix the dry into the wet ingredients, and stir until there are no lumps, then pour the batter in the pan. Let it settle for two minutes, until you can see the baking powder starting to work, and add the pan to the oven. 

Bake on the middle rack for about 50 minutes, or until a skewer comes out clean. Take the pan out of the oven, and let it cool for about twenty minutes. Run a spatula or butter knife carefully around the edge of the cake, and carefully turn the pan over. Let the cake cool for a few minutes, then wrap it, still warm in cling or food film. Preferably, let it rest overnight so that the flavors can develop. 

The next day, dust with a little bit of powdered sugar, or gestampte muisjes if you have them. Slice and butter each slice generously. 

*Ground anise can often be found in Asian stores. If you have gestampte muisjes, use two heaping Tablespoons instead of two teaspoons of the ground anise.