Sennepssild

Sennepssild belongs to the long lunch. The julefrokost in December, the paaskefrokost in April, the Sunday afternoon when family gathers and nobody is in a hurry. At every one of these, herring comes first. And at every one of these, someone brings a bowl of sennepssild, because the mustard cream is what wakes the palate up and tells the table that the meal has begun.

The dish is pickled herring folded into a sauce of two mustards, creme fraiche, and a great deal of fresh dill. The sharpness cuts through the richness of the cured fish, and the cream rounds the edges so nothing is harsh. You spoon it onto buttered rugbrod, add chives and a few slices of radish for crunch, and that's the whole of it. No cooking, no fire, no technique you haven't already mastered. What matters is the sauce and the waiting.

Make it the day before. That's the one instruction I want you to follow. Sennepssild needs time for the herring to settle into the mustard cream and for the flavors to find each other. Try it an hour after you mix it and you'll taste three separate things: mustard, fish, dill. Try it the next morning and you'll taste one thing, whole and round. That's the joy of waiting, and it's half the reason this dish has lasted. You'll know when it's right because the sauce will look darker and the fish will have given up its sharpness to the cream.