Spritzgebäck

Spritzgebäck belongs in the Advent tin, the Plätzchen, Christmas cookies, that fill German kitchens before the tree is even in the room. It is strongest through the Rhineland, Westphalia, and the old household-baking belt where a Fleischwolf, a meat grinder with a star plate, did the work before every drawer had a piping bag. Rings, S-shapes, short bars, dipped in dark chocolate or left plain, all of them count.

The regions disagree in the quiet way bakers disagree. In the Rhineland and Westphalia, ground almonds or hazelnuts often go into the dough and the grinder gives the ridges their firm, old-fashioned bite. Further south, you'll see a finer butter dough, often piped by hand, sometimes with lemon zest, sometimes with vanilla only. Im Norden anders, im Süden anders. This is not one national cookie wearing one shape.

The whole dish turns on the dough temperature. Butter must be soft enough that the dough moves through a star tube without tearing, but not so warm that the ridges melt flat in the oven. Too cold and you wrestle it until the dough gets tough. Too warm and you bake puddles with ambition. No baking powder. The lift comes from good creaming, and the shape comes from controlled butter. Erst verstehen, dann kochen.

Make a full batch. Weggeworfen wird nichts: broken pieces go into the tin for the cook, or under poached fruit, or into a crumb base later. The pretty ones get the chocolate tips. Schön ist, was schmeckt.