Alma’s Kneading Trough (Alma Upesleja)

This kneading trough was made by Kārlis Upesleja (1902–1989) for his wife Alma (1906–2002) after their arrival in the United States, so that she could continue baking Latvian bread even while living in exile. Alma baked rye bread for her family and also for the Latvian community in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Their daughter Anna Vējiņa (1932–2015) inherited the trough and continued her mother’s role—baking rye bread. In memory of Anna, the Milwaukee congregation’s newsletter states: “We thank God for Anna’s service both on the parish council, in the Daugavas Vanagi, at the Latvian House, and in the Credit Association. The bread she baked brought blessings to countless Latvians!”
The linen towel, with the monogram AU (Alma Upesleja), was most likely brought from Latvia on her refugee journey. The towel was used to cover the dough while it was rising. Alma also used a wooden paddle for baking, to mix the starter with water and flour.
The kneading trough, towel and paddle were donated to the “Latvians Abroad” museum by Vita Kākulis.

Thai Style Frikadelle Soup (Inese Grava-Gubiņa)

Fragment from Inese Grava-Gubiņa’s interview with Latvieši pasaulē curator Marianna Auliciema, November 28, 2025.

Around 2006, 2007, and 2008—that was the time when we began teaching the first Latvian cooking classes at the Gaŗezers Summer High School. After that, a year passed, and I returned again—this time for the second time—to teach.

We worked with teenagers—young people aged 14–17. In the first year, I think Latvian cuisine as a class hadn’t been offered for some time, or only very minimally, and I don’t really know how it went back then. But in the year when I started, the group consisted only of girls. I remember how we laughed and joked, saying that those silly boys preferred to go play volleyball on the beach in the heat. They could have come into a cool room, cooked food together, and eaten. And besides—all those beautiful girls they could have gotten to know better!

In the second year, I had boys! Somehow they figured out that it wasn’t so bad to be in the kitchen and work together making food. It was very interesting… there were no problems in either year, but the dynamic completely changed once the boys showed up.

We already made soup in the first year—”frikadeļu” soup, though not exactly the usual kind. I wanted something more interesting, so I had brought along some special Thai-style spices from home. Around Gaŗezers there aren’t many exotic shops where you can get everything. I had brought (I don’t know what it’s called in Latvian) lemongrass—citronzāle—and something called galangal (I don’t know the Latvian name either)—a root that looks like ginger but has a different taste and aroma. And kaffir lime leaves—those things I brought with me from Canada. And then coconut milk.

So we made the “frikadeļu” soup the way it’s usually made—add whatever you want! I think I even made it with chicken or turkey, which I found at a big grocery store, because I had to make a very large amount—such a quantity! We made the meatballs and cooked the soup. Then we added the galangal, lemongrass, and kaffir lime leaves. And I also added—because I had them—dried hot peppers. I grow them in my garden and then simply dry them. In winter, if I need a little bit of heat, I throw one dried pepper into the pot, let it cook there, and then pull it out. It gives just a little kick, not so much that your tongue is on fire.

That’s how we made the soup, and then—right before it was ready—we poured in a few cans of coconut milk. And there you have it: Thai-style “frikadeļu” soup!

I already knew it would be a hit, because these young people… Well, there were some things they really liked, but other things they ate rather reluctantly. This soup—they went back for a first, second, third bowl, and I think some of them would have eaten even more if they hadn’t had to go to their next classes. They absolutely loved it! It’s “frikadeļu” soup, but with a different flavor.

Her Recipe Relied On Memory (Recipe – Modris Pukulis)

Modris Pukulis writes:
“The recipe for this bread comes from watching my mother making it – stopping her at times to measure what amount of ingredients were in hand. My mother was a great cook of her native Latvian food which we all ate while living at home (for me that was until I left for college at age 17). We all spoke Latvian as that was our first language learned at home and one that we were required to speak by and to our parents.
Not sure of the year but it was some time before I left for college that I decided that I wanted to learn how to make this bread – I had eaten other versions of this bread as made by Latvian friends of my parents but none were as good as hers.
I watched my mother through the whole two-day process, measuring ingredients as she went along, and taking notes (my memory not as good as hers). To my knowledge she never had a recipe but recalled everything from memory, though each time she made it, it tasted the same. We would eat it for breakfast with a slice of cheese or salami on top, and eat it for dinner with any soup she made. Though my favorite was the bread with my father’s smoked eel on top.
I similarly watched her make my favorite soup (biešu zupa – beet soup) and still make it whenever I make saldskābmaize (sourdough bread).
One thing I don’t know how to make,though I will try some day is speķu rauši.
Moe (or Mod as my sisters call me) Pukulis”

Soups for Charity (Anita Jurevica)

Anita Jurevica talks about a charity initiative—soup lunches—that she organizes every year in Minneapolis, USA. For 17 years, this initiative has become a testament to warmth, togetherness, and Latvian traditions.

Squirrel Sorrow Soup

During the period I lived in Germany, a new name emerged for one of my favorite Latvian dishes — sorrel soup. At that time, in everyday life I mostly spoke English, and someone once asked me what I was making. I said it was “sorrel soup.” Since “sorrel” sounds a bit like “sorrow” or even “squirrel” (after all, who knows what those strange Latvians are really stewing in their kitchens 😄), ever since then sorrel soup has been “squirrel sorrow soup” to me. It’s one of my go-to autumn dishes when I’m abroad, because I crave something dark, thick, and hearty — and fresh sorrel is rarely available. In Latvia, though, I would eat it more in spring, when the first greens appear. Traditionally, you’d have some leftover grains in the pantry — barley, pearl barley, potatoes, maybe a piece of smoked meat, and so on.In Eastern European shops you can sometimes buy sorrel in jars, or I bring it with me from Latvia. If you have sorrel, you can gather everything else around it, even if the ingredients aren’t exactly the same as back home. Dried or smoked ribs elsewhere might not be quite the same, but you can get very close to the familiar flavor.

Crystallised ginger piparkūkas (Maija Liiv)

My mother Lauma taught me to make piparkukas when I was a little girl, and I still make them now that I am 75.

I was born in Brisbane, Australia, in December 1950, and lived there all my life until moving 100km north to the Sunshine Coast in 2016.

I still use my mother’s piparkuka recipe, with only a couple of variations. Where my mother used Golden Syrup, I now sometimes use Treacle and brown sugar. We always used to put a slivered almond in the centre of each piparkuka, like generations of my family in Latvia have always done, but now that we live in a ginger-growing area (Buderim) we are placing a small piece of crystallised ginger in the centre of each piparkuka, and find it delicious.

Pīrāgi is a Comforting Food for Me (Māra Goldsmith)

The pīrāgi recipe that Māra Goldsmith uses every year when baking pīŗāgi for Christmas was passed down to her by Mrs. Arnoldija in Sydney. In this interview, Māra talks about a special trick that makes the dough magical. According to her, it is exactly this that allows you to bake the most delicious pīrāgi in the world!

It’s Not Christmas Without Pīrāgi (Anda Cook)

For as long as I can remember, pīrāgi held a place of honor at the Christmas table, and also at Easter. The necessary ingredients were not always easy to find, but my mother made sure to get them in time. In Cleveland, she had discovered a stall at the Westside Market, where she would go after work on Fridays. Her pīrāgi were not only delicious, but she always tried to make them very small, with plenty of meat filling.

My mother has been gone for a long time, and together with my daughter Lisa and granddaughter Greily, we have tried various recipes – but none are quite like my mother’s pīrāgi, neither in appearance nor in taste. The closest we’ve come was a few years ago. We use Dzidra Zeberiņa’s Ģimenes pavards (with a few variations – ed.).

It’s a lot of work, but we listen to Latvian folk songs and linger over memories. Sometimes, it even happens that a pīrāgs gets burned at both ends! And, of course, it’s not Christmas without pīrāgi.