The Mystery of Marzipan

As a blond, long-braided German girl, my mother was in charge of going to the bakery for the family. During Christmas, the most magical time, some German traditions hold that the world itself is transformed, that angels dance all around, and heavenly music accompanies the softly falling snow. Yet only the true of heart witness these miracles. My mother made her way through the Christmas markets from the bakery, her task of bargaining for a log of marzipan complete. Did she witness any of the wonders around her? Or did she sneak a small sample of her parcel? Knowing her slightly wicked ways, it is safe to assume the soft, rich feel of the marzipan in her mouth was all the glory she cared about.

Simply made from almonds, sugar, and maybe an egg white here or there, marzipan is as central to the holiday tradition as the Tannenbaum. If you grew up in a German family, your holidays probably consist of real candles on the tree, presents on Christmas Eve (not Christmas morning), odd little meat-pocket pies known by different names like “pierogi” and “kraut mitschle.” (I love those things!) And then there are the small, delicate sweets that have the shape and color of dazzling sugared fruits. But when you bite into them, they have the distinct flavor of almonds. Marzipan has been a treat for hundreds of years, eaten in bar form, dipped in chocolate, draped over cakes and cookies, or shaped into strange and wonderful figurines, from fruit to skyscrapers to heads of industry. But even though the Germans claim to create the best marzipan in the world today, it is undoubtedly a borrowed art, with many curious stories of origination.
To begin with, almond trees are not indigenous to Germany. The people who keep track of such things believe the almond tree originated in the warm climes of southwest Asia, and spread into Greece and Italy, where it was cultivated from at least 200 B.C. When early trade routes developed, the almond spread throughout northern Africa, to Spain, France, and eventually England and Scandinavia.

The source of the magical marzipan mixture—and it really has to be exactly right, or you have an unappetizing sugar-almond glob—is a bit harder to pin down. One story says the sultan of a Far Eastern province faced a famine in which only the almond trees survived. In order to keep his people in high spirits, and to keep their minds off their empty stomachs, he added rosewater to the crushed almonds and shaped them into whimsical creatures. The name “marzipan” might have been derived from Marci Panis, that is, St. Mark’s Bread, supposedly produced by way of a miracle during a medieval famine. Or it might have come from the “mazaban,” a slim wooden box in which sweets were presented throughout Venice in the 13th century. Over time, the contents of the box also came to be known as mazaban. As these boxed sweets left for other ports, they may very well have become marzipan in Germany, marchepane in England, marzapane in Italy, and massepain in France.

The tradition of making this gentle paste can be traced through the Moors, to the Spanish town of Toledo. At various times sacked and occupied by Moors, Christians, and Jews, this little steep-hilled town is known for creating incredibly rich marzipan, as it has for hundreds of years. Toledo was the Moorish capital in the sixth century, and was considered a most multicultural city indeed. The rest of Spain couldn’t care less about marzipan, but it is in the very fabric of Toledo’s history.

Marzipan traveled north and found a happy home in Lübeck, Germany. The old treasury accounts of this little burg show the importation of almonds from the 16th century onward. Throughout Europe, marzipan was believed to be a “curative,” with the power to cure such maladies as hopelessness and drunkenness. This gave apothecaries the exclusive right to produce it. Retailers were originally allowed only to trade in the raw ingredients, not the actual paste. Even under this medicinal guise, the rich know a delicacy when they taste it, whether it cures you or not. The aristocracy incorporated marzipan confections into their feasts, but the masses were left to beg for prescriptions. When more people got ready access to sugar, and supply was introduced to demand, the confectioners took over production, and artistic shapes and beautiful moldings became synonymous with the name. Toward the middle of the 19th century, production was industrialized and the agreeable result was a delicacy that was affordable to everyone.

While in some places industrialization can mean a loss in quality, Lübeckers believe in the pre-eminence of their recipes, and have earned the reputation as the standard-bearers of marzipan today. German law allows products to be named “marzipan” with a blended ratio of no less than 50 percent raw almond paste and 50 percent sugar. Lübecker marzipan holds itself to its own standard: 70 percent raw almond paste to 30 percent sugar. They even produce a premium marzipan known as “Edelmarzipan” which is 90 percent raw paste and 10 percent sugar! The higher the almond content, the richer and denser the product.

Because it was originally an extravagance saved for special occasions, it would be brought out only on religious feast days. Over the years, it developed into a holiday tradition that carried on even through the lean years. My mother tells me that, during the war, she and her sisters would devour the beloved treats even though they were diluted with ground peach pits. Mom says maybe the hardest year was when they had “ersatz marzipan,” made with mashed potatoes and almond essence. Each year, my mother and I get over to the Deutsches Haus in St. Paul (off 94 in the Sun Ray Center) before Christmas to load up on Mozart Kugeln—chocolate-dipped balls of marzipan with Wolfie’s head embossed on them—and Lübecker marzipan. And in homage to her braided days, I’m certain, Mom makes sure only about half of our take makes it home.


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