September in Sweden means one thing: the forest floor is slowly turning red. Tiny, shiny lingon berries peek out from the moss, sour little gems that have been part of Swedish food culture forever. Traditionally, they end up as jam beside meatballs, pancakes, porridge—or in a big glass jar that lasts all winter. They’re the tart, bright counterpoint to rich, hearty food.
For Italians like us, lingon are a bit of a mystery. We don’t grow them back home, and outside of Sweden the only place I’d ever seen them before moving north was—yes, you guessed it—at the IKEA restaurant. A spoonful of red jam next to meatballs was as exotic to us as saffron buns in December.
But here in Sweden, lingon are not just decoration. They are a seasonal rhythm. From late summer through early autumn, people head out with buckets to gather them, filling freezers and jars, passing down traditions from one generation to the next. It’s like nature’s way of saying: winter is coming, stock up on something sour to keep things balanced.
We casually saw an ad on Instagram—it was about Lingoncello. We really loved the idea of a Limoncello-inspired liquor but with lingon. Now we’re super intrigued to try it, and who knows, maybe one day it will appear on Lasagnariet’s drink menu. Because if life gives you berries, why not make a digestif?
https://www.lingoncello.com/
At Lasagnariet, we wondered: could lingon ever meet lasagna?
Well, not inside the lasagna—we tried to imagine it and honestly, it didn’t feel right. Instead, we built a dish around the idea of Swedish comfort flavors. A white lasagna (no tomato sauce) layered with rich béchamel, Västerbotten cheese, and a touch of savory (kyndel) for herbal depth. Between the layers: thin slices of pre-boiled potatoes and lightly fried herring. And on top? A super golden, crispy crust made with a generous mix of butter, breadcrumbs, Västerbotten cheese, and potato flakes—pure comfort, with a crunchy bite that makes every forkful complete.
A dish that probably makes Swedes raise an eyebrow… or two.
Because let’s be honest: herring lasagna might sound like the setup for a comedy sketch. Somewhere between a kräftskiva gone wrong and a grandma experiment that the family politely pretends to enjoy. We can already picture the reactions:
– “Lasagna? With herring? Are you serious?”
– “Is this an Italian-Swedish joke?”
– “Wait… can I try a bite?”
That’s the thing about food—it makes people talk, laugh, react. And when we served it with a side of arugula salad dressed in a sweet-and-sour lingon vinaigrette, roasted peppers, and a sprinkle of lemon zest, the story came together. The lingon stayed outside the lasagna, bringing balance and brightness in their own way.
So yes, herring lasagna may never become a national dish, but it’s a playful experiment—an edible conversation between Italy and Sweden. And isn’t that what we’re all about? Layers of culture, tradition, and a little humor.
Life is made of layers. Some are cheesy, some are sour, and sometimes they even involve herring.
Lasagnariet.
