Authors: Cobaia Kitchen, Gemini 2.5 Pro
Photos: Cobaia Kitchen, GPT-image-1
Long, sun-drenched days, vibrant flower crowns, and joyful dancing around a maypole can only mean one thing: it’s Midsommar in Sweden, the ultimate celebration of summer’s glorious peak. A true star of the traditional feast is skagenröra, a famously rich and creamy salad made with shrimp, dill, and mayonnaise, typically piled high on toast. We decided this beloved classic needed a clever and sustainable makeover so that everyone could join the festivities. In our version, the shrimp are swapped for a delightful mix of hearty cannellini beans and finely diced carrots, which mimic the texture wonderfully. The signature creaminess comes not from mayo, but from a luscious, blended sunflower seed dressing, delivering all the fresh, tangy flavour of the original so that everyone can raise a slice of crispbread to the summer sun. This particular version was born from a moment of quiet culinary rebellion; while your sunflower seeds are soaking, you’ll have just enough time to read the story of its dramatic first appearance at a tense Midsommar funeral.
Please read the review before cooking!
Swedish Summer Skagen Salad with Dill Potatoes
Equipment
- Pot (large)
- cutting board
- Knife
- Colander
- Bowl (large)
- measuring cups and spoons
- Blender (hand or regular)
- spatula
Ingredients
For the Potatoes:
- 600 g new potatoes scrubbed
- A large handful of fresh dill sprigs
- 1 tsp salt
For the Summer Skagen Salad:
- 1 can cannellini beans approx. 400g, 240g drained and rinsed
- 1 large carrot peeled and very finely diced
- ½ red onion very finely chopped
- 3 tbsp fresh dill finely chopped
- 1.5 tbsp fresh chives finely chopped
- 1.5 tbsp capers rinsed and roughly chopped
For the Sunflower Cream Dressing:
- 75 g raw sunflower seeds soaked in hot water for at least 30 minutes
- 60 ml water plus more if needed
- 1.5 tbsp fresh lemon juice
- 1.5 tsp Dijon mustard
- ½ tsp salt
- ¼ tsp black pepper
For Serving:
- 6 slices of Swedish crispbread knäckebröd
- 75 g mixed greens
Vinaigrette:
- 3 tbsp rapeseed oil
- 1.5 tbsp white wine vinegar
- salt and pepper
Instructions
- Cook the Potatoes: Place the scrubbed new potatoes and dill sprigs in a large pot. Cover with cold, salted water. Bring to a boil and cook for 15-20 minutes, or until tender when pierced with a knife. Drain and let them cool slightly.
- Prepare the Salad Base: While the potatoes are cooking, place the rinsed cannellini beans in a large bowl and roughly mash them with a fork, leaving some texture. Add the finely diced carrot, red onion, chopped dill, chives, and capers to the bowl.
- Make the Sunflower Cream: Drain the soaked sunflower seeds and place them in a blender. Add 60 ml of fresh water, lemon juice, Dijon mustard, salt, and pepper. Blend until completely smooth and creamy. If the cream is too thick, add a little more water, one teaspoon at a time.
- Combine the Skagen Salad: Pour the sunflower cream over the bean and vegetable mixture in the bowl. Gently fold everything together until well combined. Taste and adjust seasoning if necessary.
- Prepare the Side Salad: In a small bowl, whisk together the rapeseed oil, white wine vinegar, salt, and pepper for the vinaigrette. Just before serving, toss the mixed greens with the vinaigrette.
Notes
Serving suggestions:
Allergens:
- Mustard: This allergen is present in the Dijon mustard used in the sunflower cream dressing.
- Cereals containing gluten: Swedish crispbread (knäckebröd) is typically made from grains such as rye, wheat, or barley, all of which contain gluten.
- Sulphur dioxide and sulphites: White wine vinegar may contain sulphites, which are often added as a preservative. If their concentration exceeds 10 mg/L, they must be declared on the label.
Emission Hotspots:
- Transportation from shop to home, especially if using a combustion car.
- Canned goods, like cannellini beans, have a higher environmental impact due to processing, metal packaging, and shipping heavier, water-filled cans compared to raw alternatives.
- Sunflower seeds have the highest carbon intensity, and their significant quantity in the dressing notably contributes to the overall footprint.
Sustainability tips:
- The recipe correctly calls for scrubbing new potatoes rather than peeling them. This not only saves you time and reduces food waste but also retains the valuable nutrients found in the skin.
- If you have any leftover Skagen salad, it makes a fantastic sandwich filling for the next day’s lunch. Extra dill potatoes can be sliced and pan-fried to create a delicious breakfast hash.
- When boiling the potatoes, use just enough water to cover them and always place a lid on the pot. This traps heat, shortens the cooking time, and reduces energy consumption.
- Walk or bike to the supermarket and farmer’s market to cut transportation emissions
- Opt for loose vegetables instead of those pre-packaged in plastic. If available, buying ingredients like sunflower seeds from bulk bins is another excellent way to cut down on packaging waste.
- Whenever possible, choose locally grown new potatoes, carrots, and herbs. Sourcing ingredients locally significantly reduces transport emissions.
- Fair warning: no matter how much dill you buy or grow in your garden, your guinea pigs 🐹 will devour it all in seconds. They will also enjoy carrot greens and any leftover carrot pieces.
- Consider growing herbs at home—even a small windowsill herb garden reduces packaging and transportation while providing fresh flavors year-round
Carbon Footprint
Featured Story
A Funeral for a Salad
For fifty years, the Midsommar celebration on our small archipelago island was ruled by two things: the unpredictable June weather and my grandmother Agnetha’s Skagenröra. The recipe for this creamy shrimp salad was a state secret, locked in a vault of familial lore so deep that even my uncles, who had worked her fishing boat for decades, didn’t know the precise ratio of mayonnaise to dill. Agnetha didn’t just make Skagenröra; she wielded it. A larger portion was a sign of favour, a slightly watery batch a quiet signal of her displeasure. So when she passed away just before the summer solstice, it seemed only fitting, if cosmically cruel, that her funeral be held on Midsommar day. As her estranged, vegan granddaughter from Stockholm, I was inexplicably tasked with catering—a final, ironic test from beyond the grave.
The smörgåsbord was laid out on long tables by the water’s edge, the unadorned maypole standing nearby like a solemn spectator. My uncles, Anders and Björn, approached the table with the cautious gait of men inspecting a faulty engine. They circled the herring, gave a respectful nod to the new potatoes, and then stopped. Their eyes, accustomed to scanning the Baltic for signs of a storm, fixed on the large ceramic bowl where the Skagenröra should have been. It was there, but it was… pale. Too pale. Anders, whose mustache had disapproved of things since 1978, leaned in for a ceremonial sniff. He did not smell the familiar briny pink of shrimp, but the earthy, humble scent of white beans and a hint of lemon. His eyes flickered to Björn. No words were exchanged, but a silent, telepathic treaty was signed.
What followed was a masterclass in Swedish passive aggression. A culinary war fought not with angry words, but with the quiet, devastating scrape of a knife spreading butter on a dry piece of crispbread. One by one, my cousins, aunts, and assorted islanders followed the uncles’ lead, pointedly ignoring the bowl of my plant-based Skagenröra. They loaded their plates with everything else, creating a conspicuous void around my carefully crafted tribute. My attempt to honour Agnetha’s legacy by making it sustainable—by making it mine—was viewed not as an evolution, but as an invasion. It was a Stockholm notion, a metropolitan heresy brought to their sacred shores.
I stood by the birch trees, watching as my offering, my olive branch made of sunflower seeds and capers, was unanimously rejected. There was no grand confrontation, just the quiet, collective decision that they would rather eat nothing at all than betray the memory of Agnetha’s shrimp. The uncles ate herring with a stoic intensity, their chewing a rhythmic protest against the changing world. As the Midsommar sun began its slow descent, my bowl of vegan Skagenröra remained untouched, a pristine, creamy monument to a peace treaty that was never signed, sweating quietly in the endless twilight.
Culinary Reality Check
We assembled a small, discerning panel of Swedish and Swedish-adjacent tasters around Midsommar to pass judgment on this creation. It was a culinary experiment presented with a certain gravity, a modern interpretation of a classic none of us had actually tried in its original form. The dish was immediately recognized as belonging to the Midsommar table, yet it conjured some wonderfully specific and slightly bleak associations: the reserved flavors of “Swedish funeral food” and, in a moment of startling clarity from one taster, a “suspiciously familiar vegan McDonalds burger.” The following is our collective, considered verdict.
Taste
A subject of quiet debate. The flavors were clean and the concept admirable, but it was a dish more respected than loved. An admirable culinary experiment, though perhaps one not destined for repetition in our kitchen.
Portion Size
Generous. The portions are substantial enough to satisfy three hungry individuals, even those who have spent the day engaged in the emotionally taxing work of celebrating Midsommar.
Combination
A noble attempt at alchemy. The final dish, however, possessed a certain ascetic quality, lacking the decadent, unifying creaminess one imagines in its namesake. The assertive sharpness of the red onion also tended to dominate its more delicate companions.
Texture
Remarkably resilient. The salad holds its form with a quiet stoicism, meaning leftovers on day three are not just possible, but practically indistinguishable from the first serving. It does not surrender to time.
Spices
A well-intentioned chorus of herbs, though as mentioned, the red onion tended to sing a rather loud solo. A word of practical advice: be uncharacteristically generous with the salt for the potatoes. They require a firm hand to reach their full potential.
Timing
The timeline is refreshingly honest. The prescribed soaking time for the sunflower seeds provides a perfectly scheduled pause—a moment for quiet reflection, or more practically, an opportunity for a pre-dinner glass of something fortifying.
Processing
A model of Scandinavian clarity. The instructions guide one through the process with a calm, reassuring logic, ensuring that the dish you intend to create is precisely the one that materializes in the bowl. There are no tricks.
Completeness
The recipe is self-contained and thorough. While it can stand alone, we concluded its true calling may be as a supporting actor rather than the lead—a thoughtful, modern addition to a larger Midsommar buffet, where it can be appreciated in smaller, more contemplative portions.
Environment
Its virtues on this front are undeniable. With a low carbon footprint that aligns with future climate goals, this dish is a quiet nod to sustainability, a meal that considers the planet as much as the palate.
Health
A paragon of modern nutritional thinking. It aligns beautifully with the principles of a planetary health diet, built on a foundation of legumes, seeds, and fresh vegetables. Its only concession to tradition is a generous portion of potatoes, a minor indulgence on an otherwise impeccably virtuous plate.
Tips for Redemption
This dish presents a philosophical question as much as a culinary one. Improvements seem elusive; its character feels fixed. Perhaps the best advice is to embrace it for what it is—or, with quiet resignation, to acknowledge it may not be for you and continue the search for your own perfect Midsommar truth.
