Several weeks ago, my darling husband made something called Powidl. Proportions without instructions follow, but the important quote is "It is an old saying that buns have to swim in butter so you will be able to tear them apart easily." The book, and I'm not sure how faithfully he followed the recipe, was "The Viennese Pastry Cookbook by Lilly Joss Reich," ISBN 0-02-010110-4 and published before I, nevermind him, was born.
The fallout from his recipe was that I eagerly ate more than I usually do. It was sweet and had a grease-flour component, but didn't cause me to double over from pain. (I have negative feedback from most desserts, probably an ulcer-bacteria thing.) I accused my husband of trying to kill me simply because I could eat them while they were probably bad for my overall health.
