Smoked Leg of Lamb (1300-1700 gr.)

Smoked deboned leg of Lamb. This is a favourite Icelandic Christmas product made by Sláturfelag Suðurlands.

The product carries a veterinary health certificate

Product information.

 Icelandic Smoked Leg of Lamb (hangikjöt)

Weight: 1.3–1.7 kg (2.5 – 4 lbs)

Shipping Weight: 4 kg (8.8 lbs)

Shelf Life: 15–30 days, note shipped out frozen

Shipping: Sent exclusively via DHL Express — limited to a maximum of 2 packages per order.

Please note: All orders containing hangikjöt are shipped at the buyer’s own risk.

Cooking instructions.

Hangikjot & 1 - 1.5 liters of cold water (water should barely cover the meat). Note: Heat up slowly.

Cook for 1 hour per kilo / 2.2 pounds

Note: The meat will shrink 250-300 grams per kilo / 2.2 pounds.

If serving cold, then cook the meat the day before.

Good to serve with:

Béchamel Sauce with Potatoes
Ora Canned Green Beans (320 gr.)
Kristjáns Laufabrauð - Leaf Bread (586 gr.)
Ora Canned Red Cabbage (320 gr.)
Egils Malt & Appelsín (500 ml) soft drink

Here is a story from the perfect Christms dinner

Christmas Eve in Iceland: The Hangikjöt Feast

Snow fell softly outside the farmhouse, settling like powdered sugar on the windowsills. Inside, warm lamplight flickered across wooden walls, and the smell of birch smoke and winter spices filled the air. It was Christmas Eve—Aðfangadagur—the most magical night of the year in Iceland.

In the kitchen, the centerpiece of the evening rested proudly on a large wooden board: a beautifully smoked leg of lamb, hangikjöt, its surface glistening softly in the heat of the room. Steam curled upward from the tender slices that had just been carved, carrying the unmistakable aroma of tradition itself.

For weeks, the family had been talking about this moment. The children whispered about it while decorating the tree. The grandmother had prepared the laufabrauð—paper-thin and intricately carved—telling the story of how her own mother used to fry it over an open flame. And everyone knew that the heart of the feast, the soul of Christmas dinner, was the smoked lamb.

Grandfather set the table, placing each dish with quiet ceremony. First came the kartöflur í uppstúf, potatoes bathed in a velvety béchamel sauce that shimmered under the lights. Then the bowls of bright green peas, the tangy pickled red cabbage, and sliced beets that added their ruby glow to the spread. A plate of warm, freshly made flatkökur—Icelandic rye flatbread—waited nearby, ready to cradle thin slices of the smoky lamb.

When the family finally sat down, there was a hush—a moment of gratitude, of memory, of the comfort that only familiar traditions bring.

Grandmother carved the first slice. The smoked lamb was tender, infused with the rich, sweet scent of birch wood. She placed the piece gently on the plate of the youngest child, just as her father had done for her. The girl took a bite, her eyes widening at the taste—warm, smoky, salty, and soft. It tasted like home. It tasted like every Christmas Eve that had come before.

Around the table, laughter grew louder. Glasses clinked. Stories of Christmases long past were retold: the year the sheep got loose on the farm, the Christmas storm that trapped them inside for two full days, the first time Grandfather tried to smoke lamb and accidentally singed his eyebrows.

As the meal stretched on, the hangikjöt kept giving thick slices for the adults, thin ones for sandwiches later in the night, and even a few pieces tucked aside for Christmas morning breakfast. The scent of the lamb filled the house, weaving itself into every memory being made.

Outside, the northern lights began to shimmer—a green curtain drifting lazily across the sky. The family stepped outdoors for a moment, cheeks flushed red from the cold. Behind them, the warm glow of the farmhouse spilled into the snow.

They knew that of all the gifts, all the decorations, and all the rituals, this dinner was what truly bound them together. A simple smoked leg of lamb—slowly prepared, deeply loved—had become the anchor of their Christmas.

And as the night drew on, the last thing anyone said before turning out the lights was the same as every year:

“Next year, we’ll do it all again.”