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Something Rotten In Norway
It's clear that Shakespeare
never noshed on lutefisk. If he had, he would have written: There's something rotten in the state of Norway.
Although
lutefisk (loo-ta-fisk) is often called a Scandinavian favorite, most Danes and Swedes want no part of it and claim it belongs
exclusively to Norwegians. Norse legend says lutefisk originated when Jens Luteson came home with a catch of cod and, not
having a place to hang them to dry, he stored them in a barrel. Unaware that the keg was filled with his wife's lye wash water,
Jens forgot about his fish and they soaked for several days. Why Jens and his wife decided to serve the lye marinated cod
for Christmas dinner has never been explained. Maybe they had unwelcome guests; a horde of plundering Vikings who stormed
into the Luteson's pantry and demanded food and drink. Plied with high octane aquavit, the rowdy sea warriors tucked into
the steaming gelatinous mess. The ruffian in charge stopped long enough to raise his tankard and proclaim, "Skoal, Missus
Luteson; dis is yummy, you betcha."
To honor the Lutesons for pulling knit watch caps over the sailors' eyes, the
lye water and cod recipe became a cherished Norwegian food. But even those who sing its culinary praise add one or more caveats:
It's an acquired taste. I eat it only at Christmastime. It takes some getting used to. Smother it with butter. You'll want
to mix it with mashed potatoes and lots of mustard and cover it with bacon gravy. Which begs the question: Why spoil a good
plate of mashed potatoes and greasy gravy? The truth is, lutefisk is vile no matter how it's disguised. Remember when your
mother gave you cod liver oil, followed by orange juice to make the medicine go down? It didn't work, did it? Potatoes, butter,
gravy, mustard, and bacon won't help lutefisk, either.
Small town churches (usually Lutheran) often host lutefisk
and lefse suppers. Lefse is potato bread baked on a hot griddle like pancakes. While those merry parishioners in native costumes
once worn by their ancestors kick up their heels to accordion music, another congregation down the street most likely has
a sign out front offering a Spaghetti and Meatball dinner. Opt for the meatballs.
Kountry Kookin' Café in the rural
community of Viborg, South Dakota, population 850, serves lutefisk on Monday nights, in season. There's a season for lutefisk?
A marquee on a Minnesota motel advertises: "Lutefisk--It's not just for breakfast. Ask about our meal plan." Another
Minnesota town has a lutefisk contest, but they don't eat it (smart folks); they toss it, not unlike a sack of haggis at a
Scottish games festival. When either of those foods is eaten, there's always the possibility of it being tossed, in a manner
of speaking.
Madison, Minnesota claims to be the Lutefisk Capital of the USA. They erected a twenty-five foot fiberglass
codfish that cost eight thousand dollars. Lou T. Fisk is often towed through town for parades, or loaned to Glenwood, Minnesota,
who lays claim to an even grander title: Lutefisk Capital of the World. In conjunction with Madison's annual lutefisk eating
contest, there's something called the outhouse run. You figure out the connection. According to RoadsideAmerica.com, the online
guide to offbeat tourist attractions, the mayor of Madison, who sent them a picture of Lou T. Fisk, said, "If you haven't
eaten this supposed fish, it tastes like snot. I grew up here. I am not proud."
Seattle's lutefisk eating contest gets
hundreds of applicants, but the dining table is limited to twelve. The honored dozen say the competition is about tradition,
nostalgia, fortitude, and building character. Osseo, Wisconsin holds an annual Lutefiskman Triathlon (canoeing, biking, and
running). No word on what lutefisk has to do with the competition, but one might suspect the participants are paddling, peddling,
and racing away from having anything to do with eating the triathlon's namesake.
The world's largest processor of
lutefisk, Olsen Fish Company in Minneapolis, produces over a half million pounds per year. They have a Hotline (800-882-0212),
with directions on how to cook the fish. Before you call, consider this description of lutefisk found on the Internet: It's
like marshmallows without sugar mixed with overcooked Japanese noodles, bathed in acetone, marinated several days in cod liver
oil, heated to lukewarm, sprinkled with thousands of tiny, sharp, invisible bones, and served hot.
If that doesn't
whet your appetite, this song won't help (sung to the tune of O Tannenbaum). "O, lutefisk, O, lutefisk, how fragrant your
aroma. O, lutefisk, O, lutefisk, you put me in a coma. You smell so strong, you look like glue, you taste just like an overshoe.
That slimy slab we know so well, identified by ghastly smell. O, lutefisk, O, lutefisk, our loyalty won't waver."
A
favorite recipe for preparing lutefisk reads: Get some white cod. Lay it on a pine board. Flatten fish with a meat cleaver.
Salt and pepper fish and add butter. Bake on board for 30 minutes. Remove from oven. Throw out lutefisk and eat the board.
Minnesota cartoonist Ed Fischer put together a book of sketches in his 101 Things To Do With Lutefisk.
One cartoon shows a Viking ship with the prow tilted skyward and all the Vikings at the other end. The caption: Look, some
of us will have to sit up front with the lutefisk.
Fischer reports that the EPA once classified lutefisk as a toxin.
Lye is, after all, used as drain cleaner.
Having married a Dane, I'm thankful this branch of Scandinavians has more
sense. I never faced the prospect of being served lutefisk at my in-laws' house. There was some talk about blood pudding,
but the dish never materialized, so let's not even go there. My in-laws did, however, force their young lad to attend the
annual Sons of Norway Father and Son Lutefisk and Lefse dinner with a neighbor, Thorvald Knutson, who had no son. My husband
still pinches his nose when he hears the word lutefisk. This is the fellow who, on a visit to Zimbabwe, ate deep fried mopane
worms. That tells you something more about lutefisk.
It's been said that half the Norwegians who emigrated to America
in the late 1800s came in order to escape lutefisk. The other half came to dispel its soiled reputation by spreading the word
about its delightfulness. Reportedly, more lutefisk is eaten in the United States today than in Norway. Many Norwegians spurn
the so-called delicacy because they associate it with peasant food. How about we give these folks credit for wising up and
not buying into the tradition and heritage malarkey?
Bring on the roast turkey, sage stuffing, and cranberry sauce.
Skoal.
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