Food Is Food, and That's No Lye

 Lutefisk and lefse

Takk skal du ha

Hollandale High School

Rah rah rah

News that I was headed to a Lutefisk Supper sparked pretty simple reactions from friends and family alike.

Gag.

Blech.

Ick.

Really?

Yes, really.

These things are legendary around here. At the one I’m going to Saturday at a little country church, they expect to serve more than 1,000 plates of lutefisk (and lefse, rommegrot or, for the less daring, cookies). And, presumably since I will be in attendance, not everyone there will be named Ole and Lena.

Lutefisk and lefse are such a part of life here in Wisconsin (and other places) that they even got integrated into a cheer my dad said they used to chant at his old high school. I used to think my dad was pulling my leg, but others have said they heard that cheer, too.

I profess no love of lutefisk, because I’ve never eaten it. Can’t say that I’m much looking forward to it, because a recipe I have for it from a new book of Norwegian family recipes called “Gudrun’s Kitchen” goes something like this:

This recipe is an old-fashioned way of making lutefisk that must be started about four weeks in advance …

5 pounds dried codfish

1 cup of washing soda (lye)

3 gallons boiled cooled water

Special equipment: cheesecloth, enamel pot for boiling lutefisk (aluminum will turn black).

All righty then. Rachael Ray this is not.

I haven’t had lutefisk, but have had or been around many other Norwegian things. Lefse, a pounded potato flatbread that looks kind of like a tortilla, is one of my favorite foods in all the world. Krumkake, a waffle cookie, is as delicious as it is beautiful.

Other things, not so much. Many people I know love herring. My dad used to eat that and something called Sotsuppe, but my sisters and I as children tastefully referred to it as “elephant boogers” from either the tapioca or raisins in it. We grew up in a household where dammit, you cleaned your plate, but Mom gave us a pass on many of the Norwegian things my dad would bring home.

So why go to a Lutefisk Supper? The adventure. The tradition. And even if I hate it, it is somebody’s tradition.

Because, really, all food is cultural. Some countries eat brains, other people might eat slugs. I’m adventurous enough that in England years ago I told my then-boyfriend – a born and bred true Cockney – that if he bought some jellied eels, I would try them. He never did, but he could whip up tasty things such as Oxtail Stew, Bubble and Squeak or Toad in the Hole and took me to marvelous Pie and Mash shops.

I tried Pig’s Feet in Paris, just because. And because of that, I would not recommend it. I’ve eaten octopus in Italy, which tasted fine but it was weird seeing those suckers sticking out of the batter. Made it look as if I was eating a window decoration.

Face it: Your disgusting dish is somebody else’s comfort food. I mean, if you’re not American, would you really ever eat a hot dog?

Years ago, I spent an entertaining afternoon with Nebraska folklorist Roger Welsch, who is a regular on the CBS Sunday morning show. He had written a book called “Digging In and Pigging Out: The Truth About Food and Men.” He talked about how it’s good to tell people about tasty things like roasted goat but not to brag about it too much while you are sitting at a tavern while the goat is roasting because you come home and find the roasted goat missing.

But he also spoke lovingly about how his mother was a cook for a rich family who would then turn around and make delicious food out of the leftover pig parts for her own family.  He felt sorry for the rich people who had to eat ham and pork roast, because they never got to eat his mother’s Jaternice. This traditional Czech dish is one of my all-time favorite recipes to read; no writer ever wrote a first paragraph as brilliant as 1 Hog head, preferably scalded, not skinned. Who could resist reading further?

For now, I’ll pass on the hog head, scalded or skinned. But if anyone wants to invite me to a Czech Supper, I’m game.