Lutefisk — One Last Try
It was one last try. It really wasn’t approached that way, but that is what it ultimately turned out to be. When a friend asked where he could purchase some, my wife said, “Get some for us, too.” We hadn’t had any in our house for years. My feelings have never been positive about the tradition, but I even found myself wanting to give it a fair chance. No snide remarks. No reliance on past judgments. Give it a fair try. “Maybe my remembrances are not accurate. After all, it is our heritage. It can’t be as bad as I remember. Certainly it has been exaggerated!!” The time came. We had enjoyed punch and hors d’ oeuvres in the family room. We sat down for the Christmas Eve dinner, the table set in our most festive array with sterling, china, the crystal goblets. They sparkled in the warm glow of candle light. One son fondly stroked the poinsettia tablecloth, remarking about many Christmases past. It was then that I somewhat proudly announced that we were going to indulge in a bit of culture. The smaller plate, I explained, placed on top of the dinner plate was for lutefisk! “Sure, everyone is going to have at least a taste,” I affirmed with all the cultural pride I could muster. A brief explanation for our daughter-in-law (Dutch/Russian descent) was given with the hope that we all would savor the Swedish heritage with new appreciation. We even explained how dear old Grandma Jacobson appeared to hold to the belief that your chances of gaining entry to heaven were severely diminished if you did not eat a little lutefisk on Christmas Eve. The boiled potatoes sprinkled with a touch of parsley arrived. Mmm, they looked good. The gravy boat was next, filled to the top with steaming cream sauce. Then the fish. The atmosphere filled with gloom and dismay! Eat that stuff??? Even the china platter looked pallid. “Is it cooked?” was the query, almost in chorus. It sat there looking like partially cooled gelatin. Faces showed secret fears that were unspoken. Will it stay on the platter, or will it squirm over the side and onto the table? How will I swallow it? Will it go down?? I tried to stay positive. I really wanted it to be good!! In spite of the appeal of the potatoes and cream sauce, the feeling was unanimous. It could not be consumed in that state. The cook could not be faulted. Her culinary skills are second to none. The recipe followed was from a 1943 booklet published in Minneapolis (nothing but good can come out of Minneapolis as far as our family is concerned) by Julia Peterson Tufford. It contains many Scandinavian recipes for any number of goodies like julekage, kottbollar, fiskekaker, and risngryn grod. It is authentic. And it was followed to perfection. By now, all respect for lutefisk had waned. Maybe some time in the microwave would help. So in it went. Forget the lutefisk; help yourself to potato sausage, ham, rice pudding, vegetables, meatballs, Swedish rye bread. Enjoy! After a session with the microwave, Marilyn ate some. Bless her heart, she tried harder than the rest of us. In the midst of remarks like “nasty,” she admitted that it tasted like it looked. Sorry, Grandma, but we tried. And we learned. For all our good intents, it really was the last try.