Confessions of a Reluctant Lutefisk Eater

I started this piece a year ago, and it just kept growing. Bear with me and read it through. Also, apologies to my Scandinavian friends.



Confessions of a Reluctant Lutefisk Eater



The lye had leached everything from the poor fish: flavor, flakiness, and form. A wintertime staple of Scandinavians before the invention of supermarkets. Proof positive that people will eat anything to stay alive, and brag about it. I will admit my pale complexion and blonde hair suggest tom-foolery at some point with a Norseman, but any lutefisk-loving gene eluded me.

Over the years I managed to go missing among shelves of Nordic sweaters or disappear in a stand of Christmas trees at the mere hint of this Yule feast. And when exposed, my excuses to sidestep invitations ranged from the ever popular "Sorry, prior commitment" to "I think I'm coming down with the plague." But last December, after one too many glasses of aquavit, I wisecracked an assent, and soon found myself in a crowd of church basement diners. Each of us "anticipating" a meal of cod marinated in caustic chemicals.

The servers filed in, flourishing potatoes, coleslaw, and stacks of warm lefse. A respectable opening act followed by the piece de resistance in a splendor of unrestrained blandness: a shapeless blob quivering on separate platters for each lucky table. Appealing as an anemic aspic and just as tasteless. Neither bowls of cream sauce nor ladles of melted butter helped redeem it. Untouched by anyone but me, the salt and pepper looked embarrassed to be there, and couldn't pull their own weight.

Why had I been so worried about a mouthful of stings? I have known all along that denizens of the North have an affinity for bland food. Fierce Viking blood may run in their veins, but their tastebuds back away from all things spicy. Thank goodness these people also like meatballs.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor