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Call me ghoulish, but on arriving in a new place, I like
to have a look around the cemetery to see what sort of folk I’m dealing
with. So on arrival at Nora Lutheran Church to attend the annual lutefisk
and meatball dinner, first we confirmed (by evidence of the Honeruds,
Ohnstads, and Tollefsruds here at rest) the Norwegian credentials of the
congregation. Then, squinting through the golden glare of Indian summer
and the 30-mph wind, we wondered, what’s that trailer doing backed
up in the rear of the parish hall?
The answer is, that’s how lutefisk happens these days. There are,
in fact, lutefisk contractors who supply the product, know how to prepare
it, and act as impresarios for events such as this.
Now I know what you’re thinking—that if there is a small cadre
of fellows perpetuating the practice, that if lodges and churches are
dependent on them, then by getting rid of just a few people, say by buying
them out and bribing them to move to Florida, we could banish lutefisk
from the land. If that’s what you’re thinking, then it’s
because of a bad lutefisk experience. Really, lutefisk prepared under
the tutelage of these specialists is pretty palatable. Give it a chance.
Or you may be thinking, if lutefisk comes from experts, then it’s
not folkloristic enough for you. You’d like it prepared, perhaps,
by little old Nordic ladies shuffling around the parish kitchen and maybe
tut-tutting a little bit and acting matronly. Well, grow up.
And realize that what’s happening is ethnic tradition in a new phase
with an integrity of its own. There is a role in any community for specialists
charged with the preservation of tradition. The iron cross maker of a
German-Russian community, for instance, or the separator man of a threshing
ring, or a midwife—such people possess skills others need not learn,
and they hold them in trust for the people.
That was the role we found Warren Melby playing in the trailer. He supervised
the work of John Reierson and others of the congregation poaching the
chunks of lutefisk (7 minutes, then figure it cooks a little more in the
pan en route to the tables, coming out just right). This is the culmination
of three days of preparation, salting and rinsing the preserved cod, then
cutting it up in a joint effort that in John’s recounting sounds
appealing—“A bunch of guys outdoors talking and telling stories,”
he says.
Inside the hall we find the other specialist, Carroll Juben, anchoring
kitchen operations. “It’s a labor of love,” he says.
Recognize, too, that although we may love to make fun of lutefisk, it
is an acquired taste, and once acquired, it is potent—no doubt because
of its sensual capacity to evoke remembrance, but also because people
really like it. The fellow beside me at the table, on my right elbow,
did not regard lutefisk as an ethnic duty to be consumed ritually and
reluctantly. He filled his plate with a double portion of lutefisk three
times—six portions of lutefisk! And the fellow on my left, there
he sat with his plate filled, and as he waited for the pitcher of melted
butter to slather it with, he visibly trembled with anticipation.
The dinner at Nora Lutheran is nicely done in many ways, including the
waiters kitted out in black slacks and white shirts and bowties. And the
meatballs, too—I talked to Harlan Swenson, CEO of the congregational
meatball enterprise. He talked about the right proportions of beef and
pork and onions, about pre-cooking on outdoor grills, and about the nutmeg
and allspice in the gravy.
It was Don Reierson who invited us out for the dinner, and it was he,
I am told, who put that jig-cut fish-sign with the legend, “LUTEFISK,”
at the Gardner exit. Red-mouthed the stiff fish beckoned, seductively.
We followed.
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