I’m trying to love lutefisk. ‘Tis lutefisk season and all that.
On Sunday, I ate my first lutefisk of the season, in an-all-you-can-eat lutefisk feed at Normana Hall. My last encounter with lutefisk, two years ago, wasn’t pretty. I said some things about the gelatinous lye-cured cod — “phooey” and “ick,” I believe — that didn’t set well with lutefisk-loving Scandinavians who reached all the way back to Leif Ericson’s crossing of the Atlantic on a bellyfull of lutefisk in order to show me the disrespect I’d afforded their people’s fish dish.
So there I sat Sunday, before a paper plate of lutefisk. I watched some Scandinavians drown the gelatinous lye-cured cod in white gravy or melted butter and sprinkle on loads of allspice. Kind of like the Aztecs sprinkling chili powder on the flesh they ate to make it more appetizing; I can sink my teeth into that. Heck, with enough butter and gravy and spice, I could have eaten anything Winfield’s cooked.
Have I learned to love lutefisk? I’m getting there. The season’s not over. There are a few more lutefisk feeds to hit.
And there’s a lot more lefse to eat, too.
Lefse — that’s how I ate my lutefisk. I felt eyes watching me (I don’t think it was Odin) when I stuffed globs of lye-cured cod into pieces of the potato flat bread.
Yeah, lutefisk tacos, with white gravy salsa and a dash of allspice.
I hope nothing happens when I’m spotted with my bottle of Tabasco sauce at the next lutefisk feed.