In the dreary, flat world of Thomas Friedman, most of our cultural practices are affectations. Yet remnants of true culture can still be found. Last Advent my wife and I attended the annual lutefisk dinner at Mindekirken, a Lutheran church in Minneapolis where her maternal grandfather once served as pastor. Lutefisk is a culinary oddity courtesy of the Scandinavians who settled Minnesota, though some trace it to Norway. At my inaugural dinner, the wizened elders informed us neophytes that it was a food the immigrants had devised to get them through the cold winters. Like most concoctions borne of necessity, lutefisk is a simple enough dish: whitefish preserved in lye. The finished product combines a gelatinous texture with a strong fish smell and a slight fish taste. It can be served topped with melted butter or a cream sauce that does more to mitigate the flavor. My wife’s grandmother, of pure Norwegian blood, expressed her approval of my wife’s preference for melted butter, while I drowned my fish in cream sauce and secretly offered up my Protestant feast for the poor souls in Purgatory.
Read the rest here. Note: the full article is available at the moment, but it may move behind the paywall at some point.
