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cosmolinguistOne time, when I was still in high school, I was lucky enough to get to help.
It starts out normally enough; a bunch of potatoes are peeled, washed, cut up, and tossed into Grandma's biggest pot (she calls it a kettle, and it comes out "kittle") until the water boils and the potatoes are soft. It's just like making mashed potatoes. And in fact she did mash them, maybe with a little butter or something to stick them together, but they're largely potatoes.
(When I was little I didn't believe it was made of potatoes. I hadn't really speculated on what it was made of, but when I was told that the main ingredient was potatoes, I knew that couldn't be right. I'd seen mashed potatoes and baked potatoes and chips and fries and hashbrowns, but I'd never seen a potato made into a thin, flat disk with brown spots on it and little lines all over one side. I'd never eaten a potato with butter and sugar. I knew better.)
The potatoes were then put through an exotic instrument my grandma called a ricer. It has little holes in it, so when you put the mashed potatoes in there and pressed them down, they came out in a shape that could indeed be seen as something resembling rice.
Then the potatoes are rolled into balls and lined up on a piece of wax paper. Grandma brought out the lefse griddle, which covered the two front burners of the stove, and the lefse spatula, which I was soon to learn the use of, because it would be my job to turn them over while she rolled out more of the aforementioned flat disks with little lines on them. The little lines come from the lefse rolling pin, which has lots of little grooves in it. Grandma told me this is so the lefse can be rolled thinner than it could be otherwise.
She'd put two of the potato disks on the griddle and I'd watch them until they started to get brown spots, which meant it was time to turn them over. The lefse spatula at first seemed very unsuited to this task, because it was about an inch wide and a piece of lefse is about the size of a dinner plate. The spatula was tapered, though, so I could slide it under the lefse and try to flip it over.
I wasn't particularly good at first—though my grandpa didn't mind that, because he only likes to eat lefse when it's hot and fresh and the butter melts and drips down his chin (though I think he will compromise and heat it up in the microwave these days). So he ate the ones I tore, and I soon learned the knack of not tearing them. He ate some unbroken ones one I stopped breaking them. Grandma said she liked having me help instead of him because he'd neglect the turning in favor of the eating.
It doesn't take long to describe, and the lefse recipes, where they even exist outside people's heads, are very simple. But it took all day to make them, and it was a great day. Grandma and Grandpa's tiny kitchen was warm from the gas stove, and we talked about lots of things I immediately forgot about, even though (as good Minnesotan/Scandinavian types) my family are not very talkative. And at the end of it, we had about 90 pieces of lefse cooling until they were ready to be packed away.
Almost all of it would be frozen. Grandma wraps them in plastic wrap, in bunches of half a dozen or so. That way she can thaw a few at a time because lefse won't last very long if it's left out. She usually makes it just before Christmas. I have always associated lefse and pickled herring (and, when I was younger and luckier, krumkake) with Christmas. It gets handed ot to the family and some neighbors and whatnot, too. When I'm home for winter break she always gives me some lefse to take back to college with me.
I eat mine with butter and sugar—just enough butter to make the sugar stick, and brown sugar is definitely better than granulated sugar. Then roll it up and eat it; it's gone before I know it.
My grandma has told us for years now that all of the grandchildren (it was going to be all the girls, until the daugher who has two boys and a very strong sense of jealousy and unfairness protested) can choose one of her dishes and it will be theirs after she no longer needs dishes. She's collected a lot of nice pieces, as grandmas do by vitue of being female and being around a long time. I've told her that all I really want is the lefse spatula and the rolling pin. She thinks I'm silly for that.
She's told me I'm the only one of her grandchildren who really likes it, and this made her call me the most Norwegian of them, which made me smile because I am a dork.
It starts out normally enough; a bunch of potatoes are peeled, washed, cut up, and tossed into Grandma's biggest pot (she calls it a kettle, and it comes out "kittle") until the water boils and the potatoes are soft. It's just like making mashed potatoes. And in fact she did mash them, maybe with a little butter or something to stick them together, but they're largely potatoes.
(When I was little I didn't believe it was made of potatoes. I hadn't really speculated on what it was made of, but when I was told that the main ingredient was potatoes, I knew that couldn't be right. I'd seen mashed potatoes and baked potatoes and chips and fries and hashbrowns, but I'd never seen a potato made into a thin, flat disk with brown spots on it and little lines all over one side. I'd never eaten a potato with butter and sugar. I knew better.)
The potatoes were then put through an exotic instrument my grandma called a ricer. It has little holes in it, so when you put the mashed potatoes in there and pressed them down, they came out in a shape that could indeed be seen as something resembling rice.
Then the potatoes are rolled into balls and lined up on a piece of wax paper. Grandma brought out the lefse griddle, which covered the two front burners of the stove, and the lefse spatula, which I was soon to learn the use of, because it would be my job to turn them over while she rolled out more of the aforementioned flat disks with little lines on them. The little lines come from the lefse rolling pin, which has lots of little grooves in it. Grandma told me this is so the lefse can be rolled thinner than it could be otherwise.
She'd put two of the potato disks on the griddle and I'd watch them until they started to get brown spots, which meant it was time to turn them over. The lefse spatula at first seemed very unsuited to this task, because it was about an inch wide and a piece of lefse is about the size of a dinner plate. The spatula was tapered, though, so I could slide it under the lefse and try to flip it over.
I wasn't particularly good at first—though my grandpa didn't mind that, because he only likes to eat lefse when it's hot and fresh and the butter melts and drips down his chin (though I think he will compromise and heat it up in the microwave these days). So he ate the ones I tore, and I soon learned the knack of not tearing them. He ate some unbroken ones one I stopped breaking them. Grandma said she liked having me help instead of him because he'd neglect the turning in favor of the eating.
It doesn't take long to describe, and the lefse recipes, where they even exist outside people's heads, are very simple. But it took all day to make them, and it was a great day. Grandma and Grandpa's tiny kitchen was warm from the gas stove, and we talked about lots of things I immediately forgot about, even though (as good Minnesotan/Scandinavian types) my family are not very talkative. And at the end of it, we had about 90 pieces of lefse cooling until they were ready to be packed away.
Almost all of it would be frozen. Grandma wraps them in plastic wrap, in bunches of half a dozen or so. That way she can thaw a few at a time because lefse won't last very long if it's left out. She usually makes it just before Christmas. I have always associated lefse and pickled herring (and, when I was younger and luckier, krumkake) with Christmas. It gets handed ot to the family and some neighbors and whatnot, too. When I'm home for winter break she always gives me some lefse to take back to college with me.
I eat mine with butter and sugar—just enough butter to make the sugar stick, and brown sugar is definitely better than granulated sugar. Then roll it up and eat it; it's gone before I know it.
My grandma has told us for years now that all of the grandchildren (it was going to be all the girls, until the daugher who has two boys and a very strong sense of jealousy and unfairness protested) can choose one of her dishes and it will be theirs after she no longer needs dishes. She's collected a lot of nice pieces, as grandmas do by vitue of being female and being around a long time. I've told her that all I really want is the lefse spatula and the rolling pin. She thinks I'm silly for that.
She's told me I'm the only one of her grandchildren who really likes it, and this made her call me the most Norwegian of them, which made me smile because I am a dork.
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(no subject)
Date: 2004-08-22 04:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-08-22 05:45 pm (UTC)Sour cream, apple sauce and maybe a touch of sugar for me.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-08-23 03:01 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-08-23 01:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-08-23 04:52 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-08-23 02:35 am (UTC)This little story brightened the end of a long day.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-08-23 05:35 pm (UTC)some of my most favorite memories are of being around my Gram in her kitchen.
thanks for the walk down memory lane!
(no subject)
Date: 2004-08-26 01:56 pm (UTC)