In praise of white trash cooking

I’m a born and bred Minnesotan, a state settled by Norwegians, Swedes and Germans and a spattering of Finns, Poles and Russians. They recognised their homeland in the frigid winter tundra and bountiful farmland and their hearty culinary traditions prevailed just as the homesteaders did. Up until a few decades ago, before organised religion took a real hit, the local Lutheran church basement was where families and friends congregated to share coffee, sweet baked goods and savory bites. And as renowned as the silver-haired grandmothers who ran the church’s Women’s Auxiliary were the massive amounts of strange delicacies they produced for expectant crowds.

Lefse was generally reserved for special occasions. The thin, potato-based Norwegian flatbread is cooked fresh on a circular griddle, spread with butter, sprinkled with white sugar or lingonberry jam, and rolled by white-bearded, growly husbands and sticky-fingered children. There’s also the notoriously foul-smelling and gelatinous lutefisk, made with salted and dried cod that has been cured in lye and rehydrated, then cooked and served with cream sauce and potatoes – truly a food of the Old World and not for those with sensitive olfactory receptors.