SCANDINAVIAN TORTILLAS!

First of all, I have to apologize to all the Scandinavians who might read this blog.

What I'm going to write about are not "Scandinavian Tortillas" at all.

It's much better than that and should not have been blackened with my jokey phrase.

What I'm expounding about a bit here is the amazing, wonderful, delicious Norwegian flatbread known as lefse, or lefsa.

Coming from a family with a strong Norwegian background, I grew up with my grandmother's homemade lefse.

It's made with (often) leftover mashed potatoes, milk or cream, and  butter.

Wikipedia tells me it's made with "riced" potatoes and may use lard in place of the milk or cream.

It's a long and laborious process involving special rolling pins with grooves, a broad skillet (or lefsa pan) and lots of time.

Some cooks say they should be rolled out thin enough to see through.

And speaking of cooks, the genes were passed down in my family.

A nephew in North Dakota has sponsored an annual Lefsepalooza on the day after Thanksgiving where members of his far flung family, friends and neighbors come together in his spacious garage to turn out dozens of lefses.

A friend of years ago in South Dakota does it all himself but still produces lots of lefse.

A cousin of mine in Montana may also make lefse every year when the weather turns brisk and the holidays approach.

And year after year, I have entreated all of these people to please, please, please send me some of their product.

Have they listened?

Have they laughed at me?

Yes, probably both.

But have they ever answered my prayers?

Never.

NEVER!

Lo, all these many years, I have been lefse lost.

But then.

But THEN.

BUT THEN!

I spoke of my many years long search to another cousin.

She has participated in the Lefsepalooza.

She seemed surprised.

But sympathetic.

And today in the mail I received a package from her with THIRTY PIECES OF LEFSE inside!

To anyone without Scandinavian blood, you can't know how I felt when with trembling hands I removed a piece, buttered it, sugared it, rolled it and ate it.

That's my preferred method of devouring it, though some have been known to use it as a plate for Swedish meatballs and gravy or, lord forgive me for mentioning this detestable dish, LUTEFISK!)

Then I called my darling cousin, Cherie, who has lived all of her life in Minot, North Dakota, where lefse is as common as, well, tortillas, and from my knees thanked her for her generous answer to my plight.

"So, how was it?" she asked.

I replied carefully but honestly.

"Wonderful, but not as good as Grandma's."