It is said that half the Norwegians who immigrated to America came to escape the hated lutefisk, and the other half came to spread the gospel of its wonderfulness. That same love-hate relationship is alive and well today. Across the North, however, an appreciation for the lye-soaked fish certainly seems to abound.
Lutefisk lore places its origin in the age of the Vikings. One story claims that pillagers burned down a fishing village, including racks of drying cod. A rainstorm put out the flames, and the fish soaked in an ashy slush before eventually being rinsed, boiled and eaten. According to another legend, lutefisk was created in an attempt to poison plunderers — but, in grand Viking style, the raiders savored the dish rather than dying after dining.
Today, the delicacy isn’t often eaten in its native Scandinavia. Instead, it’s taken its rightful place among the North’s top cult-favorite fare. And that devotion runs deep. A 25-foot-long fiberglass cod named Lou T. Fisk welcomes visitors to the tiny town of Madison, Minnesota, the self-proclaimed “lutefisk capital of the world.” Minneapolis is home to the world’s largest lutefisk producer. And come autumn, the dish is served up in countless Lutheran churches and Nordic clubs across the region.
The prep begins long before the ammonia-like stench wafts up from the church basement kitchen. First, the cod is dried to a leathery texture. It is then soaked in lye — yes, the highly corrosive, highly reactive chemical commonly used to unclog drains and, in a morbid turn, dissolve bodies — for days if not weeks to reconstitute it. Finally, it undergoes several water rinses before being shipped off to its final destination to be cooked (most often boiled but alternately baked or steamed) and consumed.
Photography by Kate Cannon Photography
A lutefisk dinner can see hundreds if not thousands of attendees, a huge undertaking requiring considerable provisions and manpower (or, more accurately, a legion of church ladies). A typical meal involves hundreds of pounds of each of its elements: lutefisk, meatballs, potatoes, vegetables and the like — not to mention thousands of pieces of handmade lefse, the main attraction’s Scandinavian brethren. And then of course, there’s the butter, often served in large pitchers for easy pouring.
Lutefisk is described as being somewhat gelatinous in consistency and quite mild in taste, taking on the flavor of whatever sauce it’s drenched in — with a bit of a chemical undertone. Diners have remarked that there’s really no need to chew as the fish slides down on its own on account of its texture and toppings. Some truly enjoy the dish. Others can’t stand it. Perhaps the biggest draw is an overwhelming sense of allegiance to a long-standing tradition often associated with hardship and courage.
While the venue for such a smorgasbord is often a church, there’s no religion involved — though for some, it’s a near-religious experience. Understandably, lutefisk dinners have long drawn an older crowd, aficionados who have been partaking for decades. But it seems the younger generation, perhaps in an ode to its ancestors, is developing an appreciation for this love-it-or-leave-it delicacy that’s quite the acquired taste.
