Aces High Bulletin Board
General Forums => The O' Club => Topic started by: slimm50 on December 17, 2004, 09:15:43 AM
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Heheh....I didn't know what "lutefisk" was, so I did a Google search, and found the following:
The Power of Lutefisk
"Lutefisk" is an infamous Norwegian dish composed of fish soaked in lye. Want to know more?
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From: clays@panix.com (Clay Shirky)
Newsgroups: alt.folklore.urban
Subject: Ode to Lutefisk (Long)
Date: Sun, 04 Dec 1994 09:11:19 -0500
It is my wont when travelling to forgo the touristic in favor of the real, to pesuade my kind hosts, whoever they may be, that an evening in the local, imbibing pints of whatever the natives use as intoxicants, would be more interesting than another espresso in another place called Cafe Opera. Chiefest among my interests is the Favorite Dish: the plate, cup, or bowl of whatever stuff my hosts consider most representative of the regions virtues. As I just finished a week's work in Oslo, this dish was of course lutefisk.
(snd f/x: organ music in minor key - cresc. and out.)
The Norwegians are remarkably single-minded in their attachment to the stuff. Every one of them would launch themselves into a hydrophobic frenzy of praise on the mere mention of the word. Though these panegyrics were as varied as they were fulsome, they shared one element in common. Every testimonial to the recondite deliciousness of cod soaked in lye ended with the phrase "...but I only eat it once a year."
When I pressed my hosts as to _why_ they would voluntarily forswear what was by all accounts the tastiest fish dish since ***** 364 days a year, each of them said "Oh, you can't eat lutefisk more than once a year." (Their unanmity on this particular point carried with it the same finality as the answers you get when casually asking a Scientologist about L. Ron's untimely demise.)
Despite my misgivings from these interlocutions however, there was nothing for it but to actually try the stuff, as it was clearly the local delicacy. A plan was hatched whereby my hosts and I would distill ourselves to a nearby brasserie, and I would order something tame like reindeer steak, and they would order lutefisk. The portions at this particular establishment were large, they assured me, and when I discovered for myself how scrumptious jellied fish tasted, I could have an adequate amount from each of their plates to satiate my taste for this new-found treat.
Ah, but the best laid plans... My hostess, clearly feeling in a holiday mood (and perhaps further cheered by my immanent departure as their house guest) proceeded to order lutefisks all round.
"But I was going to order reinde..."
"Nonononono," she said, "you must have your own lutefisk. It would be rude to bring you to Norway and not give you your own lutefisk."
My mumbled suggestion that I had never been one to stand on formality went unnoticed, and moments later, somewhere in the kitchen, there was a lutefisk with my name on it.
The waitress, having conveyed this order to the chef, returned with a bottle and three shot glasses and spent some time interogating my host. He laughed as she left, and I asked what she said.
"Oh she said 'Is the American _really_ going to eat lutefisk?' and when I told her you were, she said that it takes some time to get used to it."
"How long?" I asked.
"Well, she said a couple of years." replied my host.
In the meantime, my hostess was busily decanting a clear liquid into the shot glass and passing it my way. When I learned that it was aquavit, I demurred, as I intended to get some writing done on the train.
"Oh no," said my hostess, donning the smile polite people use when giving an order, "you _must_ have aquavit with lutefisk."
To understand the relationship between aquavit and lutefisk, here's an experiment you can do at home. In addition to aquavit, you will need a slice of lemon, a cracker, a dishtowel, ketchup, a piece of lettuce, some caviar, and a Kit-Kat candy bar.
1. Take a shot aquavit.
2. Take two. (They're small.)
3. Put a bit of caviar on a bit of lettuce.
4. Put the lettuce on a cracker.
5. Squeeze some lemon juice on the caviar.
6. Pour some ketchup on the Kit-Kat bar.
7. Tie the dishtowel around your eyes.
If you can taste the difference between caviar on a cracker and ketchup on a Kit-Kat while blindfolded, you have not had enough aquavit to be ready for lutefisk. Return to step one.
The first real sign of trouble was when a plate arrived and was set in front of my host, sitting to my left. It contained a collection of dark and aromatic food stuffs of a variety of textures. Having steeled myself for an encounter with a pale jelly, I was puzzled at its appearance, and I leaned over to get a better look.
"Oh," said my host, "that's not lutefisk. I changed my mind and ordered the juletid plate. Its is pork and sausages."
"But you're leaving for New York tomorrow, so tonight is your last chance to have lutefisk this year" I pointed out.
"Oh well," he said, tucking into what looked like a very tasty pork chop.
Shortly thereafter the two remaining plates arrived, each containing the lutefisk itself, boiled potatoes, and a mash of peas from which all the color had been expertly tortured. There was also a garnish of a slice of cucumber, a wedge of lemon, and a sliver of red pepper.
"This is bull****!" said my hostess, snatching the garnish off her plate.
"What's wrong," I asked, "not enough lemon?"
"No, a plate of lutefisk should be totally gray!"
Indeed, with the removal of the garnish, it was totally gray, and waiting for me to dig in. There being no time like the present, I tore a forkful away from the cod carcass and lifted it to my mouth.
"Wait," said my host, "you can't eat it like that!"
"OK," I said, "how should I eat it?"
"Mash up your potatoes, and then mix a bit of lutefisk in, and then add some bacon." he said, handing me a tureen filled to the brim with bacon bits floating in fat.
I began to strain some of the bits out of the tureen. "No, not like that, like this" he said, snatching up the tureen and pouring three fingers of pure bacon grease directly over the beige mush I had made from the potatoes and lutefisk already on my plate.
"Now can I eat it?"
"No, not yet, you have to mix in the mustard."
"And the pepper" added my hostess, "you have to have lutefisk with lots and lots of pepper. And then you have to eat it right away, because if it gets cold its horrible."
They proceeded to add pepper and mustard in amounts I felt were more apporpriate to ingredients rather than flavors, but no matter. At this point what I had was an undercooked hash brown with mustard on it, flavored with a little bit of lutefisk. "How bad could it be?" I thought to myself as I lifted my fork to my mouth.
The moment every traveller lives for is the native dinner where, throwing caution to the wind and plunging into a local delicacy which ought by rights to be disgusting, one discovers that it is not only delicious but that it also contradicts a previously held prejudice about food, that it expands ones culinary horizons to include surprising new smells, tastes, and textures.
Lutefisk is not such a dish.
Lutefisk is instead pretty much what you'd expect of jellied cod; it is a foul and odiferous goo, whose gelatinous texture and rancid oily taste are locked in spirited competition to see which can be the more responsible for rendering the whole completely inedble.
How to describe that first bite? Its a bit like describing passing a kidneystone to the uninitiated. If you are talking to someone else who has lived through the experience, a nod will suffice to acknowledge your shared pain, but to explain it to the person who has not been there, mere words seem inadequate to the task. So it is with lutefisk. One could bandy about the time honored phrases like "nauseating sordid gunk", "unimaginably horrific", "lasting psychological damage", but these seem hollow when applied to the task at hand. I will have to resort to a recipe for a kind of metaphorical lutefisk, to describe the experience. Take marshmallows made without sugar, blend them together with overcooked Japanese noodles, and then bathe the whole liberally in acetone. Let it marinate in cod liver oil for several days at room temprature. When it has achieved the appropriate consistency (though the word "appropriate" is somewhat problematic here), heat it to just above lukewarm, sprinkle in thousands of tiny, sharp, invisible fish bones, and serve.
The waitress, returning to clear our plates, surveyed the half-eaten goo I had left.
She nodded conspiritorially at me, said something to my host, and left.
"What'd she say?, I asked.
"Oh, she said 'I never eat lutefisk either. It tastes like python.'"
Clay "I think my mistake was in using the dishtowel: you need to drink enough aquavit so you can't tell the difference between caviar on a cracker and ketchup on a Kit-Kat with your eyes open"
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:rofl :D :aok
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LOL.
Did anyone see that "King of the Hill" were Bobby ate all that lutefisk at church? "why did you have to tatse so good"
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<-- nods
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Smoking lutefisk is another way to be close to the stars ...
I myself survived lutefisk.
(I won't hide my pride :D)
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I have eaten it and it is disgusting in both texture and taste.
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Originally posted by straffo
Smoking lutefisk is another way to be close to the stars ...
I myself survived lutefisk.
(I won't hide my pride :D)
Smoked it? Was it hard to keep lit? What's the Buzz like?
:confused:
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Originally posted by NUKE
LOL.
Did anyone see that "King of the Hill" were Bobby ate all that lutefisk at church? "why did you have to tatse so good"
LOL no.
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Ah, lutefisk. I remember lutefisk well....
I remember the first time my father took me lutefisking, when I was 8 years old. It was the opening day of lutefisk season in Western PA, Feb 11th 1963, lutefiskerfirstday.
I was trembling with excitement; I barely slept at all. We had spent the entire week before tying lutefisk flies and winding our reels with lutewire. I had my lutepole well oiled, and my father had his old BAR loaded with .30 cal tracer rounds.
At 4AM, my father knocked on my bedroom door; my brother and I jumped out of bed! We had slept in our long underwear and overalls, and all we had to to was wolf our breakfasts of grits and johnnycakes as we pulled on our coats and mittens and boots; we helped each other wrap our leggings, and we completed our ensembles with the traditional pink taffeta tutus and honking red clown noses... how we had yearned to don the ceremonial garb of the lutefiskerman, and now the time had finally come!
We carted our equipment and tackle down to Dad's Studebaker Lark wagon, and as Dad hooked up the jumper cables from the Country Squire to the Stude, my brother Jimmy and I secured the acetylene torches and the portable arc welder in the back. Finally the Stude clattered to life, and we drove the backroads to my uncle Aloysius' house. There he stood in his driveway, bald, the ugly red axe scar behind his left ear, holding his Lewis Gun, proudly alert in his pink tutu and clown nose and leggings... and as we drew closer we could see, through the thick cloud of cigar smoke, his rosy red cheek makeup, the mark of a Lutefiskerman First Order!
Aloysius crawled into the rear of the Studey and let out an ear-splitting whistle. Around the corner his lutefiskerdogs came running, Markie and Wilson. The two dogs were known around the patch as expert lutefiskerdogs, not unusual for AKC bred Yorkies; the ony better breed for lutefisking is the Basenji, and Basenji are notoriously skittish in the cold, so for Aloysius it was Yorkie all the way. Markie and Wilson (or Mark and Will, as we affectionately called them) had been raised from pups to go wild in the presence of lutefisk. I'd heard tales of Mark and Will jumping into the water and doing backflips as large schools of lutefisk swam near shore! (Later, a movie was supposedly made about Wilson, called "Good Will Hunting"; I haven't got up the nerve to see it, though, thinking about that little doggie always makes me cry.)
We drove down along the Mighty Monongahela River, laughing and singing lustily along to the radio as it played traditional lutefisk music; "O here we go a lutefisking", and "I love to go, a lutefisking" (these songs were later bastardized into "The Wassail Song" [whatever THAT is, probably something disgusting like spiced fruit and brandy] and the absurd "The Happy Wanderer" [yeah, dude, wander around with your knapsack all you want, you ain't got no lutefisk tho]). We finally got to Dad and Aloysius' secret lutefisking spot, down by the USSteel Clairton Works, where the water from the battery quenchers discharged into the river, next to where the slag barges were moored, where the heat from the acid kept the ice from forming at the outlet tube. It was bitter cold, no more than 8*, but we were so excited that it felt like midsummer. Jimmy almost tore his tutu on the door handle as he raced for the shoreline to set up his pole; Uncle Aloysius tossed his whiskey bottle into the ice and laughed maniacally as he discharged the BAR toward the river, and the tracer shells ricocheted among the barges in the pre-dawn darkness. It was magical. We felt the love, like real family does.
My Dad and Jim yanked the arc welder and the torches from the car, and they started to work cutting up the nearest barge and welding the pieces into a lutefiskerform (the traditional platform on which all respectable lutefiskerman sit as they lutefisk). Im the gloaming across the river I saw a security guard point at us and shout something; Uncle Al let loose a whoop and a burst of .303 from the Lewis, and we were left alone and in blessed peace. I looked around me then, as the day slowly dawned, and marveled at the beauty of the spot where lutefisk gathered to frolic; the frozen rat carcasses, the globs of coal tar littering the river banks, the old tires and broken glass... I'd never seen such a pastoral marvel. It was like being inside one of those ten thousand piece jigsaw puzzles, you know the ones, with the paintings of the impossibly beautiful scenes from some imaginary world!
So then we hunkered down to lutefisking. Dad always said that if you want to catch a monster you can't use a minnow for bait, so we had tied lutefisk flies the size of bullfrogs, the size of rock cornish game hens (we'd read about those in Look magazine), the size of baseballs, some of the largest lutefiskflies I'd ever seen... until Uncle Al reached down into his pants and pulled out what looked to be a basketball, it was so big! He brought it over to us, giggling madly like the escaped mental patient that he was, and as he got closer we saw that it was a huge lutefly, or better said, luteFLIES! Uncle Al had spent the entire previous year sitting on his back porch staring at the insect strips dangling from the porch ceiling, and now we knew why! As the flies had become trapped by the sticky glue of the strip, Uncle Al had been carefully collecting them with tweezers and putting them in the crisper section of his old Crosley refrigerator, thereby keeping them nice and meaty, just for this day; and now, he had taken one of Aunt Marnie's stockings and carefully crafted an orb of fly carcasses, enmeshed in nylon, for our lutefiskefirstday!
We stared slackjawed as he jammed the lutelure over the barbs on the grappling hook. "Dis be how da pros do dis," he said sagely, with a raised eyebrow and a hiccup. Jim and I couldn't even speak, we were so in awe of the power of my uncle. Dad, meanwhile, was so proud, his boys lutefisking, with him, on lutefiskerfirstday! He opened his flask and took another long hit of whatever it was that made him so happy on those days that we could get him out of bed before 3 in the afternoon.
Uncle Aloysius finished securing the lutefiskeflyball to the grappling hook, and then hitched the hook to the wire rope with the 4-bolt clamp; he looked at it for a minute, then spat, and let out about 50 yards of slack from the winch next to the long metal lutepole holding the line. He took the lure over to the Stude, and jammed in inside the back window; then he rolled the window up until thewire was trapped inbetween the window and the frame. "Watch this,", my Dad whispered, quivering himself with excitement. "Al figgered this'n out all by hissef."
Al got in the Studebaker and put it in gear, and started driving sloooowwwwwwwly away from the river. As he drove, the slack came out of the line. He drove a little farther, and the lutefly came up snug against the back window of the Stude. He drove a little farther, and the lutepole started to bend. He drove a little farther, and the lutewire started to stretch. He drove a little farther, and the wire streeeeeeetched a lilttle bit more, and my Dad started to snicker, and then started to laugh uncontrollably, because he knew what... BANGZZZZSZZZZIP! The back window BLEW out of the Stude, the pole snapped upright, the wire SHOT out across the frozen river, and the lutefiskefly went SOARING in a great big beautiful arc across the rising sun, landing right smack dab in the middle of the biggest ice floe on the mighty Monongahela, almost a hundred yards away! Uncle Al staggered out of the car, laughing so hard I thought he was going to die, he was turning almost black with laughter then breathing in HUGE amounts of air with that asthmatic wheeze of his; my dad couldn't keep it anymore, he was crying and laughing and rolling on the ground. You'da thought both Uncle Al AND he were certifiably insane, and maybe they were, y'know, maybe they were; after all, they were lutefiskermen, teaching kids to be lutefiskermen!
"Oh aitch ee double hockey sticks, Aloysius, let's set up the artillery; you don't want these little minnows thinking that lutefisking is like a circus, do ya?" Dad said, as he reattached his rubber nose that had fallen off, and he and Uncle Aloysius set up the Lewis gun and the BAR to wait. I started to say something, and the grownups SSSSSShhhh'd me, so we sat there and waited in the 8* cold dawn, in our tutus and clown noses and mittens, the glass from the back window of the Stude sparkling among the rat carcasses as the ice floes in the river moaned and groaned as they shifted. And we sat. And we sat. And we sat....
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Suddenly Markie's ears perked up. Will started barking. I'd never seen them like that! They both were jumping up and down, turning in circles, whimpering, running up to the water and running back to us! Dad and Al looked at us, at the dogs, and then at each other. They smiled, and Al said, "You ready, Felton?" (My dad's name was Felton. He invented felt, and the past tense of the word "feel", but you probably figured that out from his name.) And Dad answered, "Shut up and lutefisk, Al..." and just then, the biggest... the biggest THING I ever saw, before or since, came SMASHING up through the ice! I had to invent the word LEVIATHAN to describe it! It was huge, and it was gray, and it quivered like jelly! It had thousands of tiny little bones all through it, and it had no eyes and no mouth, no discernable features at all, really! It lunged toward the lutefiskfly sitting on the ice floe!
I instinctively reached for the lutefiskpole, figuring to egg the monster on, then hook it and reel it in to us, thus capturing the first lutefisk of the season; but Uncle Al shoved me down and out of the way, as he and Dad opened fire on it. They raked the lutefiskeflesh mercilessly, the rounds whacking into it like bbs into jello, and pieces of lutefiskemeat tore off and littered the ice like in a bad slasher movie. A deafening roar rent the sky as the lutefisk flopped about, writhing, looking for safety. Suddenly I felt sick; this wasn't what I had expected! This wasn't sporting at all! The firing stopped, and the air was full of the smell of cordite and lutefiskeflesh. I wanted to run somewhere; I wanted to go home, to my bed and my dimestore comics, anywhere but this, this lutefiskekillingfield! I looked around; Jimmy was in the car, crying. I stood there, transfixed, as Dad and Uncle Al shouldered their weapons, and started moving towards the river with their lutefiskesacks, to harvest the rewards of their spree. My dad walked over and put his arm around me, and straightened out my tutu. "So, son, now you know. Or, at least now you THINK you know." I looked at him. His eyes were watery, and glazed over. "Son, you think this is bad. But now... now we have to EAT it."
I shall now return to lurking mode.
Mosca
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:rofl
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:aok :lol
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Lol... it seem that Lutefisk should remain a well guarded norwegian "secret":D
No hope of me making millions exporting it to the ah community
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What the hell was that?
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" Perk the LuteFisk!!!"
:D
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Extraordinaire Mosca :aok
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mosca... that was ten times better than the depressing crap that we had to read from the "new yorker" in another thread.
thanks
lazs
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Ohhhh My Sides......
:rofl
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Given the choice between making people laugh or making them yawn, I'll always choose to make them laugh
Tom
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The Scandinavian delicacy known as lutefisk - which means, literally, "cod soaked in plutonium"- dates to the Viking era.
Journals from that era tell us that Vikings often came ashore and shuffled along with their hands in their pockets. Their funny appearance (huge,musk ox trousers) and vocabulary (Whooaa! Like Svenjornssen, dude! Whooaaa!") frightened the villagers.
So one day, women from the Jvoorssen, Bjaastivik and Njorkssen families prepared a special meal for the Vikings.
First, they gathered cod in the traditional Scandinavian way. That's right, they wrapped their sturdy arms around the middle sections of seals and squeezed real hard.(This would later become known as the Heimlich maneuver, which today is used to save the lives of people who have an entire codfish lodged in their throats.)
After gathering the cod - despite what I may have implied earlier - they did not soak the fish in plutonium. No the women really wanted the Vikings to suffer.
So they soaked the cod - here I am not kidding - in lye. The same lye, as you know, that is an industrial chemical and in used today as a drain cleaner.
With that lutefisk information in my head I went to our village's annual Lutefisk Dinner recently, a marvelous night of traditional Scandinavian dining put on by the local Sons of Norway club. The main course, not surprisingly, was the very same delicacy served to the Vikings.
Anyway, the Vikings ate heartily of this marvelous new food, despite having to chew so hard and long on the rubbery fish that in many cases, horns actually grew out of their heads (see encyclopedia drawings).
Textbooks tell us that within a few years the Viking era had ended. Most historians think the advent of more powerful weapons doomed the proud, sea-faring warriors. But some historians cling to another theory: It's pretty hard to wander the globe plundering and pillaging when you cannot wander more than 50 feet from the toilet.
Despite this somewhat negative side-effect - during the Lutefisk Era the Vikings had a common saying: "Leif Ericson hazzen sparts vection agenn!" ("Leif Ericson has the sports section again!") - lutefisk actually became popular with the residents of the Scandinavian countries. This would include Norway, Sweden, Denmark and Minnesota.
In the centuries since, lutefisk has not only remained a crowd-pleaser among the Scandinavian people, it has also become important in the training of sled dogs. Today, a common cry from the musher on the sled - one that causes even a veteran dog to quiver - is "Vichvun yew moots vants da lutefisk?" or " Which one of you mutts wants da lutefisk?"
But back to the dinner.
The Sons of Norway should not be confused with a similar-sounding group, the Sons of Silence. For one thing, the sons of Silence do not hold a Lutefisk Dinner each year. And, of course, the Sons of Norway don't wear helmets, goggles and protective leather clothing.
Unless they are preparing lutefisk..
The dinner was to start at 5 p.m. but I arrived at 4:30 remembering the old Norwegian saying Erly birdin ut letefisk, den dees ("The early bird catches the lutefisk, then dies.").
The Sons of Norway dress up for big events such as Lutefisk Night. Many women wore the brightly colored, old-fashioned dresses of Scandinavia. The men looked just as snappy in their finest herringbone sports jackets - the traditional Scandinavian kind made entirely of herring bones.
(Important note: So that I do not offend a huge group of people with some of these cheap, flippant remarks, I'd like to point out right here that Scandinavians are a striking handsome people. This makes them nearly the exact opposite of the English.)
Anyway, at 5 p.m. the eating began. The dinner was held at the Benet Hill Monastery cafeteria, a facility chosen to host the Lutefisk Dinner because of the warm hospitality and, of course, because of the monks training in the Last Rites.
Throughout the dinner, an accordion player entertained the crowd with all the traditional lutefisk-eating songs. This included the very popular "Sven Vood Rather yeet His Trousers" and the foot-tapping favorite, Ivane, Ivane, Your Lutefisk Has Cleared My Drain."
The highlight for me came when KKTV reporter Ann Ervin asked me to speak to a live TV audience about my experience with lutefisk. She made this request roughly 1.4 seconds after handing me a plate containing a chunk of lutefisk that was the same size as my head, along with a plastic fork.
The plastic fork, it turns out, could not cute the lutefisk, which is also used as roofing material in Denmark.
But because the camera was rolling - and because I could not seem to recall the Norwegian word for "chainsaw" - I stuffed the entire slab of Sons of Norway lutefisk into my mouth and swallowed.
Well, I've got to wrap this up now.
Seems another guy also had a bit too much lutefisk.
I say this because he is presently screaming "Oh , Good Lard! Ven vill yew be dun in dare?" and ramming his head against the door so hard that it it making the seat vibrate.
:rofl
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:rofl
At X-mas time good old LIPEÄKALA (LIPE'AE'KALA) rise its ugly head again.
Wanna some more you greenyellow-faced tourist, eh?! :lol
:rofl :rofl :rofl
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Amazing; Mosca :)
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Am I twisted??? I´m 40, married...and...I like "lutfisk":D , fish conserved in lye...
:D :D :D
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I'll see your lukefisk, and raise you a menudo.