Finland-Swedes in Michigan

Finland-Swedish Recipes

73 Appendix 1 Finland-SwedishRecipes S ome of the best-known recipes that Finland-Swedes are associated with deal with the bounty of the sea. Various fish dishes are well known in Finland and were brought by immigrants to the New World. The following collection of recipes begins with the traditional Christmas entrée of lutefisk, which is shared by many Swedes and Norwegians as well. Lutefisk: Fishy Rite Has an Air about It, by Karen Douglas It wasn’t the Christmas shopping that got me down last week. It was all the problems I had trying to locate all those little pink nose plugs to go along with Christmas Eve dinner. That’s right, dear family. We’re having lutefisk again. After all, the lye-soaked cod is the fish of a Scandinavian Christmas. Why, it’s so popular that poems have been written about it, songs are sung, and Scandinavian sailors have been known to jump ship in the middle of the North Atlantic at the sound of its name! Growing up with lutefisk as I did—with a Finnish-born mother and a Swedish father—I can only associate its pungent odor right along with the sweet fragrance of scented candles, pine greens—and Christmas. And, who am I, after all these centuries, to defy a family tradition because of a smell. I must have been only five or six years old when I first remember Daddy 74 Mika R oinila coming home with that big white package tucked under his arm, which he promptly carried downstairs to the basement. It was just about two weeks before Christmas. Following close behind, I stood by and watched as he carefully unwrapped the sun-dried cod, which strongly resembled a thick, white board— undoubtedly sturdy enough to sole your shoes. “What are you going to do with that thing?” I asked, with typical childlike curiosity. “Oh, just give the fish a little bath,” he replied, filling the large galvanized steel tub with cold water. Day after day I watched as Daddy changed the bathwater, ridding the fish of the lye and making it fit for consumption. It wasn’t long before the dry cardboard-type flesh began to swell and take shape. By Christmas Eve Day, Daddy announced it was “ready.” I watched again as he and Mama lifted the beautiful white fish from the bathtub, wrapped it in cheesecloth, and put it on the stove to cook in a large, white enamel pan. An hour later, the odor emanating from our kitchen defied description. “Oooooo! What’s that awful, awful smell,” I asked, as I watched my mother standing over the hot stove. “Hush, little one,” my mother replied, in her broken English. “Go take your place at the table. Dinner’s almost ready.” The dining room was bathed in the warm, soft glow of candlelight. Mama’s best white linen cloth covered the festive table along with her best china, crystal, and the sterling silverware. Beside each plate was a small sauce dish filled with melted butter. Only on Christmas Eve would we have the special privilege of dipping our boiled potatoes in our very own sauce dish. “It’s ready,” Mama called from the kitchen. We turned and watched as she came through the door carrying the large platter, much like one of the three wise men bearing a treasured gift. The fish, covered with a nutmegsprinkled white cream sauce, was surrounded by parsley. As she set it down between Daddy and I, the white blob of jelly seemed to shimmer and shake. “Do we have to eat it?” I asked. “Oh, it’s real good,” Daddy replied. “Fish is brain food. Remember fish swim in schools,” he said, with a wink of his eye—a characteristic I neither understood nor had accomplished at that age. “Albert! Don’t tell her that,” my mother admonished as she placed a small portion on my plate. “Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without lutefisk.” Seeing the frustration, and the obvious question written all over my face, my sister Anita came to my rescue. “Hold your nose, Karen, make sure it has lots of white sauce and cranberries on it, and get your glass of milk ready,” she F INL AND-SWEDES IN MICHI GAN 75 suggested, somewhat sympathetically. I took a bite. The small, slimy piece slithered down my throat. It didn’t taste too bad—kind of like sea-flavored Jell-O. The thought was revolting. Years...