“If we’re ever going to make it right,” my mother said to me, “I think we’re going to have to take a road trip.”
Though we’ve often tried, my mother and I have never been able to duplicate my great-grandmother’s lefse. No fancy roller, special griddle, or hotsy-totsy organic flour has ever helped us recreate this Norwegian specialty, a staple in my mother’s household when she was a child. Still, we remain determined.
“There has to be a secret,” she added. “Something I missed.”
This was hardly a surprise. Though we come from a long line of Norwegian chefs, my mother was not so hot in the kitchen. We think it skipped a generation.
Still, after years spent in her grandmother’s kitchen, which doubled as a bakery for a hotel and boarding house in Iola, Wisconsin, you’d think she could have figured it out.
“All right,” I said, resigned to spending two hours in the car with my mother. “A road trip, then.”
Traditional Norwegian fare, lefse is a soft flatbread made from potato, cream, and butter. Not exactly healthy, see? But oh - the taste! My mouth waters just to think of it, served with butter, sugar, and cinnamon sprinkles. Heaven.
We set out on a crisp, fall morning. The maple leaves had just turned to shades of red and gold, and the bright sun cut through the chill in the air - just enough to put the top down on my vintage convertible. Well, if you cranked the heat and put the windows up.
“What’s the point of putting the top down if you’re just going to have to have the windows up?” my mother grumbled. “We look ridiculous.” I didn’t care.
Iola is a small town about an hour’s drive from Wausau, Wisconsin, where we both live now. Time flew as the car twisted through the country roads.
“If you’re going to make the lefse, it’s important that you understand it,” she said. “Not everyone makes it right.”
“Obviously,” I said, giving her a pointed look. She ignored me.
We arrived at the Iola Bakery & Cafe, owned by my mother’s cousin Vi, well before the lunch crowd. Downtown Iola is a lesson in history; the red brick buildings have been there for a century or more. A fire took out the hotel years ago, but the rest of the downtown remains much the same as it was in my mother’s day. I could picture her giggling with her sister at the corner ice cream shop, or going to see a movie at the ancient theater, now shuttered and empty. I wondered when the last film graced its screen.
A small woman dressed in purple from head to toe, Viola greeted us warmly as we walked through the door. She hugged me fiercely, while eying her cousin critically.
“Too thin,” she said. “Don’t you eat?”
“There’s no lefse in Wausau,” my mother replied.
“It’s not rocket science,” said Vi. “You should have helped out in the bakery when we were kids.” She turned to me. “Your mother was too busy chasing boys,” she added. My mother pretended not to hear.
“She still does that,” I said.
Vi led us to the back of the bakery. Among the ovens was an enormous griddle, next to which she had put out the supplies we’d need for our lesson in Norwegian cooking. She explained each step in the process, patiently taking us through boiling and ricing the potatoes, melting the lard, and mixing in the sugar, milk, and salt.
“Okay,” I said. “Lard is just gross. Nobody uses lard anymore.”
“We used melted butter,” my mother explained.
“There’s your trouble,” said Vi. “It’s gotta be lard. And don’t turn up your nose, young lady,” she warned, shaking her finger at me. My mother had obviously warned her about my health-nut tendencies.
We shrugged. Vi knew what to do.
After the flour was added, the dough was formed into balls, rolled out with a special rolling pin, and placed on a dry, hot griddle. We worked as a team, rolling one ball while the other one cooked, and quickly, it all came together. In under an hour, we had over a pound of lefse to take home and share. Amazing!
“You can freeze it for later,” our teacher explained.
On the way home, our package tucked carefully in the back seat, my mother smiled at me and grasped my hands in hers.
“Success!” she exclaimed. Suddenly, she wrinkled her nose. “You know,” she added, ”Vi was right. I should have paid better attention when we were kids.”
I laughed.
“At least now we know,” I said. “The secret is in the lard.”
Though we’ve often tried, my mother and I have never been able to duplicate my great-grandmother’s lefse. No fancy roller, special griddle, or hotsy-totsy organic flour has ever helped us recreate this Norwegian specialty, a staple in my mother’s household when she was a child. Still, we remain determined.
“There has to be a secret,” she added. “Something I missed.”
This was hardly a surprise. Though we come from a long line of Norwegian chefs, my mother was not so hot in the kitchen. We think it skipped a generation.
Still, after years spent in her grandmother’s kitchen, which doubled as a bakery for a hotel and boarding house in Iola, Wisconsin, you’d think she could have figured it out.
“All right,” I said, resigned to spending two hours in the car with my mother. “A road trip, then.”
Traditional Norwegian fare, lefse is a soft flatbread made from potato, cream, and butter. Not exactly healthy, see? But oh - the taste! My mouth waters just to think of it, served with butter, sugar, and cinnamon sprinkles. Heaven.
We set out on a crisp, fall morning. The maple leaves had just turned to shades of red and gold, and the bright sun cut through the chill in the air - just enough to put the top down on my vintage convertible. Well, if you cranked the heat and put the windows up.
“What’s the point of putting the top down if you’re just going to have to have the windows up?” my mother grumbled. “We look ridiculous.” I didn’t care.
Iola is a small town about an hour’s drive from Wausau, Wisconsin, where we both live now. Time flew as the car twisted through the country roads.
“If you’re going to make the lefse, it’s important that you understand it,” she said. “Not everyone makes it right.”
“Obviously,” I said, giving her a pointed look. She ignored me.
We arrived at the Iola Bakery & Cafe, owned by my mother’s cousin Vi, well before the lunch crowd. Downtown Iola is a lesson in history; the red brick buildings have been there for a century or more. A fire took out the hotel years ago, but the rest of the downtown remains much the same as it was in my mother’s day. I could picture her giggling with her sister at the corner ice cream shop, or going to see a movie at the ancient theater, now shuttered and empty. I wondered when the last film graced its screen.
A small woman dressed in purple from head to toe, Viola greeted us warmly as we walked through the door. She hugged me fiercely, while eying her cousin critically.
“Too thin,” she said. “Don’t you eat?”
“There’s no lefse in Wausau,” my mother replied.
“It’s not rocket science,” said Vi. “You should have helped out in the bakery when we were kids.” She turned to me. “Your mother was too busy chasing boys,” she added. My mother pretended not to hear.
“She still does that,” I said.
Vi led us to the back of the bakery. Among the ovens was an enormous griddle, next to which she had put out the supplies we’d need for our lesson in Norwegian cooking. She explained each step in the process, patiently taking us through boiling and ricing the potatoes, melting the lard, and mixing in the sugar, milk, and salt.
“Okay,” I said. “Lard is just gross. Nobody uses lard anymore.”
“We used melted butter,” my mother explained.
“There’s your trouble,” said Vi. “It’s gotta be lard. And don’t turn up your nose, young lady,” she warned, shaking her finger at me. My mother had obviously warned her about my health-nut tendencies.
We shrugged. Vi knew what to do.
After the flour was added, the dough was formed into balls, rolled out with a special rolling pin, and placed on a dry, hot griddle. We worked as a team, rolling one ball while the other one cooked, and quickly, it all came together. In under an hour, we had over a pound of lefse to take home and share. Amazing!
“You can freeze it for later,” our teacher explained.
On the way home, our package tucked carefully in the back seat, my mother smiled at me and grasped my hands in hers.
“Success!” she exclaimed. Suddenly, she wrinkled her nose. “You know,” she added, ”Vi was right. I should have paid better attention when we were kids.”
I laughed.
“At least now we know,” I said. “The secret is in the lard.”
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