Would they lye? Lutefisk lovers abound

600 flock to church for Norwegian dinner

By Karen Herzog of the Journal Sentinel
Posted: Dec. 5, 2009

Town of Ashippun - Why would 600 Norwegians and Norwegian wannabes flock to a remote country church on a Saturday afternoon in December to eat lye-soaked cod, drenched with melted butter?

For the same reason Green Bay Packers fans trek to Lambeau Field and huddle around Weber grills by the frozen tundra.

It's tradition.

The parade of Norwegian sweaters to St. Olaf Lutheran Church's annual lutefisk dinner has been a tradition since 1956, though the church's first lutefisk feasts predate World War II.

For some Norwegians, the year wouldn't be complete without a lutefisk fix at one of the oldest Norwegian Lutheran churches in Wisconsin, established 165 years ago. The church has grown as the lutefisk ("lye fish" in Norwegian) has become less toxic.

"My grandfather's fork would tarnish every time he ate lutefisk because of the lye," said Gordon Petersen, 75, of Ashippun, a regular at the St. Olaf lutefisk dinner. "We've eaten lutefisk for 70 years, and we're still alive," he added, turning to his brother, Allen Petersen, 69, also of Ashippun, in Dodge County.

A good dose of lutefisk will keep the H1N1 flu bug away, the brothers joked. And the smell will clear clogged sinuses, though neither the smell nor the lye is as prominent as it used to be.

Lutefisk begins as cod, swimming in the cold waters off Norway. It's caught, dried, and then reconstituted in water, a lye solution and more water. Lye - an industrial chemical used for cleaning drains - softens the thick, stiff pieces of cod. It's repeatedly rinsed by the Minnesota lutefisk processor before the bland cod is shipped to churches for lutefisk dinners.

A distinctive lye aroma still wafted through St. Olaf's on Saturday, as diners dug into steaming platters of lutefisk and all the fixings for the $14 Norwegian Christmas season feast, including lefse (a potato flatbread like a tortilla), hand-rolled Swedish meatballs, mashed rutabagas, festive cranberry salad, and homemade Scandinavian cookies.

A small army of volunteers cooked up 300 pounds of lutefisk, 140 pounds of Swedish meatballs, and 200 pounds of rutabagas grown by a longtime church member exclusively for the dinner, said organizer Jane Christensen.

"The lutefisk tastes fine," said 16-year-old Cody Millikin of the town of Erin, who volunteered at the dinner as a ticket-taker. "I just don't like the texture. It's like Jell-O. It jiggles. It's not like what fish is supposed to be like. But, whatever."

"It's like a soft-boiled egg," said Dick Landwehr of Hartland, a German who's Norwegian by marriage, and attended the dinner with his wife, Janet. He hasn't eaten lutefisk since he first tasted it 10 years ago.

"You don't have to chew it; it just slides down," Landwehr explained. "If you put enough melted butter on it, it tastes like melted butter."

The ethnic delicacy is considered an acquired taste, and most who love it, grew up eating it.

Properly cooked, the translucent fish is flaky.

In the wrong hands, lutefisk can turn into quivering hunks of pearly, gelatinous glop.

Church member Corrine Christensen lovingly tended St. Olaf's lutefisk for 35 years, before she died in March 2008.

"I learned from the master," said Jim Slumsden, who now mans the lutefisk kettles, steaming each batch of lutefisk for 12 minutes in boiling water before spearing pieces with a fork to check for doneness.

Before the church got a new kitchen with a larger fellowship hall in 2004, the fish was cooked the old-fashioned way - wrapped in cheesecloth and dropped into copper boilers. Stainless steel kettles with strainers replaced the copper boilers.

Lutefisk may have several hundred fans at St. Olaf's, but it's still the butt of jokes.

In the 1980s, the Wisconsin Legislature voted to exempt lutefisk from toxic-substance disclosure laws.

That debate led to the bumper sticker: WHEN LUTEFISK IS OUTLAWED, ONLY OUTLAWS WILL HAVE LUTEFISK.

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