By Joseph Christofferson
Photo credit: Lance Fisher
I never liked lefse, never liked the way the sugar crunched against
my teeth. You showed me how to put meat and cheese on it. People
think I'm crazy for doing this. I guess their grandmothers didn't
know what you knew.
Today my wife and I make our first batch. I have your griddle. She
rolls with her grandmother’s lefse pin. I have been wanting to make
lefse but couldn’t remember how. I made it with you so many times in
your kitchen when I was young. The only advice I remember you giving
was, “Until it looks right.”
What exactly does right look like?
I add flour to the bowl of prepared potatoes. Like you, I use my hands
to mix it in. I feel the stickiness leave. Little by little, the dough
takes form. This is what you meant. Not sticky but consistent. Soft.
Buttering rounds of the final product, we try a sample. My father smiles
and looks amazed. He says it tastes just like yours. Deep down, I really
hoped it would. Your griddle still knew how. My blood was still Norse.
You taught me these things meant something great.
I roll thin slices of summer sausage and cheese into the warm round. It
looks right. If anyone would agree, it would be you.
Joseph Christofferson is a junior at Bemidji State University pursuing a degree in psychology. He has been writing poetry for about ten years. He grew up in Park Rapids and now lives with his wife Kelsey in Bemidji, where he enjoys spending time with family and being outdoors.
Categories: Poetry
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