The following Field Report was received from P.N. Zoytlow on the 15th of December 2009. In many ways it is typical Zoytlow reportage and follows the usual formula that we associate with him. It may be that Zoytlow is in something of a rut. Number 17 is now the third North Dakota Field Report in half a year. This is not a complaint, just an observation that Zoytlow has become more sedentary or has found an irresistible vein of material in a region he himself labeled “mysterious.” On the other hand, his use of the first person to relay the information is unusual for a purported social scientist and may signal a break in his methodology. Time will tell, of course.
There are two methods of welcoming and enduring winter in Eastern North Dakota and I have tried them both. First, the only true means of enduring the darkness that descends along with the thermometer near the Winter Solstice each year is to purchase a quart jar (must be glass) of genuine Korean kim chee. A generous spoonful in the evening will suffice to balance off the gloom. However, it is equally important to find a means of embracing winter. While others may use the well-established extreme of ice fishing, in my opinion the consumption, once in December and once in January of lutefisk has a general palliative effect with unexpected resonant overtones no other method can match.
There are many who know of lutefisk only as an ethnic joke, one of the several things that makes Scandinavians of the Upper Midwest humorous to others and also to themselves. There is a tradition built around the notion that codfish soaked in lye and served hot is amusing; bumper stickers, T-shirts, aprons, and so on all give testimony to presumed mirth associated with this fish. After Ole and Lena jokes, lutefisk is probably the second most common topic of thigh-slapping fellows. I suppose anything can be rendered humorous and joke-worthy, but for purposes of this Field Report, lutefisk will not be considered one of them. Serious business.
“Codfish soaked in lye and served hot.” Was that a fair summation of the stuff which I will argue here is the “piece of cod that passes all understanding.” That line was read on a t-shirt some years ago and may be responsible for my reporting on lutefisk as a sacrament celebrated in church basements, community centers and at Sons of Norway lodges. I wish I had originated it but whoever did was risking the opprobrium of High Lutherans for its flagrant parody of Philippians 4:7 (i.e. “peace of God.” Can lutefisk be understood only as an improbable object of consumption or is it more? Only attendance at a Sons of Norway lutefisk dinner can possibly provide an answer, though the ultimate meaning of such gustatory behavior may indeed “pass all understanding.”
So what is lutefisk? Translated from the Norwegian as “lye fish” suggests something about the texture and odor of cod prepared in this specialized manner, but not why it occurs as a pillar of Nordic cultures. There is no agreement on the antiquity of the practice of reconstituting dried and split cod (called stockfish in this form) by soaking it in a bath of sodium hydroxide, or lye. Lye causes the fish to swell, lose some of its protein, and acquire a gelatinous texture. The soaking must be done in several stages until the caustic quality is reduced to the point where it can be, after cooking, safely eaten. Another food prepared with lye is hominy where dried maize is reconstituted and swells. Both lutefisk and hominy retain a hint of lye. This taste is perceived though cultural and highly personal lenses, something I am desperate to try to explain here.
At the Sons of Norway lodge in Fargo, and at similar lodges in other towns and cities, winter is a time of lutefisk dinners. In Fargo, these occur regularly on the first Sunday of the month with peak months being the two dreariest, December and January. Serving is done beginning at 11:45 until 1:30, timed to serve the many coming with appetites honed by piety from their respective houses of worship. Oh, the growling gullets of these solid folk as they entered the Sons of Norway clubhouse, and the discipline as they waited for their turns to enter the serving line. Such are the crowds that nearly everyone has to wait in a dining cohort, perhaps twenty persons whose assigned number entities them move forward from a holding area (the bar, defunct on a Sunday) together towards the serving line. Most of the diners are middle-aged and beyond, though not a few have brought younger members of the family along. They may have to wait for half an hour in which time the topics that appear to be most commonly exchanged in this nearly homogenous group of Nordics are apt to be (1) how cold is it and how cold has it been and how cold will it get? (2) memories of lutefisk consumption past (3) recent illnesses and deaths noted. This passes the time nicely. Occasionally some fellows will trade good-natured wit about how the smell coming out of the kitchen made them wonder if they should stay or how much butter it takes to make lutefisk edible.
The Sons of Norway lodge is meant to suggest all that is good, and strong about Norway itself. As with many descendants of immigrant groups, memory has not kept pace with modernity in the “old country.” How many of those waiting for lutefisk know, or want to know, that Norwegians eat significantly less lutefisk than Norwegian-Americans? Lodge decor includes references to the Norsemen (the S of N logo features a Viking ship), kindly portraits of past and present Norwegian royalty such as Kings Haakon and Olaf and Queen Maud. A miscellany of trolls, gnomes and other gremlin types complete the decor of the place. Remember: in sagas such as Beowulf folks sat about in lodges drinking, boasting, and gorging.
Attending a Sunday lutefisk feed alone as I am doing is atypical as the eating cohorts are mostly acquainted, made up of couples, and quickly recognize commonalities. In order to promote the normal behaviors at these events, I kept myself (with my lack of Scandinavian roots) apart and listened carefully for my cohort’s number to be called. It would not do to try to blend in: I was alone, Zoytlow is a peculiar name, and I could not claim membership in any of the usual Lutheran churches. Nor was I native to Fargo or some outlying community. This is not a critique of the insularity of ethnic groups generally, just a recognition that as a relative stranger I would have tainted the purity of this event and, who knows, knocked it into an unseemly aberration such as a food fight. Granted, this may only be a fantasy induced by waiting twenty-six minutes in a room dominated by troll imagery.
Half an hour into my visit (and with forty-five minutes left given the rules of these reports), I began to relax. There would be enough time to do a responsible Field Report. A bell rang, a number called, and now I was in the steaming serving line where the cheerful servers asked how well each guest liked lutefisk. The answer might be any of the following or some variation thereof: “Oh, you know, normal.” “Pile it on, and don’t spare the butter” or “You know, ah, I’m here for the meatballs so just a taste of the lutefisk.”
In fact, most lutefisk events feature meatballs and gravy in unspoken recognition that not everyone can abide the fish. Tales abound of those who carelessly came out of curiosity and, with the merest of samplings, recoiled in shock at the alien taste and the mucosity of the texture. The most amusing variations featured persons from outside the region who had been invited to attend. With each telling of such anecdotes, the bond of lutefisk for many Norwegian-Americans becomes stronger. Though they would reject the analogy, this was another type of Communion on a Sunday. I listened with full attention to the banter about the potatoes, the lefse (yet another communal feature), and the way the grandparents used to serve the lutefisk and on and on. Over each table of six or eight diners, a mist arose from the primal slime before; a good slime of love and recollection.
In the main dining hall, S of N ladies in folk costumes helped seat each cohort or cleared away the dishes of the departed. A certain tension becomes evident the longer a group sits at table knowing that there are those famished ones, distant kinfolk perhaps, still languishing in the bar. On average, a sitting at lutefisk might take forty minutes including the ice cream desert and coffee.
I glanced at my watch. Less than fifteen minuted of the permitted seventy-five minutes of research time remained. The three couples at the table were finishing up. It was obvious that I was one of a very few to attend alone and so this table for eight had an empty chair to my right. Thus far I had alternated looking at my plate or listening to the table talk. Most of it was a continuation of that triad of topics noted earlier: weather, illness, and lutefisk memories. One interesting fragment appeared, a long tale of a “nice Lutheran girl” who was getting serious with her Italian boyfriend (“and he was a Catholic, wouldn’t you know?”). Well, the parents decided to discourage this and invited the couple over for dinner one January Sunday. They prepared lutefisk and made sure it was made from stockfish (dried cod) which is more odiferous and has a stronger taste than other fish such as haddock. To heighten the drama, plastic knives and forks were set to make the point that lutefisk corrodes normal flatware (true mainly of silver). The story ended with “and they never saw him again!!” (Laughter and comments of “that was mean,” etc.).
I plunged in and asked the question that seemed to hang over the whole affair: why lutefisk? Since dried fish was prepared all over the world without the use of lye, why did some Scandinavians prefer it to the simpler(and more nutritious) cod without benefit of a fearsome chemical? The question seemed to surprise my table-mates and one could conclude they had never thought about it. But the reason for their reticence was that I had asked a question so obvious as to induce a stupor. Finally, the woman to my right offered the view that “we like the way it looks, and tastes and feels when you eat it” and she made her point by causing her fork to jiggle a gelatinous lump that remained on her plate. De gustibus non est disputandum!
I could have saved myself the effort of coming out on a frigid Sunday, gamely shoveling down some lutefisk, and disturbing the tranquility ofsome nice folks had I just recalled that obvious well-known Latin phrase which is probably older than lutefisk.
P.N.ZOYTLOW 
I had long wondered how the people of lake woebegone, those luterans ate a a foul-smelling fisk that would seem to powerful a stimulant to fit their modest character. That was because I once ate a fish that smelled absolutely putrid as part of an equator-crossing initiation when i worked on La Traviata, a Swedish bulk-freightor. It was not that bad because i like smelly cheeses and had gulped down a half bottle of vodka because i had been warned the initiation would be tough. But it was almost as bad as kissing the painted toes of Jupiter’s wife, who was, of course, the ugliest old sailor. So, I assumed all fish from the north oddly prepared was a rose by any other name and now you have disabused me of my misunderstanding and i cannot wait to try this lute fisk. In order to get it into stores down here (florida) i would hope that it could be bottled with the kosher food because the gefilte fish and the whitefish lacks the bouncy mouth-feel (tooth-response in japanese) you describe! Rise, Ye Sea Slugs!