The Smells of Swedish Christmas

My father’s side of the family descends from a group of Swedes who settled in Buffalo and Cambridge, MN. MN stands for Minnesota. That’s for all you Californians who don’t know your state abbreviations. Every Christmas for as long as I can remember we’ve gathered to make a holiday favorite, potatis korv, or potato sausage.

Back in the old days all Swedes were really, really poor. That’s why so many of them left the old country to carve out a new life in Minnesota. Because there wasn’t much meat, the Swedes used to mix what little meat they had with potatoes, which were abundant. Throw in an onion or two, then mix it all together and you’ve got the makings for potatis korv.

Back when my Great-Grandfather Ben was around, we’d all gather in his boiler room and make giant tubs of the stuff. Grandpa Burt would bring in about 50 pounds of ground beef, 100 pounds of potatoes, and 20 pounds of onions. We’d all get to work peeling the potatoes and sending them, raw, through the grinder. After about three minutes sitting in their own juices, the potatoes would begin to turn rust in color so you had to work fast.

My uncles always got a big kick out of putting my brother, Tim, and I on grinding the onions. They’d love seeing us tear-up until our faces were swollen and we were blind from the onion juice. I never found it as funny as they did. And to this day, I can’t be around when someone is cutting up onions. I was marred for life.

After all three ingredients were ready they would all be thrown into a giant super-shiny washtub and mixed by the strong hands and arms of the Peterson boys. Then came the fun part. The cleaned-out intestines of an entire pig were placed on a family heirloom, an authentic Swedish sausage stuffer. We’d put the sausage mix into the large stuffer, pull down the long handle, and the intestines (or casings) were filled with the blandest tasting sausage ever invented. Almost 200 pounds of this stuff was made and divided among the family clans to be immediately placed in the freezer until needed.

The room would wreak of fresh meat, raw onions, and potatoes. It’s a unique smell that is only outdone by one other Christmas odor. That would be lutefisk (loo-tah-fisk). Lutefisk is a Norwegian invention. The process for making this is even more breathtaking and wondrous than potatis lorv. Let me explain.

When the Vikings caught cod from the North Sea, they would bring it home and dry it out to be used all winter. But dried fish needs a bit of help to reconstitute. So they used a caustic bath of poisonous lye to get the job done. Soak the dried cod in lye for a few days, then run cold water over it for a week until all the lye is gone, boil it up and you’ve got lutefisk. The family joke is that the Swedes stole the Norwegians dried cod, soaked it in poison, and the Norwegians loved it! Hahaha.

And Christmas could not be complete without one more Scandinavian Christmas delight, lefse. The best way to explain what lefse is to think of it as a Norwegian tortilla. It’s made from potatoes instead of corn. And I love the stuff. But it’s impossible to find out here in California so I make it myself. It takes special equipment and some trial and error but it’s well worth the effort.

My Christmas Eve’s are filled with the memories and powerful smells of poor Swedish immigrant food. The smell of the lefse is easily overpowered by boiling potatis korv. But the potatis korv is easily overpowered by the stench of the lutefisk. Very few of my kin actually eat the lutefisk anymore. I completely attribute my dislike for fish to the smell of lutefisk boiling away for hours at my grandparents home.

Add to all those smells the cookies, some Indian thing my Uncle makes I can never remember the name of, and the smell of 143 cousins, and you’ve got a Peterson Christmas Eve. A couple of years ago we made it back to Minnesota in time to make the sausage and enjoy the smell of the poisoned fish. It brought me right back to my childhood. The faces have changed, along with the waistlines, but the sentiment was the same. It was Christmas Eve. And Christmas Eve is all about family with the Peterson’s. We remember those who are eating prime rib in heaven (lutefisk and potatis korv are not allowed), Grandma and Grandpa Ben, Grandma Lorna, my father, Mike, and my Uncle Dave. Knowing them, they’ve convinced God to let them eat out back. And God is blowing all the smells of a Swedish Christmas far away from the Pearly Gates.

I won’t be able to join you this year, Peterson’s. But I wish you all the best. I’ll pick up some potatis korv from the butcher around the corner who makes it fresh. He actually makes it tasty using something called “spices.” I’ll explain later. I’ll eat some of my homemade lefse. And just for kicks, I’ll stick my head in the garbage can where I’ll have a rotten fish, just to remind me of what you’ll be smelling this Christmas Eve. God bless you all.