|This is better tasting than the one below.|
The only way I'll eat it is with butter spread and sugar sprinkled on it. I can't explain why, but I absolutely love lefse.
I've helped Mom make it and I've made it myself, but it's quite a project. I have so many other interests that draw me away from the kitchen that I can't bring myself to make it anymore.
|Although, this is good too.|
Over the years, I've seen lefse in grocery stores but couldn't bring myself to buy it. I've always felt that it's sacred. It really doesn't belong anywhere but in the home and stomachs of genuine Norwegians. I can't tell you why, but lefse looks foreign to me when I see it sealed in plastic, labeled and promoted as if it were just another edible item for sale.
This year, I pushed past the boundaries of my comfort zone. I picked up a package of lefse from the grocery store cooler, eyed it suspiciously, took a deep breath and finally added it to the contents of my cart. It looked so fragile there among the meats, fruits and vegetable.
At home, I put the package on the counter. I still wasn't sure I hadn't sinned greatly by bringing commercially made lefse into my home. I even poked it with a fork and when nothing happened, I threw up my hands. I had no excuse not to try it.
I spread butter and sprinkled sugar on a sheet of it and rolled it up. I took a bite, chewed and swallowed it. I'll be damned I said to myself. If I hadn't bought it myself, I wouldn't have known it wasn't genuine, made at home lefse.
Discovering an easy way to get my hands on lefse is one of the best things that happened to me in 2010.
(By the way, I'm half Norwegian).