The first Lutefisk dinner honored soldiers return

Preface: This story is a chapter from my childhood memoir that spans 1950 to 1964 when my parents, Bill and Anne Haug, owned a bar on Bigfork’s Electric Avenue. 

The first Lutefisk dinner at Bethany Lutheran Church was Nov. 11, 1919, on the first anniversary of Armistice Day, honoring the return of our soldiers from World War I.

Dad always said the first solid food I’d eat was lutefisk. Not that it’s all that solid. In fact, when overcooked, it’s a jellied goo. But when it’s cooked just right, it is translucent, flaky, and tastes wonderful with melted butter and a bit of salt. Lefse is a flatbread made from potatoes, and is the perfect companion to lutefisk. Dad, asserting his Norwegian heritage, insisted on lutefisk and lefse for Christmas Eve dinner. Although Mom was a Dane, and averse to all things Norwegian, she gave in to Dad on this one, because she could see her defiance would lead to certain divorce.

Dad had a miserly side, always opting for cheap. When they built our house in the summer of 1950, kitchen appliances were among the last purchases. Mom was hoping for a nice range, but knowing Dad, she tried not to get her hopes up. So the day he went to Kalispell to pick one out, she was very nervous, but resigned to her fate.  

When the truck arrived and the men started to cart it in, she was amazed by its size and all the gleaming chrome. Once it was unpacked and set into position, Mom was speechless. The thing was 42 inches wide with four double-burners, a large griddle, an oven and a separate broiler. It was top of the O’Keefe and Merritt line.  Finally she managed to utter a gasp. To that quizzical look on her face, Dad replied, “Oh hell, Anne, it was the only one with a griddle, and I just can't live without my lefse!” And they made lefse together that very next day, even though it was a good three months ‘til Christmas.

The Lutheran Church was out in the country, in Swan River, not too far from the Swan River Hall. Mom and Dad were not really church goers, but every year around Armistice Day, the church hosted the annual Lutefisk Dinner in its basement. Dad always bought tickets for the three of us, for dinner at 7 o’clock. When we were seated, the women always brought two platters of lutefisk to our table: one for Dad and me to share, and one for the other 10 people.

The drive out to the church was a bit more difficult in those days because the road east of the Little Brown Church was not paved and was full of potholes, so that you had to drive very carefully. Like a roller coaster, it went up and over each little hill in its path. But Johnson Hill, so named because it was surrounded on all sides by the Johnson brothers’ farms, was not so small. It was steep and curved around a big outcropping of rock. Many people ended in the ditch or stuck in a snow bank on that hill. 

In 1954, I was really looking forward to the lutefisk dinner. It started to snow that morning, and just kept on snowing. It snowed so hard you couldn’t see the Texaco banjo sign across the street from the bar, and it was dark a full hour earlier than usual. So around 3 in the afternoon, Dad declared he would not be able to make that drive to the church. The disappointment in his voice was nothing compared to the disappointment displayed in my lower lip.  

“Oh, please, please, please, Daddy!” I said, tugging on his sleeve. “We have to go!  They’ll throw our lutefisk away!  Oh please Daddy, please!”  But he just said, “No, honey. We’d get stuck on Johnson Hill and then we’d be up #$%^ creek!”

So I stared out the window willing the snow to stop, which was pretty unusual for me, since I usually willed it to start. But it did no good. It just kept coming, and then to make matters worse, the wind picked up. But I kept begging, and I guess he got tired of hearing my earnest pleas, because he finally gave in.  

“Come on, Anne, might as well put our coats, boots and mittens on. Let’s give that hill a try.”   

Mr. Sanden’s snow plow had just gone up the main street, so we followed him out of town. But the plow kept heading north when we had to turn at the Little Brown Church. Dad could hardly see for all the flakes coming at the windshield. They were mesmerizing, and as disorienting as a thick fog.  

Soon we were nearing Johnson Hill. Dad speeded up our new Ford as it churned through the snow, up and up the hill. But when he had to turn the wheel to follow the curve, the tires went into a spin and we slid sideways toward the snow bank on the side.  Crunch. We were stuck. Dad got out and surveyed the damage, holding his chin with his hand, and stroking his cheek with his finger, like he always did when he was deep in thought. Mom got out too, and smoked a cigarette. I started to cry.  

But then I saw a small light out the rear window.  It came closer and closer, then stopped.  Evian Johnson got down off his tractor and said “Looks like you’ve got a bit of a problem, here.”  

Dad said “Hmmpf! The kid talked me into this; you know she loves that Lutefisk. Hell, I guess I was up for it too, but now, I don’t think we’ll make it.”  

“Oh hell, Bill, lets see what this tractor can do,” Eivan said, then hooked up a chain to our bumper. Pretty soon we were moving out of the snow bank and around the curve at the top of the hill. He unhooked the chain and said, “I think you’ll be OK now, looks like it’s slowing down a bit.” Twenty long minutes later, we were taking off our snowy coats and boots in the church’s entry hall, and waiting to be called to our table. The wonderful aroma of lutefisk erased all memories of our journey.

Mrs. Lassesen, the pastor’s wife, and who was always a stern-faced old woman, said gruffly, “I’m surprised you made it!” as she led us to our table, sniffing for signs of booze. But Mrs. Ramsfield gave us a friendly welcome as she set the first platter before Dad.  

I looked at Mom, so beautiful in the warm light of that basement, with her cheeks still rosy from the cold. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so warm and loved as I did that night, eating my favorite food with my favorite Mom and Dad in that beloved church basement.

When the dinner was over, we put our coats and boots back on, resigned to the arduous drive home. But when we walked out the church door, the sky was clear and the Milky Way looked like its own blizzard up in heaven. The dry snow crunched softly under our feet. The drive home was easy compared with the drive to the church, and soon we were back in our own warm little house, singing along to Mitch Miller’s show on the radio.