Lefse eat!
COEUR d’ALENE — In the back corner of the busy kitchen at Trinity Lutheran Church on a Thursday morning, Marie Bailey works alone.
On this day, her job among many, mixing ingredients, might be the most important.
Even she thinks so.
“It starts here,” she says with a smile and laugh.
The volunteer crew of about 20 is churning out round after round of lefse, or Norwegian flatbread, that will be sold on Nov. 6.
Bailey’s biblical-like list is taped to the windowsill: 9 cups potatoes, 1 cup whipping cream, 3 tablespoons of butter (melted), 3 teaspoons of salt, 3 tablespoons of sugar and 3 cups of flour.
“I mean, what's not to love?” Bailey asks.
It’s a long process that starts downstairs where the men boil, peel, rice and cool potatoes. They’ve been at it since Tuesday, about five hours a day.
They do so carefully, being sure each steaming spud is blemish-free.
“Otherwise, we get yelled it,” jokes Richard Jurvelin.
Tad Johnson chimes in that while they're volunteers, they have no choice. His wife, he says, insists he help.
So, of course, he does.
“I'm not an eater of it, so I make it to share it,” he said.
Why not eat it?
“I don’t like it,” he says without hesitation.
But most do. And they’ll line up early outside the church on the morning of the long-running and intensely popular annual sale for first crack at the coveted Norwegian treat.
About 300 packages will be available, $8 each, four to a package.
They go quickly. Some years in a matter of minutes.
“People love it,” said volunteer Sharon Alexander.
So does Alexander, and that includes the making part.
“I love it. I love the people, the laughter that we do, you know, start off and you don't think anybody's gonna show up and then all of a sudden it's like, full,” Alexander said.
The crew is relaxed but serious as they carry out their task. This is sacred stuff, after all.
From Bailey’s blessed mixing station there is a prayerful process to follow.
It goes on to be formed by hand into balls the size of hockey pucks; rolled out, pancake flat; browned on a grill, 450 to 500 degrees, a minute or so on each side (any excess flour is carefully brushed away); folded and covered to keep it moist; then carried to another table where it's laid out flat again, covered and cooled until it's cold to the touch before finally being wrapped and sealed in plastic and, finally, frozen.
For some, making lefse goes back generations. Dolores Johnson learned to make it from her mom growing up in North Dakota.
“For many years I did it myself after she passed away but I kind of quit doing it at home now, but I enjoy coming here. It’s just a great get-together, great fellowship.”
Johnson still makes it on special occasions.
“Lefse is something we have for Thanksgiving,” she added. “I mean, I don't eat it all the time. But I have to have a little.”
Beverly Knutson has been doing this for decades.
“My husband was 100 percent Norwegian so I got involved with it,” she said. “My kids grew up with it.”
Indeed, her daughter, Lori Edwards, was another kitchen volunteer working near her mom.
She just moved back from Texas. While she made lefse at home, this was her first time in the holy assembly line at church.
“It’s fun. I need more practice,” she said, smiling.
Lefse, some say, is an acquired taste, perhaps a bit blah. Some like it plain. Others add a combination of brown sugar, jam, cinnamon and butter.
“I think it just depends, you know?” Alexander said. “On the flavor, I mean, I love it. I really do. I just think it's fabulous.”
Fabulous to eat. To make, it's not quite as heavenly.
All that standing, leaning and turning over a few days takes a toll on the volunteers, who tend to be older.
“We need a chiropractor to work on our backs, to massage our necks and a person to rub our feet,” Alexander said, laughing.
Bailey’s only beef is that after a long day of making lefse, she wants something else for dinner.
“When you go home at night and somebody says, ‘Do you want potatoes?’ Hell no,” she said, laughing. “But don’t put that in the paper.”