Norwegian Chapati's

There is snow on the ground.  More is expected today.  A scant 2.4 inches is what the forecast says.  Nothing to get excited about in the Storehouse of Snow here in South Dakota.  I have Julekake proofing in the kitchen.  Plan to make some stew tonight for supper.  Just wish I had some good lamb to make lamb stew.  That was my favorite as a child and seem fitting when I think of Julekake and all things Norwegian.

I just finished listening to Jeg er så glad hver julekveld.  If you want to hear it, you can go here. It has such a haunting melody.  It reminds me of my childhood in Norwegian Brooklyn.  When the Julekake goes in the oven and the fragrance of cardamom fills the air, the memory will blossom further.

When I first came to South Dakota, other than seeing Mount Rushmore for the first time, the thing I was most excited about was reconnecting with Norwegians.  I remember my father and how he would seek out other Norwegians.  He loved connecting with his homeland and roots.  One time he somehow or other found some girl who was from Sweden who was attending William Woods College in Fulton MO.  I have no idea how he found her.  I do remember having to meet this striking blonde beauty.  She was a bit snobby.  However, my father just wanted to welcome her and make her feel comfortable. His father was Swedish.  Something we rarely talked about - but for my dad, Sweden was Norway's neighbor.  Living in Missouri that was about as close as he could get.

The first time we visited Brookings it was the weekend of the bi-annual Fjordland Sons of Norway Waffle Feed.  I really didn't expect authentic Norwegian waffles at a waffle feed.  Commercialized Belgium Waffles were the offered fare.  Sadly, I don't think they've ever tasted a true Norwegian waffle with lingonberry jam.  But I have.  I make them too - they are awesome.  I'll stack mine up against any Norwegian bakers.

My husband and I walked in to stares and glares.  I realized it was a small town but still, if you want to make money, you could be more pleasant.  Little did I know that this is just culture here.  I realized that yesterday as I walked the aisles of HyVee trying to be pleasant.  It's just how they are...

My husband feeling very magnanimous and over paid them.  He said this is a donation. He asked about membership. I'd love to know what was going through their heads as this Pakistan was asking to join Sons of Norway.  We asked to see the president of the lodge.  She was the only really pleasant person that day.  This trend has continued unfortunately.

We joined Sons of Norway.  I was rather excited.  I had never been a member of SONS.  I think when the eventual move back to Tennessee happens I'll try the Music City Vikings.  They look like a fun bunch.  My experience with Fjordland has been like everything else in South Dakota, very disappointing.  

The first year I was here in SD I decided to bake.  I made cookies and lefse.  I have always tried to do a bit of Norwegian baking for the holidays.  Nothing like my mom would do, but still an effort.  Here is a picture of a platter from that first year:

I was shocked to find out that here in SD they know nothing of Julekake or Fattigman.  I don't think they've ever heard Jeg er så glad hver julekveld, they've probably never been to a Juletrefest - and yet, somehow, they've never believed I was truly Norwegian.  How odd?!

Oh well, as they say, it's there loss.  I may have had a bad attitude in moving here, but I did try with things like Sons of Norway.  Really did want to connect with Norwegians here.  But the upper Midwest plains I guess took it's toll on them as well.  I'll enjoy my Julekake all by myself - oh and my Pakistani husband will be happy I made it too.  He even knows what it is.  And lefse?  He refers to them as "Norwegian Chapati's." I'll take mine with butter and sugar, no curry, thank you.

No Good Pizza In Brookings

You’d think I’d like living in a small town. It seems most people say they do. In some ways, I grew up in a small town. My block, 53^rd Street between 4^th and 5^th Avenue in Brooklyn NY had all the elements of a small town. We had neighbors who looked out for you, knew your name, who your parents were and where you lived. Like other small town inhabitants, they had no problem correcting your behavior and sharing your antics with your parents.

Without crossing the street I could go to the candy store, the drug store, a delicatessen, a clothing store, a bank, a variety store (5 and dime store, remember those?) and more. Also without crossing the street, I could board the bus or descend into the subway. The world was literally steps away.

On our block, we had all manner of people except people of color. Eventually that changed as well. We had a Jewish woman, a single mother, who had the tattoo markings of a German concentration camp. People spoke in whispers about her perhaps fearing her pain.

We even had a bad neighborhood on our block. My mother would hold more tightly to my hand when we walked passed 3-4 apartment houses that she called the “tenements.”  I was admonished to never play with any of the children who lived in these apartments. That always seemed sad to me because there were so many children. Always on the stoop without supervision, they seemed to have lots of fun. They must have been told things about me as well, as they were the ones who made fun of those of us who lived a few doors down in apartments, rather than tenements.

What does this have to do with South Dakota living? Nothing. Today it is colder, grayer and windier than yesterday. Yesterday was beautiful; today it is just dull. We are waiting for rain.

I live in an apartment again. I don’t think they have any tenements to avoid here in Brookings. I am not even sure there are really bad neighborhoods here.  But if I walk out of my door here, there are no friendly faces, no one knows my name. I can’t walk to a corner for a slice of pizza fresh out of the oven dripping with olive oil served by a guy named Sal.

I should be studying but I can’t focus. My heart is somewhere else. I wish I could travel back in time to those days when my world was 53^rd Street.

Lasting First Impressions... Part 2

I was here for a week that first visit to South Dakota. I spent many hours alone in the hotel room, a dark dismal room that fit my mood. While my husband was escorted to meet the people who would become an integral part of his professional life, I watched TV, browsed the internet and read. I also watched the mounting snow wondering how I came to be in what I now call the Storehouses of Snow.

One day an employee of the university who someone thought had a story similar to mine picked me up. He had been in the ministry, a Norwegian and Lutheran. I suppose no one in South Dakota could imagine that I could be Norwegian, be in ministry and not be Lutheran. Born and raised in rural South Dakota our similarities were slim. Further, he now had a PhD in Sociology from South Dakota State. I suppose the intentions were good.

He didn’t understand how I could be Norwegian and have been raised Pentecostal. That I could be a good Norwegian and not grow up in the upper Midwest a Lutheran was way beyond his grasp. We visited for an hour or so. He picked up the tab for lunch muttering something about being reimbursed by the Dean. Obviously, he did not enjoy our lunch meeting any more than I did.

I was looking forward to the Sons of Norway Waffle Feed. Now for those of you not from the upper Midwest, I suppose you wonder what is a feed? More accustomed to words like Waffle Breakfast, I did. I suppose the choice of words comes from the farming background of most of the inhabitants of South Dakota. Feeding the cattle, pigs, and other livestock evidently is synonymous with feeding people as well. Livestock are fed "feed" so are people.

We had never been part of Sons of Norway in Brooklyn. They drank and had bars in their lodges. Like the VFW or American Legion, they owned their own buildings and were known for their drinking and partying. Good Pentecostals did not engage nor desire to be seen in such places. However, a Waffle Feed seemed harmless. I’ve since learned that the Sons of Norway folk here usually do not have their own buildings, do not have bars and do not serve alcohol at their meetings.

My husband’s glee continued even at the Sons of Norway feed. He saw important people. I suppose he had yet to realize that Brookings is a relatively small town.  Many of the leaders are Norwegian. Plus it is always good politics to be seen supporting community events.

I didn’t expect to be served true delightful Norwegian waffles, and I was not disappointed. Standard waffle fair was served with a side of pork that we do not eat. Surprisingly, the Norwegians here do not make delicious authentic Norwegian waffles, nor do they know what they are... how strange?! Equally strange the people though it was strange to see us at their community event.  Nevertheless, my husband pursued and found the then president of the lodge who is a delightful person. She did her best to make us welcome; we joined the lodge by the internet that weekend.

Thinking that joining Sons of Norway would be a way to meet people in Brookings has been a disappointment. Hoping to connect with Norwegian roots has not materialized either. Mostly older people, they still wonder what this Pakistani and American couple are doing in their midst. I’ve offered to speak on Growing Up Norwegian in Brooklyn at their meetings but they have chosen people to speak about Poland instead. I may not renew my membership this year.

We headed south that day, then west. I had seen the signs for the Corn Palace and we drove to Mitchell. If you haven’t seen the Corn Palace, it is an interesting structure. I thought about Mount Rushmore, still a childhood dream of mine, but knew it was too far. Snow still covered the barren landscape as we drove back to Brookings.

It was time for Rodeo. I’d never been to a Rodeo and can’t say it was ever an ambition of mine. 

Let me pick this up the next time. We’ll explore the world of the Rodeo through the eyes of a girl from Brooklyn.

It's Enough

I am in Florida. The sun is shining. The water is nearby. I can see palm trees and green. I get on a plane today and go back to South Dakota. I don’t want to go.

I am working very hard to accept the place where God has planted me but the truth is I’d rather stay here. I know my life isn’t in Florida. I actually know my life is not in Nashville full time for now. I believe I will return to Nashville and I look forward to that day, but for now, my life is in South Dakota.

There is a chance of snow in the forecast tomorrow for Brookings. I will leave this sun and beauty for flooding and cold. I will drive twice tomorrow to Sioux Falls because the things I need to do aren’t in Brookings.

I am not sure what South Dakota has for me or what I have to give to South Dakota. I just have to believe, as I return, that this is where God wants me. A dear friend talking about his own living situations said to me that he looks at as if he is a soldier and God has him stationed at a particular place.

I am not crazy about the military metaphors but I guess it fits. I enlisted in the service of my King a long time ago. That means I don’t always get to choose everything about my life. When God opened the doors for my husband to South Dakota, He knew that we were a package deal. This may feel like part of the “worse” in the “for better or worse,” nevertheless that’s what I promised.  I suppose it isn’t the worse. I can think of many things we’ve been through that were a lot worse.

I’ve said a few times that the problem with South Dakota is not the weather. However, today it is. I don’t really want to go back to the cold. I don’t want to go back to loneliness and isolation. But God has a plan, and I have a husband I love. I’ll get on the plane today to the land of snow.

Maybe God doesn’t have anything for me in South Dakota. Certainly there are times I feel like that. But is that important? Is it just about what I do? Or is that I am learning more and more about myself? Is it that I am more in love with my husband than I have ever been? Is it that for the first time in 32 years we have lived alone together? All of those things are special gifts. 

It’s enough.