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.

What's Love Got To Do With It?

Yesterday we celebrated our two years in Brookings with a return trip to the Sons of Norway Waffle Feed. The event is held in the place where they serve congregate meals in Brookings. It’s called 60 plus dining. I doesn’t appear to be a fully fledged Senior Center. Just one large room is all I have seen.

As we came in the smell of baking waffles filled the air. I didn’t count but it appeared that there were about 20 waffle irons. I know those kind of waffle irons well as I used two in the coffee shop I once operated. These were basic, but good waffles. When I had the coffee shop my favorite to make were Pecan Pumpkin Waffles topped with cinnamon butter. Alas, there was no variety in the waffles. There was plenty of variety in the syrups.

No allusions to “real” butter, a gallon size jug of butter substituted was available, along with your choice of 7 or 8 different flavored syrups as well as some small cups of defrosted frozen strawberries to top with whipped cream. I chose blueberry. My husband chose the strawberries and cream but I think added some maple syrup. We passed over the sausage.

I made the mistake to ask for a fork since I had not seen them. I was rather scolded as if I were looking to take one too many. I know from my days as a Senior Center director that people do take these things home with them. They were on the tables. Next time, I’ll remember. We opted to sit at a table alone. We’ve had the experience of trying to butt in on tables to be friendly. It is usually met with the same reaction as when you take someone’s seat at church.

As with our first experience at the Waffle Feed, the same person made conversation interesting. The first year we were here, she was the president of the lodge. She greeted us warmly. We had a pleasant chat. She even sat and kept us company while we ate.

Our first year, we were in Brookings there was snow on the ground. A heavy wet snow was piled high. I wondered if the Feed would be cancelled but was told no this is South Dakota and those Norwegians are a very hardy bunch. That day, two years ago, would be capped off by the rodeo.

I was not aware that rodeo could be a university sport.  For reasons I have never been able to figure out, my husband likes rodeos. Maybe it is a male thing. I don’t think there is anything in his background that would compare to a rodeo. I’ve already shared with you that I wanted to be a cowgirl when I was little. Now I was no so interested in an evening of rodeo.

There were real cowgirls at this rodeo. They had pink cowgirl outfits on with lots of fringe and a bit of sequins.  One cowgirl, I think she was a queen, princess, or something, would make a majestic ride through the arena. As with all college sports, it opened with the National Anthem. She carried the American flag as we stood for the Star-Spangled Banner.

They roped calves, rode bucking horses and bulls. It was quite the show. I am not a member of PETA nor did I think that the animals suffered greatly. I really don’t know whether the animals enjoy the competition. For the humans however, it is as if you can smell the testosterone in the air. As I have so many times over the last two years, I asked myself how in the world I had gotten here.

Remember the song from the Sound of Music, where Maria sings,

Somewhere in my youth or childhood days I must have done something good.

When I lived in Connecticut and life was good, I used to sing that in my mind, as it was intended. Life was good. Now I wonder what I didn’t do that condemns me to places I’d rather not be. It was never a life long dream of mine to attend a college rodeo in South Dakota nor live here.

As I’ve been sharing my memories of that first week in South Dakota, it has occurred to me that you may be thinking that I’ve regressed. That my determination to find what God has for me in South Dakota has dissipated. It has not. These are my reactions, my first lasting impressions of South Dakota. They continue to color and perhaps even distort all reactions to this day.

I am on a journey to find my place in the Storehouses of Snow. I will find it. I see clearer glimpses of it every day. I am reminded of the words of the Apostle Paul in his first letter to the Corinthians:

We don't yet see things clearly. We're squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won't be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright! We'll see it all then, see it all as clearly as God sees us, knowing him directly just as he knows us! (1Corinthians 13:12 The Message)

You see, I am here because of love. I am here because I love my husband. I am here because I believe God joined us as one flesh. As I look at what else Paul has to say about love, in this magnificent passage, I realize I have fallen short of that type of love. Yet, I am here. I am here because of love. Moreover, I am here because God has led us here, for what purpose? I have no idea.

Love never gives up. 
Love cares more for others than for self. 
Love doesn't want what it doesn't have. 
Love doesn't strut, 
Doesn't have a swelled head, 
Doesn't force itself on others, 
Isn't always "me first," 
Doesn't fly off the handle, 
Doesn't keep score of the sins of others, 
Doesn't revel when others grovel, 
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth, 
Puts up with anything, 
Trusts God always, 
Always looks for the best, 
Never looks back, 
But keeps going to the end.

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.

Fitting In Is Optional - Being Yourself Is Not

The other day another transplanted woman and I had lunch. She has lived in the Dakotas for over ten years. Much of what I knew about her led me to believe that she would be well connected with South Dakota by now. That wasn't the case. But her story is not mine to talk about.

This woman, someone I hope will be a good friend, has a sense of the Dakotas that I needed to understand. After we shared our lives she said something very interesting to me. I wish I could remember her exact words. I remember the essence. She said,

 Joyce, there is nothing that you have told me about yourself that would make me think you'd ever fit in up here.

Now that put a new spin on life in the Dakotas. She was not being harsh nor was I offended. It was like the lightbulb went on over my head. Suddenly, other things that people had said to me now made sense.

Many times I had been told that life is just different here. People aren't as welcoming. They take a long time to accept you. They want to know if you are going to stay. If you aren't related you don't fit.

I responded with a smile to her. I replied: I know one thing. I know one thing that might help me fit.

I'm Norwegian!  

We laughed. She said: yes, that might do it. It hasn't.

As a child we had several Sons of Norway lodges within walking distance in Brooklyn. The biggest one on 8th Avenue (AKA Lapskaus Blvd). None of my family or any of our peer group were members. They had a bar and a dance floor. We along with the conservative Lutheran Brethren did not engage in such sinful activities. The Evangelical Free Norwegians didn't either. Several of us were always excused from the sinful activity of folk dance in gym class at PS 220.

In April of each year, I would jealously look at the pictures of the candidates for Miss Norway in our local Norwegian newspaper, Nordisk Tidende.  The newspaper was always in our home by Friday afternoon. The chosen queen would ride in her bunad on the back of convertible waving to the crowds gathered for the Syttende Mai parade.  I was too young to be a Miss Norway. However, I knew I would never be one since we were not worldly enough to be part of a lodge.

Here in SD the lodges are different. They don't seem to drink at meetings, have bars or even have their own buildings. I joined Sons of Norway for the first time. I thought it would be a good way to get to know people, find a place and make connections.

My Norwegian credentials are quite impressive. My father was born in Norway. I grew up as Norwegian as one can be outside of Norway. I went to a church where everyone other than the children had an accent. The Pastor never said Jesus, it was always Yesus... I was not Joyce but Yoyce.

Issues have prevented me from going to many lodge meetings here in Brookings. They seem like a nice group of people. Most are quite advanced in age. I have offered several times to do a program on Growing Up Norwegian in Brooklyn. So far, they haven't been interested. However, like everywhere I go here in SD, people look at me like - who is she and why is she here?

I'd like to tell them that I don't know why I am here. I do know who I am though. I am child of God, born into the family of God through faith in Jesus Christ. I have many gifts to offer if people would give me the chance. I am probably too energetic for many here. I am also Norwegian.

I am definitely too open for most. Often since coming to SD local folk have commented on my "openness." It shocks them. It shocks me that they say it.  I think now I understand. I don't fit.

In the sense of changing who I am, I don't want to fit. I will continue to be me. The person who will candidly and willingly share her life, her struggles, her pain, her joys, her gifts and her concerns. I can do that in South Dakota. There is room for me in South Dakota even if I don't fit.