Hostfest is, of course, the largest Scandinavian thing going
in North America, and obviously you know that all kinds of blond people descend
on Minot during the four-day (or maybe
it’s five, I’m sure you already knew this) festival.
It’s huge. It’s at the fairgrounds, of course, but you knew that. This year, Dierks
Bentley and Vince Gill are among the artists playing, but it’s that (for some
reason) Irish O’Donnell person that all the older folks go to.
Of course, everyone
knows this. I’m only learning, but after 13 weeks here I’ve picked up on it.
I’ve probably been asked “Are you going to Hostfest?” as many times here as I
was asked, “Wech kliti ksks?” (“Have you eaten couscous?”) in Morocco.
And yes, I am going. I signed up to work the salad booth for
Our Savior Lutheran Church. I’m not entirely sure what it entails, but I’ll
figure it out. I’m on for Sept. 28, Mackenzie’s birthday.
And I’ve started warming up on the whole Scandinavian thing.
On Friday, I got enlisted to make lefse (LUF-sa). This is, essentially, a
tortilla made out of potato. But it’s just the tortilla; there’s nothing in it
to eat. I guess people spread butter or something on them – I wasn’t privy to
that part.
The process was as involved as making the deep-fried red
beans and rice balls, only there was no ham surprise.
First, you peel potatoes. Lots of them, as this particular
batch of lefse (not sure if that’s plural or not) was intended to be sold
Sunday at church for a fund-raiser for the day care.
After the taters are nekkid, they get boiled and then riced.
Yes, apparently that’s a verb. I honestly had no idea what
it was, but basically there is such a tool as a ricer that looks like a giant
garlic press. You load it up with potatoes and squeeze them and they get
shredded into potatoes the size and shape of rice noodles.
Me, I’m a grain rice person and completely forgot that rice
came in more shapes, so when they said “ricer,” I had no idea of what to
expect. But I discovered the verb form, and it was a lot of fun to squish the
potatoes into rice.
The next step after the ricing is to mix them into dough.
This involves evaporated milk, but I was involved in that step so I’m not sure
what the magical ingredients were.
After that, they’re rolled into little balls, a little
larger than golf balls and refrigerated for a bit.
Then, you get to roll them out and slap them on a little
skillety thing. Transporting them from the pastry table to the skillety thing
is done with this sword-like wooden stick, manufactured especially for the
task.
We had maybe 5-6 women doing this in the church, and it was
great fun. We had music playing the entire time and, since there was a lot of
flour involved, it got quite messy. We had a ball, leaving handprints on each
other, doing the Monkee-walk across the kitchen flood, listening to everything
from “Jeremiah was a Bullfrog” and the aforementioned Monkees to “Penny Lane”
and “Escape” to the finale (which Susann thoughtfully dedicated to us) “Friends
in Low Places.”
Fairly un-Scandinavian-like, I’d say, but fun nonetheless.
In other news, I had one of the most convenient flat tires
ever this week.
 |
| The guilty screw. |
It was one of those rare weeks for me when I left campus
three times. I visited two construction sites and also went to the regular
meeting. Usually I only leave one or two days a week.
Aside: I looked at my car book today and in the 13 weeks I
have been here, I have driven 1,027 miles and filled up my tank just four
times. And that includes a trip to Bismarck.
So, what I’m saying is I don’t drive much. I’m glad of that,
because gas is $3.85 a gallon here in oil country.
But my car doesn’t have much of a chance to get out, so I
was kind of surprised when I walked by it one evening and thought the front
driver tire was a little low. I wasn’t going anywhere so I didn’t dwell on it
and then it slipped my mind entirely.
The next morning, I saw it again and thought, “Oh, note to
self – check tire” on the way to breakfast. And after breakfast, I walked by
again and it looked even lower, so I got on it.
Found my tire gauge and as I went to check it, saw a little
screw sticking out. Oh, joy.
Fortunately, this being a Flood Rebuild Central, we have
tools, including air compressors. My plan was to fill the tire enough to drive
down the street to the gas station and have it plugged.
That morning, though, lots of people were checking out
tools, so I just went over to check to see if it would be possible to execute
my plan once the area was clear.
I explained the issue to Mike, and he said if I wanted, he’d
plug it for me later that day. I said sure, and offered to run up to Walmart
and get a plug kit. He said he liked one particular brand, then remembered he
had one in his truck right the.
So, essentially, instead of waiting for the afternoon, he
just had me pull up right then and he plugged it. He didn’t even pop the tire
off to do it.
So that was lucky. And honestly, it was about the worst
thing to happen all week, so that means it’s pretty good.
Uff da!
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