“I think we’re going to the Høstfest this weekend. What should we be sure to see?” The word came out “HOST-fest,” an easy giveaway that I was new in town. I asked the question to fill time but wasn’t prepared for the deluge of information that followed.

At the time, I was volunteering as a high school youth group leader at our church. Discussion had wrapped up for the night and given way to small talk. I had heard about the big Scandinavian festival. It seemed like the perfect time to ask for input from some locals.

“This is so exciting. It’s your first Høstfest!” said the other leader, who had been raised in North Dakota.
Then, the teenage girls chimed in. They all started talking at once, mostly about the foods I had to try. The names were hard to pronounce—and even harder to remember.
“Obviously, get lefse,” one said.

“But it’s got to be from the right place,” added another. She then proceeded to tell me to get the lefse from the stand near the thing—not the kiosk with the sign near the stand selling the other thing. I nodded as though I understood, even though I didn’t.

“Ooooh—get rømmegrøt! It tastes exactly like a Cinnabon cinnamon roll!”
“No, the best is aebleskivers. Skip everything else.”
“Get Swedish meatballs—and krumkake.”
In the end, the only words I could recall were “lefse” and “meatballs.” The rest were scrawled phonetically on the back of a spare Sunday bulletin I found in the pew.

That same bulletin was folded in my pocket as my husband, Derek and I wandered around the Høstfest for the first time. Other suggestions had ensured we’d been to the Viking Village for fighting reenactments, watched the accordion club, and visited the man who spins wool from angora rabbit fur. When it came time to eat, we consulted the list. Gradually, we decoded the words and found the vendors. We didn’t find everything, but we did our best—even if we butchered the pronunciation of every item.

The aebleskivers were delicious. The meatballs were great. When we took a bite of rømmegrøt, I swallowed hard and checked my notes. “You know,” I said to my husband, “I think the only thing that tastes exactly like a Cinnabon cinnamon roll is a Cinnabon cinnamon roll.” He laughed and nodded.

The grand finale was finding the “right” lefse. Lefse seemed to be the cornerstone of culture for our local friends. They had tried to describe it, but insisted we just needed to taste it for ourselves. Honestly, I’ll never forget that first bite. The build-up to this moment had been huge. I chewed. I swallowed. I took another bite.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“It’s good. You?” Derek replied.

There was an awkward pause as we stood there chewing. I lowered my voice and said, “But for real, it’s not that special, right? Like, it just tastes like a taco shell with butter.”

Our disenchantment with lefse continues to be a joke to this day. I loved that first Høstfest, and I love looking back on that anticlimactic bite of lefse and rømmegrøt.

It serves as a reminder: I’m not from here. This is a place that’s new and different. It comes with its own traditions, and I come with mine. This isn’t just a place with few trees and cold winters—it’s a place with deep roots.

To me, lefse tastes like a bland potato tortilla, and the amount of butter I see slathered on it leaves me slack-jawed. To my friends who were raised on lefse, it tastes like love and home. Jokes about my tastes aside, I have come to love lefse, too. Two lefse sticks hang in my kitchen. I aim for an annual lefse-making day with a friend. As with many things in life, it’s not about the end result or immediate gratification. The sweetness is in the process and the tradition it holds.

If you’re not from around here—take this as your warning: your first bite of lefse may be anticlimactic. But there’s so much joy to be found in eating it anyway, in finding a way to appreciate the things that are special to those who are from here. I hope you go to the Høstfest and try all the things. Even if you didn’t choose to come here, this is part of your life; part of your story. And you may be surprised by the traditions that become dear to you—even if life eventually moves you away.

For more on life in Hotdish Land, you can find me online at amyallender.com, Instagram, @heyminot, or Facebook @heyminot or @amyallenderblog.