Signs of the Holidays

As I write this, Christmas is close enough to smell. I mean that in mostly a good way. 

Most of the big holidays have foods associated with them that are so intertwined with the celebration as to almost overtake the holiday itself.

Turkey Day is the most obvious. Different ethnic backgrounds and national heritages carry with them special dishes served only on those occasions.

Since there are many of Norwegian heritage in my area, much is made about the annual serving of lefse (a potato-based tortilla) and lutefisk (a fish that has been dried, preserved and reconstituted).

Editorial: Lefse is served with butter and sugar. What wouldn't a beet grower like about that? Lutefisk is best served with noseplugs.

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Maybe cleaning that last ditch
Or tilling up the ground,
Let’s you know the season's end
Has finally come around.
You wash your trucks and line them up
All neatly in the shed.
Then set the old alarm clock for
An extra hour in bed.
There are always certain signs
That winter is at hand,
Even ’fore the snowy white
Settles on the land.
Maybe hunting season
Has come and gone again,
With a brand new rack of antlers
To hang up in the den.
When I was young, which doesn’t seem
So very long ago,
Winter was upon us
When Christmas lights did glow.
Now it seems that’s not a sign
On which we can rely,
For Target puts up Santa Claus
Sometimes in July.
In winter, smells of Christmas
Spread out across the land
To let us know the holidays
Soon will be at hand.
All up and down the valley
About this time of year,
Cooks head to their kitchens
To cook up Christmas cheer.
Most of it is pretty good,
And some is even great.
Who can get through Christmas
Without gaining lots of weight?
Yet out of those same kitchens
Comes one Christmas treat that
Makes me think of things long dead
Or Uncle Ole’s feet.
Did the beet plant break down really bad?
What’s that nightmare for my nose?
Did the “pumper truck” just drive by
With a broken hose?
They serve this stuff down at the church.
The silver all turns black.
Norwegians come from miles around,
And next year they'll come back.
Is it only heritage
Or something in their genes,
That makes them crave this winter fish
Instead of rice and beans?
I want to sit down with them.
I try to do my part.
But to say I really like it
Just isn’t in my heart.
So go on, pass the lutefisk --
That masochistic treat.
I’ll join you at the table,
But it’s lefse that I’ll eat.