The Scandinavians (and the Germans as
well, for that matter) eat a particular dish called lapskaus, the
concept is neither unique nor novel, just another geographical
variation of fire pot stew, leftover casserole, or John's White's
famous bean soup. It's origins include stories of a sailor's diet,
dipping dry biscuits in a light broth with a medley of root
vegetables, a fine example of making the best out of meager
provisions. Now, despite the wide availability of spices and more
exciting vegetables, lapskaus has refused to evolve much. Every
family has their own recipe for lapskaus, though from my experience,
every one of those recipes has more or less the same ingredients:
potatoes, carrots, rutabagas, and random meat (some “cultured”
families have been known to throw in onions or leeks!) The root
vegetables are often soaked in salt water for a day, then boiled with
meat bones to form a broth, or mixed in with a roux to make a gravy
sauce. In the Troye household, most flavor comes from the addition
of a whole bag of sausages. From what I can tell, salt and pepper
seem to be the accepted seasoning for lapskaus and are conservatively
added to the soup until perfectly spiced (I've heard rumors of some
families employing the use of a sprig of parsley or even a hint of
tarragon, but thus far they are unfounded); by lapskaus standards,
it's the point where the soup just begins to taste bland.
The traditional accompaniment is
Mother's home-baked flat bread, which are essentially giant crackers
that barely crumble and come in the size of a sheet of A5 paper; they
nearly taste the same.
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| Nobody in Norway really knows whose mom this is, though. |
As with any stew, it improves with
age. In this house, it reaches its apex around day three. If you've
ever had a sour dough yeast starter, you know that some things need
to be fed in order to stay alive and lapskaus is no different.
Fransisca just feeds it more and more sausage until on the
aforementioned day three, it become a giant pot of little round
discs.
As you may have gathered, this is not
among my favorite dishes in Norway (and I promise that I'll start
writing about the really amazing food they have here soon), but is
it by no means bad. However, even Pingvin, famous for having one of
the best in town, features a lapskaus that tastes of nothing more
than stewed mutton. But when the Scandinavians aren't looking, if
you can sneak a bowl for lunch, manage to find the chili powder,
thyme, paprika, and soy sauce, all tucked away in the back of the
cupboard, just behind the seven varieties of balsamic vinegar,
lapskaus can be upgraded into a good meal indeed. It just isn't
called lapskaus anymore.
