Norwegian Food: Lapskaus

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.

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.