My family ancestry contains both Swedish and Norwegian bloodlines, so lefse (pronounced leff-sa) has always been a traditional treat at Christmas and Easter. As I was growing up in these parts, our holiday celebrations were either at our place, where my mom would make the lefse, or at Grandma’s or one of the uncles’, but no matter where it was, someone would make lefse.

It is not a favourite with everyone, but those who love it love it well. The first time I tried my hand at it was at a cabin in southern Alberta where there was a woodstove I could fry it on. After lifting the first piece off the black castiron top, I buttered it and sprinkled it with a light layer of white sugar, then rolled it up and took a bite off the end.

“Mmmm...” I moaned, “this is delicious.”

My estranged husband, of German ancestry, had tasted lefse before when visiting with my family, and said “I’ve never understood what you guys see in that stuff, but you’re enjoying it so much, I’m going to try it again.”

I doctored one up for him and he took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and shook his head. “Nope, still don’t get it.”

What can I say. You love it or you don’t. I do, so a couple years ago I followed Mom’s recipe and made a batch. Probably it is impossible to fail at lefse-making, or it’s a rare enough treat that no matter how it turns out, no one complains. I certainly didn’t.

Last year Loverboy helped me make up a quadruple batch to bring home for Christmas, and then we both got too sick to travel and had to send it out with my brother. This year, I made a triple batch. L was too tired to help me and although he made a valiant effort, I sent him to bed for a couple hours of much-needed sleep while I spent four hours washing and peeling and boiling potatoes, then putting them through the ricer, adding flour and oil and a tiny bit of sugar,

and rolling and frying them:

Hot off the grill, the lefse I ate for supper had only butter on it and was so stellar that way, I may just eschew my past habit of putting sugar on it.

Once it’s buttered, my family sprinkles it with sugar (“Your family is spoiled!” Loverboy’s dad exclaimed), rolls it up and eats it from one end to the other. I am not sure how all of L’s family eats theirs, but his dad loves it and eats it with only butter. L likes to fill his up with meat (yuk! -- not that I’ve tried it that way, but the thought!).