Why does the genre become so ubiquitous at Easter? To find the answer, we need to travel back to the 1900s.

A Marketing Stunt That Still Resonates

A common misconception is that the Easter-crime trend kicked off with the 1923 book, Bergenstoget Plyndret Inat! (The Bergen Train Was Robbed Last Night! – an impossibly good title.) That notion isn’t entirely untrue, but it ignores the previous decade’s Easter-read blitz. During the weeks leading up to the 1912 holiday, publishers began promoting casual literature such as Sherlock Holmes in newspapers. Why Easter? Then, as now, Norway shut down for a week during its extended Easter holiday. Shops? Closed. You needed something to pass the time with.

Back to Bergenstoget Plyndret Inat! As a marketing ploy, publisher Gyldendal bought a headline on the front page of Aftenposten – Norway’s largest newspaper – which simply spelled out the book’s title. For the unassuming reader, it looked like an actual story about a large-scale train robbery. People freaked out – they had friends and relatives on the train! – and inundated Aftenposten with phone calls. For Gyldendal, the campaign was a success1.

In that sense, this was when the Easter-crime concept took off earnestly, though it was still built on earlier marketing campaigns.

Time marched on, and publishers rode on Gyldendal’s success. The number of Easter-time crime novels grew, but it wasn’t until 1965 that the phrase “Easter crime” appeared in an advertisement for Aftenposten’s short story, Crime passionel på Ullabrent gård – a title I couldn’t even try to translate.

I’ll let others dive into the Scandinavian psyche and its fascination with (often violent) crime fiction, but in this case, the genre’s popularity is connected to something more benign: Easter crimes are not too different from the American summer-time beach read. When you have time to kill – no pun intended – whether at a ski cabin or on the beach, a crime novel is always an entertaining way to pass the time.

From Books to the Small Screen

As television sets spread throughout the seventies, the Norwegian state broadcaster, NRK, smelled blood in the water and jumped on the Påskekrim trend. Crime dramas gradually turned into Easter mainstays, and in 1977, Påskekrim serials became annual program posts. These were adaptations of mostly British authors – P.D. James was particularly popular – and the rest, as they say, is history.

These days, NRK and the many commercial channels broadcast multiple Påskekrims every evening. Some may claim they’ve oversaturated the market, but, judging by viewerships, there is no end in sight for the macabre seasonal Easter crime.

Jo Nesbø’s Detective Hole

With that, it should come as no surprise that Netflix released Norway’s large-scale crime production, Detective Hole (based on Jo Nesbø’s Harry Hole books), during this year’s Easter week. I managed to sit through a bleak, joyless six minutes and forty-three seconds before calling it quits. It’s not poorly made, but yow, it requires you to be in a particular mindset.

Some may also remember The Snowman, the 2017 Hollywood adaptation of the Harry Hole series. The movie contained only 80% of its shooting script and is a baffling, weird watch. Add to that, the director insisted on using the character’s name verbatim, which… Say it out loud, and get ready to snicker like a ten-year-old boy: Harry Hole2.

Additional Easter Crimes Courtesy of NRK

Norway’s state channel, NRK, recently published a list of Easter crimes for your viewing pleasure. Three of them stream in the US: Shetland (BritBox), Lynely (BritBox), and The Marlow Murder Club (PBS).

Web Sources

NRK: “Nordisk noir på full guffe“ (Mar 20, 2026)

Norsk Folkemuseum: “Easter Crime“

Wikipedia: “Påskeferie“ (Mar 31, 2026)

Aftenposten: “Illusjon ble påsketradisjon” (Apr 4, 2023)

Further (Non-Easter) Reads

A couple of weeks ago, I went cross-country skiing for the first time since 2011. Before that, my previous trek was in 1996, so a pattern seems to be emerging. We’ll see how good my technique is in 2041.

Much like bicycling, you don’t forget how to cross-country ski. It’s an acquired skill that requires both coordination and balance, but after you get over the initial hump, it sticks with you. And like many Norwegian children, I learned to ski before I could walk. It’s not for nothing that “born with skis on our feet” is an oft-used Norwegian aphorism.

Now, the intention of this post is not to gloat about how awesome a skier I am1 – I managed to pull a muscle the day after the trip – but I do feel cross-country deserves a better rep here in the U.S. Why fight people in ski lifts and get run over by adrenaline-fueled fifteen-year-old snowboarders when you can instead leisurely glide through the woods? It’s a good workout, too.

So, to start with the beginning…

A Brief History

Cross-country skiing has been around as long as the wheel, and can be traced back more than five thousand years. During winter, skis were used throughout Northern Europe for hunting and migration.

The most “photographic” evidence of this is a four-thousand-year-old petroglyph depicting a skier, since dubbed “Rødøymannen.” The name refers to the island of Rødøy, where it was discovered. In later years, some archaeologists claim the petroglyph is not of a skier but rather a boater, so make up your own mind. The 1994 Olympic Committee chose to interpret it as a skier for its commemorative coin, and I’m not sure we’ll ever know what this rudimentary art really portrays. The point is that Norwegians have skied for a long time.

During the 1675–1679 war between Sweden and Denmark-Norway2, Norway formed a cross-country ski battalion that, in 1732, would become a mainstay of the Norwegian military. It was also around then that most skiers switched to using two poles; previously, skiers typically used a single long pole or a spear for balance.

During Roald Amundsen and Robert Scott’s 1911 race to the South Pole, many credit the Norwegian’s use of skis as a decisive factor in the outcome – Amundsen not only won, but also returned without a scratch. Scott and his crew died on the way back.

The Art of Cross-Country Skiing

Today, there are two forms of cross-country skiing: Skating and classic Nordic. While the former is the more common competitive style, the latter is easier and, in this handsome man’s opinion, more fun. One objectively true thing: the “crawl before you walk” adage applies to cross-country. Learn the classic style before you try to skate. During our aforementioned ski trip, there were a lot of beginners who were flailing around, frustrated that they were not making any headway with their skating.

With classic, you mostly stay in groomed trails, which is easier for balance and, unless you’re a skating demigod, also faster.

And, if you insist on skating, for heaven’s sake, do it outside of the groomed trails. Don’t ruin it for the rest of us. Sheesh.

Plowing and Herringbones

Going forward through groomed trails is easy enough as soon as you get the technique down – you just kick yourself forward, using your poles for balance and for an extra oomph. But, how about the hills? How do you climb up without sliding back and glide down without running into a tree?

This is where plowing and herringbones come in.

Unless you’re a pro, you likely will want to use herringbones to get up steeper hills. It, much like skating, should be done outside the groomed trail – you place your feet and skis in a V formation, with the inner edges of the skis digging into the snow. Like I have expertly illustrated:

From there, you “walk” by lifting the right ski in front of the left, the left in front of the right, and so on and so forth. The poles push you along.

Plowing downhill – sometimes known as “pizza” – is harder. You point the front of your skis toward the center while keeping your leg muscles and core flexed, so you don’t cross your skis. Keep your knees slightly bent and the poles even with your body for balance. Like this:

You’ll have to shift your balance left and right to make sure you move forward and not in circles. It’s not a particularly difficult technique, but it works the muscles. Hard. Frankly, if you can keep your balance in the groomed trail without plowing, that’s probably going to be easier.

Books and videos have been published on how to cross-country ski, but there’s not too much more to it than the basic movements. Lean slightly forward and move without falling; herringbone and plow if need be. You’ll be a champ before you know it.

The Olympics

It’ll come as little surprise that Norway stands with more Olympic cross-country medals than any other country. Hundred-and-twenty-nine in total, fifty-two of which are gold.

Marit Bjørgen holds the record for the most Olympic cross-country medals, with a total of fifteen, including eight golds. Close behind is Bjørn Dæhlie, with twelve medals, eight of which are gold. Norway takes its cross-country skiing seriously.

We will see if the streak continues – the Winter Olympics start this Friday, February 6th. Here in the U.S., it streams on Peacock.

The Alien Skier

I was curious what Google Gemini would make of the petroglyph and, well…

… maybe the alien conspiracists have a point after all.

Merch for the People!

Don’t just read Awesomeness – wear it! This distinguished publication proudly features two official shirts, magnets, stickers, or whatever medium you can think of: The Hallgrrrl and the Zune. Why those? For one, the Hallmark channel and Riotgrrrl are, as I’ve previously stated, the natural combination. And, who didn’t love the Zune?

Go shopping at The Better Taster Boutique for only the finest goods.

The “Rødøymannen” photo (CC BY-SA 4.0) and various factoids come courtesy of Wikipedia’s “Langrenn” article.

Soon after, Santa suffered the same fate.

Christmas cards featuring red-hatted gnomes had been a Norwegian tradition since the 1880s, and the hat itself was a popular Norwegian fashion staple. During the war, its popularity spiked as Norwegians sought to express national pride in the face of German occupation. The Nazi regime took notice, and on February 23rd, 1942, they issued an edict banning not only red-hatted gnomes in Christmas cards but also the actual attire: Red hats were no longer welcome in Nazi-occupied Norway.

It’s not widely documented exactly how successful the ban was, though the Porsgrunn Dagblad newspaper reported that police took action against four young girls wearing red and blue gnome hats on April 2nd, 1942. It’s also questionable how much of a point there was to the ban – other colors were allowed, and green and yellow hats became ubiquitous. Different colors; same sentiment – no one can accuse fascists of being particularly astute.

The Christmas cards suffered the same fate as the red hats, or, rather, the illustrated gnome hats did – the Nazis quickly put them on the chopping block. Still, limitations feed creativity, as shown in this illustrated card by Thorbjørn Egner. Here, Santa – the gnomes’ heir apparent – is visibly confused over where his hat went.

Other artists were more flagrant.

An illustration by Vigdis Rojahn shows a crow unsuccessfully trying to pick a hat off a gnome. Not a subtle message – the crow’s similarities to the Nazi Eagle are palpable – and the Gestapo arrested and interrogated the artist in their Oslo offices. Luckily, she was let go with a warning.

While plenty of these cards were printed, few were actually sent by mail – those that were often got intercepted by the Nazis. In all likelihood, people kept the cards in their homes as a silent protest against the occupying forces; many are preserved in the Norsk Folkemuseum (Norwegian Folk Museum).

Perhaps a more famous Norwegian World War 2 protest icon is the paper clip – the binders – which the resistance displayed on their lapel as a sign of unity. It had a short lifespan and was banned by the Nazis on September 25th, 1940.

Now, the paper clip itself has a sordid history, at least from a Norwegian perspective. Ask any self-respecting Norwegian, and they’ll tell you the country has come up with two major inventions: the cheese slicer and the paper clip. This is rooted in our upbringing and constitutes a point of national pride: the only reason you can clip papers together is because of Norwegian fortitude. You’re welcome!

Except… none of that is true. Not in the slightest, though Norway has done a good job of fooling the world. Look no further than the well-meaning “Paper Clips Project” for proof.

In reality, the first paper clip was patented by Samuel B. Fay in 1867, followed by Erlman J. Wright’s version in 1877. What we today fully recognize as a paper clip was introduced in 1892 by Cushman & Denison.

Johan Vaaler, the Norwegian credited with the invention, didn’t submit a patent application until 1901. It was rejected because… well… the paper clip already existed, and, thus, Vaaler’s version never entered production.

In other words, put the paper clip in the same bucket as Norway’s national chocolate bar, Kvikk Lunsj, which, for all intents and purposes, is Kit Kat in a different wrapper.

• forskning.no: “Brukte nisseluer: Slik viste nordmenn motstand mot nazistene med julekort”

• Klikk: “Ulovlige julekort: Fikk tyskerne til å se rødt”

• Wikipedia: “Binders”

It was brought to my attention that the Norwegian Embassy, in a seemingly successful attempt to go viral, besmirched the most Norwegian-est of dishes: The grilled cheese sandwich. Have a gander at their Bluesky video – you’ll need to be logged in to view it – or take a look at these incriminating captures.

A lot is happening here. First, don’t cook anything while wearing a singlet – grease splatter is bound to hurt you. More importantly, everything about that sandwich, sans the brand of cheese, is wrong. Pickles on an alleged Norwegian grilled cheese – one that is closed-faced at that – is nothing less than scandalous. Gauche, even.

To state the obvious, this type of grilled cheese should be open-faced. That’s just the Norwegian way. Top the bread with butter or mayo; some type of cured meat; chopped onions; Jarlsberg cheese1; bacon; and oregano. Then bake it. That’s it – no pan needed.

In the name of restoring Norway’s sandwich-honor – one which the Embassy tried to tear down – I give you the full recipe. And on behalf of the nation of Norway, I apologize profusely.

Ingredients

• A slice of sourdough or any loaf of your choice.

• Mayo or butter.

• Salami – enough to cover the bread.

• A handful of sliced onions.

• Jarlsberg cheese.

• Bacon, cooked.

• A light sprinkling of oregano.

Assembly

Just layer the sandwich in the order of the ingredients. Use the header photo for reference; skip the meats if you prefer a vegetarian option.

Then bake the sandwich at 400º until the cheese melts – about five-ish minutes.

And, there you go. Serve with tomato soup if so desired.

California Burrito & Taco Shop

I’m more than hesitant to give Starbucks credit for anything, but the proof is in the proverbial pudding. Their new Rainier Beach location has greatly improved the surrounding area. To wit, the neighboring Jack in the Box closed down to make way for California Burrito & Taco Shop, a twenty-four-hour drive-through joint with a vast menu.

I don’t think anyone would confuse California Burrito with an artisanal taco stand, nor should anyone expect that from them. This type of drive-through should deliver big flavors quickly and send you on your way. Which California Burrito does, and they do it well. Those carne asada fries above came loaded in sour cream and guacamole. It’s not subtle, and I’m perfectly fine with that – sometimes you need a hearty meal. A Flamin’ Hot Cheetos burrito? They got that, too.

@californiaburritoandtacoshop_

CaliforniaBurrito&tacoshop on Instagram: "Order your Bandido Bu…

That’s the type of thing you’ll get from California Burrito, every hour of the day. I, for one, approve of it.

The Rating

Regular disclaimer: I generally don’t score anything these days, but as this write-up falls squarely into the annals of Tortillaphilia history, it would be downright disrespectful not to.

Find California Burrito & Taco Shop at 9102 Rainier Ave S, Seattle, WA 98118.

For those not familiar with the Shaman Durek Verrett – colloquially known as Durek – and Princess Märtha Louise, they’re not your traditional royal-adjacent couple. Durek is part Reptilian – an ancient alien race – and a psychic who peddles medallions as a cure for COVID1. Märtha is also psychic, and in 2007, she started the Astarte Inspiration Institute, where, for a nominal fee, you could learn to communicate with angels2.

A match made in heaven, and one that is destined to repeat itself: Märtha and Durek had already been married in ancient Egypt. He a Pharaoh, she a Queen3.

If this all sounds peculiar, it’s because it is. And, anyone familiar with Norway can see how Märtha and Durek’s relationship – and subsequent marriage – would cause a culture clash. It would be fitting material for a “stranger in a strange land”-type documentary, but Rebel Royals instead focuses on… I’m not exactly sure what. For the most part, we get ninety minutes of Märtha and Durek – both charismatic speakers – throwing themselves a self-promotion party. Some parts are entertaining – particularly scenes involving Durek and his bonus children – others are, as the kids would say, “cringe.”

But let’s travel six years back in time and have a look at the incidents that set the stage for how this documentary became particularly controversial in Norway.

When is a Royal a Royal in Name Only?

In 2019, Märtha and Durek announced both their relationship and, coincidentally, their “Princess and Shaman” lecture tour. Seats ran for sixty dollars a pop, and you could learn about “spirit hacking,” a concept invented by Durek4.

The Princess using her title to promote this commercial venture flew straight in the face of century-old Royal traditions. After a major outcry in Norwegian media, Märtha was forced to take a step back and fall in line with Royal guidelines.

I will henceforth not use my Princess title in any commercial context. This means I commercially will only go by Märtha Louise.5

It didn’t stick, and for the next few years, the Princess kept using her title in commercial dealings. In 2022, things topped themselves, and the King saw the need to strip her of Royal responsibilities.

The Princess will abstain from her protectorships that, today, frame the Princess’ official engagements for the Royal House, and will at this time not represent the Royal House. [..] Princess Märtha Louise and Durek Verrett will clearly separate their own activities and their connection to the Royal House.6

The Princess acquiesced and agreed again to use only her name – no title – commercially.

Durek Verrett and I will only use Märtha Louise in social media, in media productions, or in conjunction with other commercial ventures.7

Seeing how the documentary is called Rebel Royals, you get the idea of how well that stuck, rebellious as it may be.

The Princess and the Shaman are commercially minded, unapologetically so. Durek has leaned heavily on calling himself a Royal – he brings it up often in the documentary – which, aside from being a breach of the aforementioned agreement, is also inaccurate. Again, from the press release (my emphasis):

In the same manner as Erling Lorentzen, Johan Martin Ferner, and Ari Behn, Durek Verrett will become a part of the Royal Family when he marries, but, in line with tradition, will not have a title or represent the Royal House8.

To be clear: In Norway, you are not considered a Royal without a Royal title.

Durek vs. The Man

Durek has doubled down on being an outsider, making it a significant part of his schtick, which he discusses in the documentary. His worldviews stand in stark contrast with those of the conservative Royal House: You won’t find many Norwegian Royals who claim they are part alien.

One of the Rebal Royals’ capstones is Durek’s story of meeting the King and Queen. As he tells it, the Royals went stone-faced when he showed up wearing a kimono and cowboy boots.

I wasn’t there, but it seems odd that the King and Queen, both of whom have spent their lives traveling the world and witnessed all kinds of culture, would freeze up at the sight of an eclectic attire.

And, this is where I will digress with a personal apropos!

Märtha and Durek’s wedding was inadvertently set during Team Awesomeness’ 2024 trip to Norway. And, one day we ran into the King and Queen having lunch near the wedding venue.

When we arrived at Hotel Union Öye – in dirty hiking clothes – we got the tour of the place, and stepped into a closed-off dining room where only one couple was having lunch. As we loudly commented (in English) on paintings of Royal visitors from all over the world (“Why would Kings and Queens travel all the way up here?!”) I noticed who the two lone diners were: The King and Queen. I couldn’t see the Queen’s reaction, but the King was laughing to himself, clearly finding the whole spectacle amusing.

Later that evening, we went to the fjordside sauna, where paparazzi drones buzzed over to us to see if we were tabloid-worthy celebrities. We (rudely enough) didn’t qualify, but the next day, you could see our rental car in the back of a picture in Norway’s largest newspaper, VG. 

Back to Durek and the Royals.

Whichever way it went down, Durek has been around the block, and I doubt he would lack the foresight to check if his first visit with the stodgy Royals would require him to wear a suit.

Besides, I’m sure when he was a Pharaoh, he, too, would expect visitors to dress up for him.

The Royal House did not partake in the documentary, but they made one statement related to their first meeting with Durek:

His Majesty the King does not wish to comment on private conversations within the family. At the same time, anyone can remember certain things somewhat differently.9

In the end, I guess we – or they – can agree to disagree.

And the Beat Goes On

Märtha and Durek likely did not expect a backlash from Norwegians – almost three out of four now want to see the Princess lose her title10 – and Durek tried to clarify some of their statements in an Instagram video.

shamandurek

A post shared by @shamandurek

Director Rebecca Chaiklin has also acknowledged that the Princess and Shaman were less than thrilled with parts of the documentary.11

I don’t think they’re pleased with some of the claims we make in the documentary. It was very difficult for them to process that it would be available to the world on such a large platform.

If nothing else, the duo claims they have learned their lesson. When attending the premiere of the movie, they declined to do interviews with Norwegian media:

Our focus now is to take responsibility and make sure we proceed constructively. Because of this, we cannot answer questions from the press, which in itself can be seen as a breach of the agreement.12

An hour later, People published “Princess Märtha Louise and Durek Verrett on Love, Scandal and Turning Their Royal Wedding Into a Netflix Must-See,” an exclusive interview with the two.

The beat does, indeed, go on.

Antmusic

Say what you want about the documentary, but the Adam and the Ants-forward soundtrack is a banger. Not only do they throw down “Kings of the Wild Frontier” and its b-side, “Press Darlings,” you also get treated to the Ants’ spin-off band, Bow Wow Wow.

“Kings of the Wild Frontier,” what a classic.

Disclaimer: A lot of the quotes above were translated from Norwegian into English by me.

Weirdly, the further north you go, the more colorful the language turns. In one rural area, the courts decided it was culturally OK for a driver to call a traffic cop a very naughty word, which I choose not to repeat here. (It relates to a part of a horse, and… you know, you figure it out.)

In that sense, some real zingers do exist, but in cities, those words tend to be reserved for the bourgeoisie.

And, in case you should find yourself in Norway and want to show your edgy side, here are the banneord – curse words – that will give you your deserved and slightly polite street cred.

Faen: The Milder F-Bomb

The most common Norwegian cuss word literally means “the Devil.” If you direct it toward someone, you say, “Faen ta deg,” i.e., “may the Devil take you,” which presumably stems from “Faen ta deg til helvete” – “may the Devil take you to hell.”

Switching “you” with “me,” “Faen ta meg” translates to “may the Devil take me,” but is used in a wholly different context: “Friggin’.” So, “de skulle faen ta meg ha vunnet” cleanly becomes “they should have friggin’ won.” The Devil works in mysterious ways.

“Fy faen” means “damn it,” though it is hard to translate directly. ”[spit sound], Devil,” is as close as I can get.

A toned-down version of “faen” is “søren,” which, oddly, is also a name. I was halfway wondering if Søren, at some point, was used as the Devil’s name, kind of like Lucifer, but I could not find any proof of that.

How to pronounce “Faen” (will open in browser)

Other Common Profanities

Jævel: Simply a lower-cased “devil,” used more in the vein of “bastard.” It has also taken on a positive form: “Jævlig bra,” which means “really good.”

Svenskejævel: Just to cement the stereotypical Norway/Sweden rivalry, “Svenskejævel” translates to “Swedish devil” or, more correctly, “Swedish bastard.” It’s used more than one would hope.

Forbanna: Continuing down the “jævel” path, “forbanna” means “damned,” and is often used alongside “jævel” – “forbanna jævel.” “Damned devil.”

Helvete: This simply means “hell.” Not unlike its English brethren, “go to hell,” “dra til helvete” is commonly used.

Some Legacy Classics

Fytterakkeren: I have not been able to find the etymology for this one, but it translates to something like “good grief.” Breaking apart the word, “fytte” would likely be a spit sound, while “rakkeren” translates to “The Nightman.”

A “nightman,” as it turns out, is someone who emptied latrines in the 1500s.

Pokker means “damn” or, if directly translated, “smallpox.” It is used in the context of “pokker ta deg,” i.e., “may the smallpox take you,” so not a million miles away from “damn you.”

Snørrunge: Finally, not a profanity, but a putdown that in my mind is a glorious slap-down: “snot-kid.” I know there are similar English expressions, but man, snot-kid. What a mic drop.

Wikipedia: Søren. Jan 17, 2025.

As the grain became more readily available through increased imports, risengrynsgrøt became a commoner’s staple during winter months and Christmas. Over the holiday, farmers traditionally left a bowl of porridge out for the nisse – a barn gnome and precursor to Santa – to prevent bad luck for the coming year.

Today, risengrynsgrøt is still a seasonal favorite – particularly for children – and a lucky diner may end up with a single almond in the porridge. This entitles them to a reward: the coveted marzipan pig.

Making the porridge at home is simple. You can either base it on pre-packaged risengryn or use sushi rice. They’re exactly the same thing.

For four portions of porridge:

• 1 cup rice

• 2 cups water

• 4 ¼ cups whole milk

• 1 tsp salt

For toppings:

• 1 tbsp butter per serving

• Sugar and cinnamon

The Steps

1. Boil rice in water until the rice has absorbed the water – about 10 minutes.

2. Slowly pour in milk while stirring. Turn the heat down to simmer.

3. Stir intermittently, and let simmer until the porridge is thick. Add a few pinches of salt to taste.

Serve the porridge in bowls with a dusting of sugar and cinnamon. Top with a tablespoon of butter.

Risengrynsgrøt. (2024, August 29). In Wikipedia. https://no.wikipedia.org/wiki/Risengrynsgr%C3%B8t

Full priskrig på julefavoritter. (2024, December 4). In VG. https://www.vg.no/nyheter/i/93X885/naa-er-det-priskrig-paa-en-rekke-julevarer-i-matbutikkene

Exactly how Kvikk Lunsj (English: Quick Lunch) became Norway’s “official” hiking chocolate depends on the story you choose to believe. Few dispute the origins: Future chocolatier Johan Throne Holst wanted to impress a German business associate by taking him on a proper Norwegian hike. Neither man was prepared to navigate the woods, and within an hour, they found themselves lost. Frustrated, the German turned to Holst and yelled, “You didn’t even bring a quick lunch?”

The name stuck, but it would take another fifty years for the Kvikk Lunsj bar to see the light of day. And much like a fork in a trail, this is where the story diverges.

To this day, Holst’s candy factory, Freia, frames Kvikk Lunsj as his creation. In 1937, the hapless outdoorsman sat down and designed the optimal provision for hiking. A four-fingered wafer bar covered in chocolate. Easy to split into pieces and more filling than your average Hershey bar.

While technically true, a crucial part is left out of the story. In 1936, Holst’s son brought back a—you guessed it—popular four-fingered wafer bar covered in chocolate from England: Kit Kat. Kvikk Lunsj’s name might have originated in the great outdoors, but the original product was created somewhere in York. And Holst had few qualms about copying it.

Shady backstory aside, it’s hard to ding Freia’s dedication to the outdoor framing. From its beginnings, Kvikk Lunsj was marketed as the hiking chocolate bar, well-suited for cross-country ski trips and a fashionable companion to a new skiing coat known as the anorak. As far as a chocolate bar goes, Kvikk Lunsj was downright cool.

A Lifelong Marketing Campaign

In the 1960s, Kvikk Lunsj cemented its position as the “official” outdoor candy bar by printing The Norwegian Tourist Association’s fjellvettreglene on its packaging: The Norwegian Mountain Code.

1. Plan your trip and inform others about the route you have selected.

2. Adapt the planned routes according to ability and conditions.

3. Pay attention to the weather and the avalanche warnings.

4. Be prepared for bad weather and frost, even on short trips.

5. Bring the necessary equipment so you can help yourself and others.

6. Choose safe routes. Recognize avalanche terrain and unsafe ice.

7. Use a map and a compass. Always know where you are.

8. Don’t be ashamed to turn around.

9. Conserve your energy and seek shelter if necessary.

It took, and today, Norwegians consume nearly fifty million bars annually, with peak sales happening during the traditional Easter ski holiday. Norwegians average three bars per capita during that week.

Kvikk Lunsj is so ingrained in the national culture that, in 2005, people took to the streets protesting the switch from the traditional tinfoil wrapper to a more environmentally friendly packaging. I do believe the anti-environmental sentiment qualifies as irony.

A History of Shady Chocolate

Lest the Kit Kat rip-off be mistaken as a singular incident, Freia has a rich history of similar stunts. Take their Japp bar:

Japp was introduced by Marabou—Freia’s Swedish subsidiary—in 1947. The Mars bar? 1932.

And the popular movie-theater snack, Non Stop:

Hey, you know how the adage goes—good artists copy; great artists steal.

Present Day

It should surprise no one that Kit Kat tried to get its form factor copyrighted, yet, bafflingly, it took them until 2005 to do so. Or, rather, try to—the EU struck down their claim. At that point, too much time had passed, and Kvikk Lunsj was here to stay.

Finally, which one is the better bar? In this handsome man’s opinion, Kvikk Lunsj wins any day of the week. Say what you want about Freia (or its current owner, Mondelēz) and its business practices—the company produces some quality chocolate.

Don’t take my word for it, though. In 2017, The Guardian conducted a taste-off, where the Norwegian copycat won hands down.

And to think this was all the result of a hungry German lost in the woods.

You can find Kvikk Lunsj in most Norwegian import stores here in the US (and presumably elsewhere).

Sources

Kvikk Lunsj. (2023, February 5). In Wikipedia. https://no.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kvikk_Lunsj

Kit Kat. (2024, March 23). In Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kit_Kat

Historien Om Productene. In Freia’s corporate section. https://www.freia.no/historien-om-produktene

The pølse med lompe was ubiquitous in Norwegian culture. Any self-respecting children’s party would serve them, and pølseboder—hot dog kiosks—stayed open well into the mornings, providing bar patrons with wieners, franks, and other types of sausage-based wraps.

That was then, but as Norwegian tastes grew more adventurous, the hot dog fell out of favor. That’s not to say you won’t find pølser at many get-togethers—it’s a favorite on the 17th of May Constitution Day—but no longer is there pølseboder on every street corner. The Guardian ran a piece a few years ago claiming only one was left in Oslo—that’s not entirely accurate, but the kiosks’ glory days have passed. The pølse med lompe is now a domesticated animal.

The “Recipe”

You can quickly prepare yourself a pølse med lompe, even in the US. Traditionally, there are many variations, but, in my mind, the children’s party version is the baseline. To assemble one, follow these simple steps:

• Boil a wiener dog. Sure, you can also grill a frank, but a boiled wiener is the real thing. You’ll be surprised at the flavor burst from the infused water.

• Place the pølse on a proper potato lefse. Many stores carry Mrs. Olson’s [sic], which is adequate, though a touch dry. Visit your local Scandinavian specialty store for better options. (All Things Nordic is a Seattle favorite.)

• Top with ketchup. I’m not a big fan of the condiment, but so goes the rule: Ketchup is a must.

• And some mustard. Just the regular stuff, nothing too fancy like the Grey Poupon.

• Strew on some roasted onions. IKEA carries the real stuff, though French’s will do in a bind.

• Roll the lompe around the pølse for an authentic handheld experience.

And that’s it! A grown-up would often take it further with shrimp salad or other advanced toppings, but I remain a purist. The above pølse is so stuffed with flavor that you don’t need anything too fancy. Embrace your inner child and enjoy pølse med lompe as it was intended.

Unexpected Uses of the Lefse

Those who have experienced the wonders of pølse med lompe often ask me: What other unexpected dishes can the potato lefse be used in? Shortly put, the lompe can always substitute tortillas or pitas. The best example is Fredagstacoen—the lompe is lighter than taco shells or flour tortillas and has an almost transformative effect on the taco. Almost.

Photo Credits

Aftenposten, Trond Hansen

The dynamo for getting movie titles translated was the The Language Council of Norway, whose terse guideline read:

Imported movies in Norwegian cinemas should have Norwegian titles. Norwegian speakers are best served with Norwegian-language titles.

Interestingly, kids’ movies aside, films were rarely, if ever, dubbed into Norwegian, just subtitled.

Vacation’s Ominous Transformation Into Help, We Have To Go On Holiday!

Comedies dominated the eighties box office, and those who visited their local Norwegian multiplex would be greeted with posters sharing a common theme: Comedy titles prefixed with “Hjelp”—“Help”—often in bizarre ways. How Vasectomy became Help, Apparently We Have Too Many Children! is anyone’s guess.

While mostly remembered as an eighties phenomenon, “Hjelp” had been a go-to for translators for almost a century. The 1926 French film 600000 Francs Par Mois (600,000 Francs Per Month) was the first movie to receive the treatment with Help! I’m a Millionaire! In 1939, a German film about the joy of fatherhood took a decidedly grimmer turn. Hurra! Ich bin Papa!—Hooray! I’m a Dad!—became Help, I’m a Dad!

Still, the eighties and nineties were the pinnacle of “Hjelp” movies, with more than thirty titles bearing the moniker.

The ball got rolling in 1980 when the classic aviation disaster parody Airplane! was translated into Help, We’re Flying! Not entirely random, I guess, particularly when compared to National Lampoon’s Vacation trilogy, where the eponymous first entry got the dubiously titled Help, We Have To Go On Vacation! European Vacation became Help, We Have To Go On European Vacation, followed by Help, It’s Christmas Vacation! and Help, We Have To Go On Vacation To Las Vegas!

This is Spinal Tap did not escape the treatment, either, being renamed to Help, We’re in the Pop Business! And She’s Having A Baby? The throughline of translating happy occasions into something dreadful continued with Help, We're Getting Married!

The Language Council guideline stood until 2012 when the body acknowledged that Norwegians’ language skills had reached a level sufficient enough to understand English titles. Just from a practical standpoint, it made sense. Die Hard had been called Operation Skyscraper, a title that couldn’t reasonably apply to the airplane-based Die Hard 2 which ended up maininging its English title.

All said, though: I guess Operation Skyscraper was better than Help, We’re Dying Hard!

For More

This video has a huge collection of the “Hjelp” titles:

Web Sources

• filmweb.no

• Språkrådet

• Rushprint

Colloquialisms are strange beasts—phrases we throw out and instantly understand, even though they make little sense. “The whole nine yards”? Most Americans get it, but the origins reveal why it can be nonsense to the rest of the world.

Norwegian vocabulary is no different, though many—most—of the phrases are perhaps even more eclectic. To give you just a sampling:

“Helt Texas” (“Completely Texas”)

After being featured in various international outlets—the BBC and the Washington Post, for example—“helt Texas” became a bit of a viral sensation. Depending on the context, the phrase means “completely wild” or “out of control.”

The author Vegard Vigerust coined the saying in the fifties when American Western movies ruled Norwegian cinema. As the lawless cowboys caused all kinds of ruckus, the films served as a good baseline for colorfully describing anything out of control. And, as these Westerns often were set in Texas, “completely Texas” was born.

In that sense, it isn’t a million miles away from when Americans use “wild west” to describe something that’s out of control. The main difference is that Texans have to take the brunt of the blame in the Norwegian colloquialism.

“Pølsevev” (“Sausage Weave” or “Sausage Skin”)

It’s a winding road going from “sausage weave” to “nonsense,” but that is what “pølsevev” ultimately translates to. Or, to preserve the meat theme, “baloney.”

The etymology stems from the sausage’s (allegedly) delicious-looking weave disguising its poor-quality innards. Which, of course, is nonsense!

That’s all a stretch, but then, isn’t that the case with most colloquialisms?

“Ta det piano” (“Take it piano”)

We’re getting into the weeds of it with “ta det piano,” which properly translates to “take it easy.”

Often, the expression is explained by equating piano music to something soft and relaxing. More accurately, “piano” is Italian for “soft” or “careful,” which isn’t quite as colorful of an explanation, but it certainly makes more sense.

And, only somewhat related: A tasty Norwegian chocolate yoghurt took its name from the saying, though it has now been shortened to “Piano,” and is apparently re-purposed for a vanilla cream.

“Hæla i taket!” (“Heals in the roof!”)

Or, if the party really is rocking, “tenna i tapeten!” ("The teeth in the wallpaper!")

The expressions are the more controlled, fun cousins of “helt Texas!” Parties gone wild, but not too wild—very Norwegian.

I haven’t found any reliable information about either’s etymology, but I can’t help but wonder if “Hæla i taket” is related to the 1930 song “Dancing on the Ceiling.” (Or, even better, Lionel Richie’s track with the same name.)

“Tenna i tapeten”? That’s where I'll have to pass. I'm not sure why one would chew the wall, but it’s a pretty amusing saying all the same.

Fun fact: Hæla i taket was the Norwegian name for the 1982 film Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

The Digest has moved from Substack to Ghost after a series of less-than-ideal decisions and statements from the former platform. Anil Dash’s thread on it is hidden by Bluesky’s current invite-only wall, but this TikTok excerpt from The Verge’s interview with Substack’s CEO illustrates a greater problem with the platform: Politically and culturally, Substack is going the way of Twitter.

Ghost’s newsletters sadly do not display the feature images you see on the web, so I’m just going to add the one I expertly created with Dall-E. It illustrates “helt Texas” nigh perfectly.

Web Sources

The whole nine yards. (2023, November 14). In Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_whole_nine_yards

Klisjeer. https://klisjeer.no

Piano® Duo yoghurt nøttetoffee og sjokocrisp. From Tine. https://www.tine.no/merkevarer/piano/produkter/piano-duo-yoghurt-n%C3%B8ttetoffee-og-sjokocrisp

What stuck out while scanning through my collection of eighties comics was the advertisements. Some weird, some questionable, all relics of a bygone era. And all very Norwegian.

Here are some of the more illustrative examples.

Solo

In 1980, Solo—an orange soda that has been around since 1934—came up with what must have seemed like a good idea: “Olos.” The concept was to put a joke on the backside of the label. Pull it off, read, and laugh.

It failed on all three counts.

First, seeing the manufacturer never changed the adhesive, it was impossible to remove the label. This left you to drink the soda and read the joke through the backside of the bottle, but as the print was so poor, you could barely make out the words. And the few times you could construe the jokes… Well, they weren’t exactly knee-slappers.

The model in the ad is Rolv Wesenlund, a Norwegian actor mostly known for his comedic roles. Early in his career, he also twice won the Norwegian Championship in jazz—the fact that there was a national jazz contest might be a topic best left alone.

Milk Shake

The milkshake made its way to the Norwegian market in 1984, courtesy of Tine, then known as Norske Meierier—”Norwegian Dairy.” ”Shake yourself a Milk Shake1 in 20 seconds,” read the blurb under what admittedly was a clever image.

The actual milkshake wasn’t particularly great and tasted more like milk roughly mixed with strawberry syrup. Shaking it didn’t do much to meld the flavors. Tine also had the advantage of being dairy monopoly, which meant there weren’t many alternatives. (I believe McDonald’s became the first real milkshake competitor.)

Hubba Bubba

“Huge bubbles that don’t stick!”

So many questions about this series of ads: Setting aside the cowboy vs. indians trope, I don’t understand why one flavor of bubble gum is the hero and the other is the villain. Granted, the pink strawberry was objectively tastier than the blue licorice—at least to the six-year-old me—but they’re both Hubba Bubba. Did they not want to sell every variety?

And why was the licorice indians/wrappers blue? The gum was a gray-ish brown.

With all said, I recently tried Hubba Bubba for the first time in decades, and you can, indeed, blow huge bubbles that don’t stick. The flavor is what it is: Chemical-y and full of eighties nostalgia.

Web Sources

Solo (brus). (2023, July 10). In Wikipedia. no.wikipedia.org/wiki/Solo_(brus)

Donald Duck & Co. (2023, March 17). In Wikipedia. no.wikipedia.org/wiki/Donald_Duck_%26_Co

Rolv Wesenlund. (2023, October 13). In Wikipedia. no.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rolv_Wesenlund

Friluftsliv is ingrained from an early age. Kids spend half the day of kindergarten outside, and I cannot remember school ever being delayed or canceled because of the weather. Snow berms two feet above a six-year-old’s head? Toughen up, kid. It (hopefully) won’t cave in over you. I literally stood on cross-country skis before I could walk.

While friluftsliv has been around since lord-knows-when, the word was first coined in Henrik Ibsen’s 1859 poem På Viddene (On the Plains) with the line “Outdoor life for my thoughts.” The phrase stuck, and today, the official definition per the Norwegian government reads: “Outdoor life is the experience and physical activity in the open air during your free time with the aim of environmental change and experiencing nature.” In most Scandinavian countries, anything considered “nature” is public property. It is known as “allmannsrett”—“every man’s right.” (Weirdly not made gender neutral.)

Typical examples of friluftsliv are predictable: Hikes in the woods and mountains are common, and on Sundays, you typically say, “Have a good hike” instead of “Have a good day.” As stand-offish and cold as Norwegian culture is, things change during hikes. People greet each other and sometimes even talk to strangers. Impressive for a culture where, more often than not, you go through the grocery store checkout without saying a word.

And, to be clear, while Sunday hikes are common in many parts of the world, in Norway, it’s the norm—no exaggeration.

Norway may be a gun-shy country, yet hunting is entirely typical. While you need a rifle and hunting license—both require extensive training, tests, and permits—it is something many gladly will go through to participate in deer hunting season.

Globally, friluftsliv garnered some attention during the height of the pandemic lockdown. “Is friluftsliv the new hygge?” asked National Geographics in a story that dug into the psychology behind friluftsliv (and how it related to COVID). That is a fair angle, but I maintain culture and history—and landscape—are more of an apt background.

As for the adage promoting appropriate clothing: It’s a cute saying—and even rhymes in Norwegian—but it raised some concerns when friluftsliv went global. Outdoor apparel doesn't come cheap. That is not as much of an issue in Norway as it is what people tend to buy anyway. Friluftsliv aside, picking up a Helly Hansen jacket is stomachable when colder seasons dominate. It might be more of a frivolous investment in places where conditions aren’t quite as harsh, but it’s worth remembering that Norway is a casual country with the highest per-capita ownership of jeans in the world.

The term “friluftsliv” might not have the global reach “hygge” has, but it has put a name on something familiar in places where an outdoor lifestyle is prevalent. It only made sense when the Seattle Times wrote an article on it a few years back. Not only is the outdoors treated very similarly here in the Pacific Northwest as in Norway, but we also have an equivalent style of practical fashion.

And friluftsliv is a concept that does deserve to catch on. It’s good for body and mind—so much so that it is the most common prescription for depression in Norway. Another Norwegian adage: “Ut på tur, aldri sur!”—“Out on a hike, never grumpy!”

If nothing else, it will always be a step up from Janteloven as far as Norwegian export goes.

Web Source

Friluftsliv. (2023, January 4). In Wikipedia. no.wikipedia.org/wiki/Friluftsliv

Yet, one thing sticks out: Despite its many names, Brunost is not a cheese.

We’re plummeting into contrarianism here, but as Brunost is made with whey and not pure dairy, it is technically “mysost”—“whey cheese.” Conversely, Gjetost—“goat cheese”—is also a misnomer. The quote-unquote-cheese is diluted with byproducts from cow’s milk, which immediately disqualifies it from being goat cheese. And if we really want to get into the weeds, Brunost isn’t even red, meaning the seldom-used Mysost should be its true name.

Of course, only the true belligerent would raise those arguments. To most of us, Brunost looks like cheese, smells like cheese, and tastes like cheese. Most everyone has come to peace with it being just that: Cheese.

Characterizations

Possibly the most striking thing about Brunost is its semi-golden brown color. I’m not aware of any other cheese that looks like it. Paradoxically, it is also hard and soft. It feels firm to the touch and slices without crumbling before it instantaneously softens. Stack slices on a serving platter, and they’ll likely mush together, so they must be served as quickly as possible. By the time you bite into it, the cheese will either melt to your tongue or stick to the roof of your mouth. It’s an odd sensation.

The flavor is a mix of sharp dairy—whey—and caramel. It’s not quite sweet enough to be a dessert cheese, but its flavor is both balanced and powerful in all its simplicity.

Serving Suggestion

Brunost is commonly served for breakfast or lunch on a Wasa cracker with a schmear of butter. Not a whole lot more is needed to complement the tangy flavor, though you can serve the crackerbread with a glass of cold milk if you want to live the life of a 1980s Norwegian child. (I would not recommend this.)

For a more exciting variety, I’ll point you to my write-up on the Norwegian waffle. Simply topping the waffle with cheese is plenty, but you can’t go wrong with adding butter. And, for the true adventurer: Strawberry jam and Brunost is a flavor bomb unlike anything else in the Norwegian culinary lexicon.

Brunost is manufactured by the Norwegian state-subsidized dairy cooperate TINE and is marketed in the US as “Ski Queen”—a shaky attempt at being folksy. It can be found in most grocery stores amongst the deli cheeses.

Anne Hov: A Surefire Member of the Norwegian Culinary Arts Hall of Fame

Joining Ivar Moss as a lynchpin in Norwegian food history: Anne Hov is the mother of the modern Brunost. While varieties of the cheese had been around for hundreds of years, Hov created what was ostensibly an imitation goat cheese in 1863 after her father gave up on goat farming.

These days, you can find “real” Brunost—the type made from pure goat’s milk—but doesn’t that defeat the purpose of Hov’s ingenuity? Goat’s cheese without goat’s milk? It’s the Beyond Meat of the 1860s.

Web Sources

“Historien om brunost.” TINE. tine.no/merkevarer/tine-brunost/artikler/brunostens-historie

“Brunost.” Wikipedia. November 05, 2022. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brunost

“Anne Hov.” Wikipedia. July 23, 2022. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_Hov

Yet, the dominoes had started falling, and in 1836, Norway began observing May 17th as its Constitution Day. One of the mainstays of the celebration is the Russ. Based on a Danish tradition, the Russ are high-school students marking their graduation year, the peak bash happening during the May 17th festivities.

The modern Russ celebration began in 1905. Graduates would don red caps and carry bamboo sticks with ribbons in dedicated Russ parades. An innocent tradition, but one that would soon nosedive into a prolonged celebration of debauchery.

A Post-War Blowout

Changes came in the late forties when the Russ issued themselves a set of challenges: Sing a song in public, kiss a police officer—that sort of thing. If completed successfully, they would receive knots in their hats’ tassels.

As the years passed, the challenges would evolve—or devolve—into everything from dangerous to illegal stunts. Large intakes of alcohol became increasingly common, and kidnapping is now a prevalent prank. The latter, while often innocent, has resulted in several violent encounters over the years.

Still, the majority of the shenanigans are relatively benign. During my Russ period, we didn’t go further than the traditional soaking of middle-schoolers with water guns. The police showed up, but when a drenched teacher caught in the crossfire tried to complain, he was told we weren’t breaking any laws. The cops barely managed to keep their faces straight.

(We did “kidnap” a friend’s brother, though he was the one who insisted we take him away from school.)

Russ Vehicles

During the fifties, “Russ cars” became a regular sight. Students would get together and buy old vehicles, paint them red or blue, and drive them in parades.

As the Russ celebration prolonged from days to weeks to months, larger vans—and, later, busses—became the preferred means to get to parties and gatherings. Norway’s legal drinking age is eighteen, so single vehicles with pools of students made it easier to find designated drivers.

Increasingly, the vans became less junky and more expensive, and funding them through painted-on advertisements became the norm.

Our VW camper was British, meaning it had a right-side steering wheel. On the left, we installed a non-functional wheel, and the car enthusiast of the group would pretend to be driving while drinking a beer. Needless to say, we got pulled over by an officer who, to his eternal credit, found the prank hilarious.

In recent years, spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on bus rentals has become commonplace. That the rental companies often are shady hasn’t put a stopper to it: There are plenty of stories of groups being pressured into paying repair costs for lemons they were scammed into renting.

Russ Cards

I don’t know when Russ cards became a thing, but this type of personalized “business card” is ubiquitous. Typically, it will include name, (fake) address, and (fake) phone number. A “motto” is usually plastered onto the bottom.

There is no particularly good reason for these cards to exist, but elementary school kids collect them feverishly. Having the largest collection is a major status symbol during April and May.

An Attempted Death Knell

Toward the late nineties, a coalition of educators tried to illegalize the Russ concept. It didn’t take, but I can see where they were coming from. While most students cruise through the Russ period, there are those who use it as an excuse to flunk out of school. Would they have made it had it not been for the Russ celebration? My high-school principal, who led the coalition, very much believed so.

Here in 2022, there are no indications that the Russ is going anywhere. It has grown into too big of a business for that. Plus, it is a tradition that has been around since Norway regained its independence. Maybe not a classy tradition, but a tradition nonetheless.

Web Sources

“17. mai (grunnlovsdag).” Wikipedia. Updated May 16, 2022. no.wikipedia.org/wiki/17._mai_(grunnlovsdag)

“Russefairing.” Wikipedia. Updated May 16, 2022. no.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russefeiring

Letter to The Editor

Dear Editor,

I am concerned about the editorial standards at The Awesomeness Digest. Caramel sauce is, indeed, awesome. But the latest edition claims to offer a version that is “no-nonsense” and goes “well” with “banana cake.” Bananas are, however, nonsense. Nothing can go well them, and they are very NOT awesome. They don’t belong in a publication for those discriminating tastes. Please do better in the future.

Signed, A Concerned & Nauseated Reader

Dear A Concerned & Nauseated Reader,

While the editorial staff at The Awesomeness Digest empathizes with your concerns, we are convinced the chocolate-forward banana cake will surprise even the most hardened of banana skeptics. The banana acts mainly as a binding agent, and the cinnamon and vanilla offset its flavors well.

Sincerely,

The Editor

Etymology

We can trace matpakka’s origins back to 1929 when the Oslo school district introduced Oslofrokosten—The Oslo Breakfast. Forty-five minutes before the bell rang, students were served meals consisting of:

• A half-liter carton of milk.

• Two slices of whole-wheat bread or cracker bread, topped with margarine and brown goat cheese. (Today, cracker bread is commonly marketed as Wasa; brown cheese as Gjetost or Ski Queen.)

• Two whole-wheat crackers.

• Half an apple or orange; alternatively, carrots or rutabaga.

• A tablespoon of fish oil during the winter months.

The tradition stuck, and as the children aged, they brought Oslofrokost-inspired packed lunches into the workplace. Matpakka was born, and it soon became a ubiquitous symbol of Norwegian egalitarianism.

The packed lunch has evolved through the years, if ever so slightly. Few bring milk to work, though community cartons aren’t uncommon in the workplace. I doubt rutabaga is a typical side these days, but apples and oranges are still popular accouterments.

Details aside, matpakka’s soul has not changed, and the core of its essence is still the open-faced sandwiches.

The Inner Workings

Typically, the bread slices or Wasa are sensibly stacked with toppings—pålegg—that fall into two categories: The classic layered kind or the spreadables.

The layered variety consists of a quick schmear of butter, topped with two slices of Jarlsberg or Gjetost. Optionally, you can add cold cuts, where servelat—a type of ham—is a popular choice. If you skip the meat, you typically top the cheese with slices of red pepper or cucumber.

The spreadables offer more variety. Kaviar, a pink-ish roe paste, is an evergreen that I, like most Norwegians, find delicious. (The rest of the world seems to disagree harmoniously.)

For the more adventurous eater, there is baconost—bacon cheese—which tastes neither like bacon, cheese, or anything that exists in nature. I will still defend it to my death, even though it conceivably could be Soylent Green.

Leverpostei—liver paste—is still going strong for reasons I cannot even begin to imagine. A mainstay since the 1900s, the canned pork liver gives me a Pavlovian reaction of disgust, though, in all fairness, I don’t think I have ever tasted it. As a child, I’d rather chew glass than eat liver in paste form.

All Wrapped Up

Packing a matpakke is a bit more intricate than you might think. First, the sandwiches need to be separated by mellomleggspapir—parchment paper perfectly cut to fit the size of the bread. You then wrap the stack of slices in a larger piece of parchment paper, which is where it gets tricky. Taping the package is considered couth, and a particular folding technique is required to prevent it from accidentally falling apart. I couldn’t even start to tell you how to do that, which is why I, as a child, used a lunch box.

Here to Stay

Many Norwegian traditions are slowly fading away, but matpakka is going as strong as ever. A fairly recent study showed that 30% of Norwegians bring a matpakke onto flights. Conversely, milk is rarely ordered to go with the sandwiches.

Web Sources

“Oslofrokosten.” Wikipedia. Updated March 27, 2021. no.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oslofrokosten

Tine Faltin. “Har ikke før kommet om bord i flyet før matpakka tas fram.” Dagbladet. April 4, 2013. www.dagbladet.no/tema/har-ikke-for-kommet-om-bord-i-flyet-for-matpakka-tas-fram/62936075

Fishballs were a weekly affair during my childhood and one I thoroughly despised. I can only assume this was a common feeling amongst kids: Fish shaped as balls covered in a thick white sauce doesn’t exactly scream “kid-friendly.” To add insult to injury, it was also the only dish we made during elementary school home economics. There was no escaping the fish balls—the dish’s cultural relevance cannot be understated.

Fish balls from a tin were ubiquitous in the eighties. Fish, potatoes, white sauce: Dump the can in a pot with a plop and let it simmer for ten minutes, et voilà: an instant dinner. That’s modern eighties convenience for you.

As an adult, I have long held a suspicion that I probably would stomach fish balls made from scratch. The concept isn’t entirely unappetizing, and eating them as a kid wasn’t exactly traumatizing.

Repurposing a recipe from Meny, it quickly became apparent that while not as horrid as I recalled, fish balls still give me a pavlovian response. Why don’t I like them? I can’t say. It is entirely unreasonable, but I kept chewing and chewing each bite like I was eight years old again.

I wouldn’t be surprised if adults trying fish balls for the first time would handle them just fine. Again, there is nothing fundamentally wrong with fish in white sauce. Plus, the recipe is easy to follow.

The Fish Balls

• 1 ¼ lbs white fish, no skin or bones (I used halibut)

• 1 ts salt

• 1 tbsp flour

• 1 egg

• 1 ¼ cups milk

• Pepper

1. Toss the fish and the salt in a food processor. Mix until smooth.

2. Mix in flour and egg.

3. Slowly mix in milk. (Add more than 1 ¼ cups if the mixture is dry.)

4. Heat water until it almost reaches a boil, then reduce to simmer.

5. Dip a tablespoon in cold water and scoop up balls of fish. Dump them in the water.

6. Let cook until firm, about 5-10 minutes, then lift them out and put them on a plate.

The White Sauce

• 1 ¼ oz all-purpose flour (50 g)

• 4 tbsp butter

• 1 ¼ cups milk

• 1 ¼ cups plain yogurt (or milk — yogurt just adds a zing)

• Salt and pepper

1. Heat milk in a pot.

2. In a separate pot, melt butter over low heat.

3. Add flour to the butter and whisk until smooth.

4. Gradually add the warm milk, whisking constantly. You want a smooth consistency.

5. Let the sauce reach a boil over medium heat, then reduce to a simmer for 10 minutes.

6. Add fish balls (and optionally boiled potatoes) to the sauce and let simmer for five minutes.

Fish balls are often served with grated carrot, presumably to offset the sauce’s heaviness.

That American Can

You can find fish balls in a can in the US, too, over at Amazon. It is unlike anything I have ever seen.

Simple and low-cost, brun saus is traditionally served over boiled potatoes and meatballs or meat cakes. A dollop of lingonberry jam is a popular accouterment, as are carrots.

I will admit to not being a fan of either the gravy or the dish in general, but if you want to try a pre-oil-era Norwegian classic, it doesn’t get more authentic.

Below is a recipe for brun saus, which we served over Beyond meatballs and boiled canned potatoes. (More about the latter at some other point.) The optional browning sauce gives the palette a darker tint and a light caramel flavor. (It really isn’t necessary, but if you’re going to go 1950s, you might as well do it whole-heartedly.)

Ingredients

• 4 tbsp butter

• 4 tbsp flour

• 32 oz vegetable—or beef—broth (1 liter)

• 1 tbsp Kitchen Bouquet browning sauce (optional)

• Salt and pepper to taste

Steps

1. Melt butter over medium heat

2. Reduce to low heat and add flour

3. Stir and let simmer until mixture has reached a light brown color

4. Gradually add broth, stirring constantly

5. Optionally stir in browning sauce

6. Let simmer for 10-15 minutes

7. Add salt and pepper to taste

Serve over potatoes and meatballs or meat cakes.

A prevalent reaction was a sense of betrayal. Dæhlie got his start in grassroots ski clubs which gave him the foundation to become one of Norway’s greatest athletes: eight Olympic gold medals, four silver. He owed Norway to stay and give back, never mind that he paid top taxes from his athletics company since 1999. Some proposed laws should be put in place to force him to stay.

This concept is called “Janteloven”—The Law of Jante—which stems from Aksel Sandemose’s 1933 satirical novel, En flyktning krysser sitt spor (A Fugitive Crosses His Tracks). A commentary on Scandinavian egalitarianism, the story is set in the fictional town of Jante, where those who deviate from ten tenets are considered outcasts.

1. You’re not to think you are anything special.

2. You’re not to think you are as good as we are.

3. You’re not to think you are smarter than we are.

4. You’re not to imagine yourself better than we are.

5. You’re not to think you know more than we do.

6. You’re not to think you are more important than we are.

7. You’re not to think you are good at anything.

8. You’re not to laugh at us.

9. You’re not to think anyone cares about you.

10. You’re not to think you can teach us anything.

It’s overly simplistic to claim all Norwegians subscribe to this attitude, and The Law of Jante is a polarizing concept. Some credit it for putting Norway high on the UN’s World Happiness Report, while others blame it for Norway’s high suicide rates. Reality might be a little column A, a little column B, but regardless: Polarizing as The Law of Jante is, it’s a mindset established well into the mainstream. Take Leif Welhaven’s commentary on Dæhlie in VG, Norway’s largest newspaper:

In the balance between “I” and “we,” there is no doubt that he has used the positive associations with the ski community for his own gain.

[..]

It is an important trait of our society to even out differences, and thus it sends bad signals if rich people and business owners tax little or nothing to our large community pot.

Going by those two statements, Dæhlie swiftly broke tenets 1, 3, 4, 7, and 9 of The Law of Jante.

People haven’t come rushing in Dæhlie’s defense, though based on anecdotal evidence, I suspect there is a large silent contingent who simply doesn’t care where he lives. That’s Dæhlie’s business, and no one else’s.

If I were a betting person, I would wager the country is split down the middle regarding The Law of Jante.

I’m not much of a fan of the law myself, but at the same token, I don’t think it is entirely without merit. With the neo-libertarian shifts we’ve seen lately, it’s not a bad time to remember the sage wisdom of George Costanza: “We’re living in a society!” It might make for a creative and interesting world to be more individual than the people of Jante, but looking out for the “we” shouldn’t be pushed aside.

Dæhlie, meanwhile, doesn’t seem too bothered by this whole hoopla, and he’s getting ready to make his move. That takes some chutzpah, particularly with the Socialist party hurrying to get a law in place to ensure he’ll be taxed in Norway for the next five years.

The Law of Jante’s eleventh unwritten rule:

11. Perhaps you don’t think we know a few things about you?

Which is kind of chilling and vaguely 1984-esque.

Web Sources

“Janteloven.” Wikipedia. January 5, 2022. no.wikipedia.org/wiki/Janteloven.

The waffle is ubiquitous in most Norwegian family-friendly gatherings. Go to a community event, and you’ll find waffle stands benefiting any number of grassroots organizations. Should the event not have waffles, you’ll have every reason to assume you’re being scammed.

Here is a modification of a MatPrat waffle recipe, just in time for The International Waffle Day on March 25th. Note that you require a particular style of griddle iron to make Norwegian waffles—CucinaPro has a reasonable $38 option.

Ingredients

• 1 ¾ c flour

• ½ c sugar

• 1 ts baking powder

• 1 ts cardamom

• 1 ¾ c milk

• 3 eggs

• 8 tbsp butter, melted

Steps

1. Mix dry goods together in a bowl, and gradually add milk.

2. Stir in eggs and melted butter.

3. Follow your waffle iron’s instructions.

Norwegian waffles tend to be topped with either jam—strawberry or raspberry—or brown gjetost (marketed as Ski Queen in the US). Braver souls will even combine the two, so live dangerously if you so wish.

Language Oddities

The Norwegian word for a waffle is “vaffel.” For waffles, plural, it’s “vafler”—note the removed “f.” If I remember my elementary-school education correctly, Norwegian spelling does not allow for three consonants in a row.

Web Sources

“Gode vafler, vaffelrøre.” MatPrat. www.matprat.no/oppskrifter/tradisjon/vafler/