After our arduous circuit yesterday, my dad and I had earned some rest–and we took it, heavily diverting from our normal breakfast schedule this morning. Suspecting I had a day full of food ahead of me, I took it easy on the eggs and bacon. (My premonition would prove correct, as we will later see.)
My dad and I have been a tandem pair for our entire trip save for the day I ventured up Hesteggi, but today was time for us to divide and conquer. Resident family historian Erik had assembled a group of mutually interested folks–my dad included–to take a deep dive into some genealogical topics, and as much as I enjoy the accompanying coffee and cakes, my potential contribution to such a discussion is rather limited. Recognizing this, and having caught wind of the assembly, Marita and Katrine mobilized a rescue mission, offering me the alternative option of meeting them for lunch at a local café. I happily accepted the reprieve.
My only regret on both of these trips to Norway is that I wish I could have spent more time with relatives of my similar age group. (To be clear, this has nothing to do with wishing I’d spent less time with anyone else.) The meal I shared with Marita, Katrine and Renate this afternoon confirmed this. There is a unique comfort level you find with people of your same generation. Having grown up within the same context–historically, socially, geopolitically, technologically, etc.–gives your exchange something of a head start, so to speak. You are able to meet people where they are at with less effort, less explanation. Unsurprisingly, subjects that rarely, if ever, are raised with our parents were the focus of our conversation today. I am very glad they invited me to join them and hope the feeling is mutual.
With a brief gap in time until my next scheduled visit, I stopped to check in on the history buffs, where I met my dad, Trude, Erik, Kari Åberge, Jon Kvåle, and Lars Hustveit. While I had little to offer to enhance their conference, my stopover did allow me (finally) to check an important item off my must-do list: eating lefse. For the uninitiated, lefse is, for lack of a better description, the Norwegian answer to the tortilla. In Wisconsin, our typical lefse is what Norwegians would refer to as lompe or potetlefse, a thin flatbread made from potatoes, but there are a dozen or so varieties. (What I enjoyed today was kling, a sweeter version made simply from butter, milk and flour, then stuffed with butter and sugar.)
Following my lefse break, it was time for a long overdue reunion that was unjustly delayed by sickness earlier in this visit. Marit Dyrrdal Foss has been battling her malady ever since our arrival, and recovery has been slow, evidently unaided by our unrelenting good thoughts sent her way. Today, at last, she feels mended, and not a moment too soon with our departure on the near horizon. Marit is a dear friend to our family, having formed an especially cherished relationship with my mother in 2018. A chef by trade, Marit also showed me the ropes with several classic Norwegian recipes on the previous trip, and spending time in the kitchen with her formed some of my fondest memories–not just of the Norway trip, but of life in general. Accordingly, you can imagine my excitement to discover that she had prepared kjøttkaker–Norwegian meatballs–for dinner, and I was invited to join her, Kristine, and Geir.
Look, am I the local expert on kjøttkaker in Sogndal? Probably not. Most of the residents here probably have me beat by a meatball or two, give or take 10,000. But, as far as I’m concerned, Marit is the undisputed champion. I have eaten the American stab at the dish dozens of times, and none of them came close to her version, prepared with venison her family hunted and processed themselves. It only underscores her skill as a cook that, minutes after declaring that she hadn’t made any dessert, she improvised a surprising concoction of fresh blueberries picked from the mountains and toasted marshmallow, served with vanilla sauce. Kristine, Silje-Marie, Karl-Andre: you don’t know how lucky you are.
Marit demonstrates a philosophy that she shares with Trude, one they both articulated independently of one another: that while speaking English isn’t always comfortable for them, they’ve aged past the point of being hamstrung by abashment or a lack of fluency. This is an important point worthy of exposition. My dad and I are constantly aware of the linguistic exigency our presence requires. (While we both possess fragmented knowledge of standard Norwegian, we are no match for locals and their briskly paced Sognemål, the area dialect.) Speaking English, for Sogndal locals, comes with a wide variety of obstacles, from knowledge gaps, to lack of practice, to meddling self-consciousness. Suffice to say this: we are deeply appreciative of the effort everyone has made to acquiesce to our language needs, pushing past all of the difficulties to provide us with an enjoyable (and understandable) experience. It never goes unnoticed.
Afternoons with Marit have that ease that comes with old friendships: the feeling of picking up where you left off as though no time has passed. She is a consummate mom. I will still laugh months from now when I think of her suggestion to don a t-shirt in Oslo broadcasting my availability to would-be boyfriends (Husbands? Never say never). I really treasure my time with her and am overjoyed we finally got to spend time together. Tusen takk for alt, Marit. ❤
Where the Waterfalls Mean Home 