Oatmeal Cookies with Lynne Willstein

The drive to Lynne Willstein’s house is a winding road through the trees of the upper Rattlesnake. It is finally spring and I am enjoying the wind in my hair and the sun on my face. The drive takes away all my worries. For the next hours I spend with Lynne I almost completely forget that I am a senior and have to finish this project -within a month- in order to graduate.

Lynne is the most generous person I know. She is generous with her time, her managing talents, her energy, and her stories. She was one of the first people I thought of to cook with for my project.

It’s Sunday and I arrive at the Willstein home just in time for dinner. Lynne’s children Ben and Sara are returning from paintball birthday parties and soccer tournaments while her oldest is off to a hockey game. This is a busy family. There is always one kid coming and another needing a ride but Lynne seems to be the ultimate soccer mom, juggling getting dinner in the oven and listening to the highlights of the soccer match. These kids are shocked that their mom is baking and can’t wait to try the cookies. Lynne says she isn’t a baker, “and my kids know this.” I smile remembering when I thought cookies were made out of the plastic tub in the store, because that is how I always saw my Grandma do it. While we set up, Lynne even has trouble finding her mixer and beaters, remarking how I’m probably going to write this in my story. (Well, it helps the story along and fits in with her whole “I don’t bake” theme.)

On this particular day we are making oatmeal cookies - homemade. I am thankful when I look at the recipe and find that there isn’t a trace of raisins in the bunch. As we get things ready Ben is telling his mom about the birthday party and she stops what she is doing to listen to her youngest recall how he almost won the game. She pulls the pizza out of the oven as she hears the account of the weekend’s soccer tournament from Sara. Being a past bartender she is a great listener and an even better storyteller. I get the full benefit of this as we cream the butter and sugar and crack open a fresh bottle of pure vanilla.

Growing up Lynne was in athletics; she never cooked or baked but after leaving the sorority house in college she suddenly found herself in need of cooking skills. She grew up in the age of convenience where mothers were thrilled to call Swanson dinners a meal or cake out of the box “gourmet”. “My mom was an academic. Sure she cooked but it was box cakes,” Lynne says as we measure out the dry ingredients.

Throughout the process we mostly talk about the future. My future, which seems to be the hot topic in every conversation I partake in. However, talking about the possibilities with Lynne is different than with others. I feel more comfortable and am enjoying listening to her stories from college. We are hand mixing in the flour. Doing it the old fashioned way. “No cheating with a mixer” says Lynne. Rather than look down on my “undecided” future she encourages me to go into what I am passionate about, but she doesn’t hide her comment about making a plan so I will have an income. I have heard all this before, but for some reason at this house, adding flour into the mixing bowl, it’s different. There is something about cookies that brings out the best in people and situations.

As the stirring gets tough I hand off the wooden spoon to Lynne and start adding the quick-cooking oats. Lynne tells me about her parents who have both passed on now. “My Dad crafted the things he said, he put thought into his words.” I nod when she says this, it reminds me of my grandfather. “My mom,” she says with an on-the-other-hand tone, “she was point blank with her words.” Lynne has a wonderful family and is an incredible mother. She sent an e-mail to her sister telling her that she was going to cook their mother’s cookies with me. Her sister’s reply: leave some dough to bake. I laugh at this response, a true sister’s comment.

We have finished stirring in the oats and I ask if I can try some of the dough. It is good. But what is better is that I am comfortable enough in this house to lick my fingers and steal extra dough. We form the dough into rectangle logs and put them in the refrigerator. Then stand around chatting more about the cookies and all the memories attached to the recipe.

She remembers all her brothers and sisters getting really excited when their mom would bake these oatmeal cookies. “They don’t have cinnamon or raisins in them, which is what I like about them,” says Lynne. She remembers digging into the dough, a cherished childhood memory. Looking back she knows that her mom wasn’t the average housewife. She was a hard worker and encouraged her girls to wear pants. “She wasn’t normal.” But when she made cookies Lynne felt like she fit in more with all the other kids in the neighborhood.

Cookies are the world’s greatest equalizer. They are a sparkle in Santa’s eye, a warm hug from a friend. Cookies have the ability to transform time, make memories last forever, end a fight, start a friendship. Here, in the beginning of spring, these oatmeal cookies have given me a new outlook on life, and the future from my standpoint.

As I drive home I roll my window down and take in the smells of budding spring. I can still taste the cookie dough, a taste of sweet simplicity, compassion, and home.

Oatmeal Cookies

1 cup Shortening (we used 3/4 margarine, 1/4 butter)

1 cup white sugar

1 cup brown sugar

2 well-beaten eggs

1 3/4 cups sifted flour

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp salt

1 tsp vanilla

3 1/4 cups quick-cooking oats

Cream shortening. Add sugar gradually. Add eggs and beat. Add flour, soda and salt - hand mixing. Add vanilla. Add oatmeal, still stirring by hand. Divide dough into two parts. On wax paper form into a log-type roll. Chill in refrigerator. (preferably overnight) Slice and bake at 350 degrees for 12 to 18 minutes. Enjoy with a good friend.

Smorgasbord Continued.....

A new day and with fresh excitement as I enter the church. Linda introduces me to my new mentor Sharon and I go with her to the other side of the social hall and help her set up her station. We pass by others getting their grills preheated and bowls of flour ready. Sharon has a warm smile and kind demeanor about her as I share the details of my project. She starts rolling dough while I talk to her and works diligently while I tell her the ups and downs of my senior project thus far. Before I know it she already has the first lefse made and it is sitting warm, nestled in it’s own “lefse quilt” – just the right size.

Sharon who taught kindergarten for many years took me under her wing, first showing me the technique and proper use of flour, then how to flip the lefse without ripping it. She taps the griddle confidently with her “lefse stick” (a thin piece of wood used to transfer the lefse to each stage of the cooking process) deflating a bubble. The room is heating up and I look around to the different stations. There are 7 stations set up across the social hall at the Immanuel Lutheran Church. There are people of all ages helping get the lefse from dough to grill. Sharon has me try one, and though I am nervous her calming teacher voice puts me at ease as I sprinkle the board with flour and get rolling. Sharon herself didn’t learn until coming to Immanuel Lutheran Church, but remembers the holidays and the smells from the kitchen as her grandmother cooked. I flip the lefse and surprise myself with how natural it feels to be here, with these “strangers”, dusting the linoleum floors with flour and eating lefse scraps.

After churning out a couple I let Sharon take over so I can roam the room for stories. Dick Lindborg came to the art of lefse making from his wife. He is very focused as he pokes the uncooked lefse with a fork, preventing bubbles. This male is a nice addition to the atmosphere of mostly women in colorful aprons. Though quiet I can tell he truly enjoys the camaraderie and fellowship of the lefse tradition.

I also meet Marcy, who is louder than Dick and easily frustrated by burnt or uneven lefse. She adds laughter to the room and makes everyone else feel at home. She is grits her teeth but makes a light hearted comment about ironing out the wrinkles. Though her lefse isn’t perfect she is there helping, and that is all that matters. The service not only to the church but to the ancestors of years past who slaved over woodstoves to make lefse for the holidays.

I felt so at home with all my new Lutheran friends. Yes we were preparing for a church fundraiser but I found that the bonds created over the floury mess were much stronger than the money that this smorgasbord would raise. These traditions are too good to be forgotten, and with all the effort and volunteers at Immanuel Lutheran I think they have little to worry about as far as keeping the comradeship alive. Through my weekend spent with these amazing and gracious volunteers I found that lefse is a lot like life. It’s not easy. It takes time to learn and can be frustrating. Sometimes you burn it or rip it, but when you find you must “iron out the wrinkles” as Marcy put it, it’s best to be in the company of friends and laughter. Those are two important ingredients that one can’t measure.

~~~I decided to leave out the recipe for the smorgasbord lefse. The quantities are quite large. Come to the smorgasbord next year and see what all the hub-bub is about. You won’t be sorry.

Smorgasbord - A lefse adventure

The way it’s rolled varies as much as the different people who make it. The technique changes based on the tools and the hands themselves. However one thing is the same. The tradition, the loyalty to the recipe, the bonds created over a round stainless steel griddle, those don’t waver. For years the Immanuel Lutheran Church has brought together church members and devoted volunteers to put on the 15 plus dish buffet for their annual fundraiser. A true smorgasboard indeed.

Definition, Smorgasbord: noun 1. A luncheon or supper buffet offering a variety of foods and dishes 2. A large heterogeneous mixture

As I look at my notes from my most recent senior project endeavor I shake my head as I flip through the brilliant yellow legal pad. My notes are a smorgasbord of their own, truly a heterogeneous mixture. How am I going to convey the amazing weekend I spent at the Immanuel Lutheran Church learning to make lefse? How can I describe the welcoming smiles or the feeling of a warm lefse scrap in my hand? Most of all how am I going to tell the many stories I collected … and with these notes- the best I can hope for is a 100 page book.

I heard about the Immanuel Lutheran Church smorgasbord by chance and immediately called and asked if I could come and learn the art of making lefse. Since my projects birth I had been itching to get my hands on a rolling pin and figure out the secrets to the almost paper thin potato tortilla-like treat. Knowing I have Norweign roots somewhere I was craving the popular namesake of my ancestors homeland.

My lefse adventure was broken into two separate cooking days over a weekend. The first was spent creating the (wet) dough. Then I returned on Sunday when the flour was added and the lefse hit the griddle.

That sunny Saturday morning I stepped into the unknown territory of Immanuel Lutheran Church. Immediately welcomed by Linda, who guided me into the social hall where she had about 8 silver haired gents peeling potatoes. I am impressed, naturally, growing up in a household where the men rarely step foot in the kitchen let alone touch a vegetable peeler. She tells me to get my stories and hussles back into the kitchen already steaming with starchy liquid. They don’t look incredibly willing to share stories, and to be quite honest after peeling 80lbs of potatoes I’d want to go home and take a nap too.

Bob Linsted warmed up to me and talked to me as if I was an old family friend. He recalled the winter holidays spent with Scandinavian customs. The head cheese, the lutefisk, and all the jars full of salty, pickled foods. The other gents start chimming in, filling in holes when I ask questions. I am enjoying the banter and noticing a bit of a rivalry between those with Norwegian and those with Swedish roots. “Oh you sweds!” a man with big glasses says through chuckles. Rick Swanson recalls the potato sausage. He left his Swedish homeland at 9 months and has returned twice. I can tell he wants to go again. Mr. Linsted remembers when 20 or 30 relatives would gather for Christmas, each bringing a different dish. He shakes his head and looks down as he remarks, “We are lucky to get 5 or 6 for Christmas dinner now.”

Jim Peterson and Rick Swanson both credit their grandparents to keeping the old customs and recipes alive.

Jim Peterson was most distraught when I told him I had never had pickled herring. He leaves the room for a bit while I chat with the others and before I know it he returns with a jar and a fork – smiling ear to ear. I can’t believe it and I think the others are as shocked as I am as I pick out a piece of vinegary fish from the jar and hold it in my fingers. I take a bite, a tiny bite, about the size of two tick tacks. Needless to say, it’s awful. Me, a girl who doesn’t even like pickles just ate pickled herring out of the jar. In the end I got three ity bity bites down, and God bless Linda who resuced me to go cook in the kitchen. She was horrified they didn’t even give me a cracker to help get it down.

I am put to work in an assembly line, combining the instant potatoes with cream and butter then adding this mix to 6 cups of riced potatoes. You may be wondering why there are instant potatoes in the recipe? Regular lefse dough falls apart kind of easy. With the instant potatoes the dough is more forgiving, and allows for beginners like me to actually have some success on the griddle. Linda is feeding me little tid-bits of information about the smorgasbord as she runs around the kitchen-one would think she had an extra set of limbs. She recalls her grandmother saying, “Just mix it til it feels right.” Her face tells me that this didn’t work out too well for her. I myself find measuring cups a pain to wash, but a definite necessity in baking.

After almost 3 hours of mixing there is suddenly no more potatoes to “rice”. We finish up and I head for home, brimming with anticipation for what the next day will bring.

TO BE CONTINUED

(I split the days into two different posts because I have pictures that I want to add separately.)