ELEVEN FEET TALL

I'm not sure where this comes from. It could have been our neighbors in Oakridge who came from Minnesota. Lil's folks were Swedish.  Or it could have been from my BIL's grand dad who was born in Norway. All I know is the newspaper clipping is very, very yellow and the pictures on the backside of the paper look like they're from the forties or fifties. 

Apparently lutefisk is a traditional Christmas dish. From the description it sounds like the taste is definitely an acquired one. Or one you're born with. 

(From a novelty American folksong by Red Stangeland, sung to the tune of "O Tannenbaum"): O lutefisk, O lutefisk, how pungent your aroma / O lutefisk, O lutefisk, you put me in a coma. I think I'll stick with the fruitcake. 

ELEVEN FEET TALL

T’was the night before Christmas,

            When all through the house

Not a creature was stirring

            Except for my spouse

Who, like wives thru the ages,

            Sat up with a bound

And fearfully whispered,

            “I hear a strange sound.”

From under the blankets

            I rolled like a sack.

Propelled by her feet

            In the small of my back.

To the front room I blundered

            And listened in awe

To the words that came out

Of the fireplace maw.

“Now dash, now dang it!

            This damper needs fixin'"

It’s this stupid kind that

            My head always sticks in!”

As I let out a bellow

            And leaped for the phone,

From the chimney St.Nicholas

            Fell out with a groan.

He was half a foot wide

            And eleven feet high,

And he had but one arm,

            One leg and one eye.

“Great Yuletide,” I breathed,

            What’s happened to you?”

He rumbled “It’s simple

            You’ve got a seven inch flue.”

The stockings he filled

            Without turning his back:

Then still facing forward

            He shouldered his pack,

You see, “He explained

            As I eyed him askance,

“Your TV antenna

            Tore the seat of my pants.”

From the roof he took off

            With eight smoking rockets

And I woke up in bed,

            Eyes bulging from sockets

I aroused my good wife

            And breathlessly told

Of the things I had seen,

            But her answer was cold;

“Now go back to sleep,

            You crazy squarehead

No more lutefisk for you

            Before going to bed!’

Jack Ostergren