Lefse & Legacy: A Story of Flour, Family, and Faith

Every November, as the air turns crisp and the holidays inch closer, I return to a ritual passed down through generations: making lefse. It’s more than a Norwegian flatbread—it’s a thread that ties me to my roots, my family, and the quiet wisdom of tradition.

But one year, lefse became something more.

My younger sister was dying. She was only 36, with two young sons—just 10 and 8. We were told she wouldn’t live to see the holidays. Told to go home. To say our goodbyes. But how do you do that?

I couldn’t sit in silence, waiting for death to arrive. So I reached for what I knew. Lefse.

Every year, I made hundreds of pounds of it—for my family and for others who didn’t have the time or tools to make their own. That November, I laid out a plan with my sister-in-law: we’d turn Thursday through Sunday into a lefse-making session. I’d buy the ingredients, we’d use her kitchen, and my sons, niece, and nephews would mix, roll, and fry 200 pounds of lefse. My sister could join when she felt up to it.

I told the kids they could keep the money we raised—for an ice fishing trip later that year. Something to look forward to. Something to work toward. The family embraced the idea. Her 8-year-old son, our four 10-year-olds, and a 12-year-old nephew became a powerhouse lefse-making machine. My sister moved in and around the activity, serving as quality control. She laughed. She tasted. She messed up the counts. She was present.

It was nothing short of divine intervention. By Saturday night, we were in the final stages of rolling and frying. The laughter, the stories, the moments—they were real. We knew this was Jody’s last lefse hurrah, but it didn’t stop us. It gave us purpose. It gave her presence.

On Sunday, the kids went door to door selling lefse. They raised enough to pay for an ice fishing trip to the Canadian border—a trip that gave two grieving boys a chance to breathe, to play, to heal.

Jody left us three days after the last griddle was turned off and the flour was swept away.   

Today, I still roll lefse. I still take orders—not necessarily for the money, but for the tradition. For the legacy. For the little girl who watched her grandmother, mother, and aunts. For the year, Jody defied death’s gloom and taught us how to live every day to the fullest.

I never thought about building a legacy that weekend. But we did.  We gathered November 7 - 9 and spent three full days laughing, crying, rolling, frying, and did what families do - through a family tradition, we found the courage to live boldly.  November 11th, we were called home, and in the early morning hours of November 13th, Jody left us.  That was 22 years ago. 

Every November, when it's time to think about lefse, I sit in the still of my home, close my eyes, and bring it all back as if it were yesterday.  I smile at the chaos that comes with rolling lefse, making stories and family, I cry for our loss, but mostly, I am thankful for the lesson to live every day.