When my mom makes lefse, she doesn’t use Potato Buds. Because Potato Buds are for amateurs, y’all. The path to darkness is paved in sticky slabs of Potato Bud asphalt. People, if you’re not boiling up a bathtub-load of actual potatoes on lefse day ... just hang your head in shame because you SHOULD NOT be making lefse. Better yet, drop what you’re doing, leave your kitchen, and order up some delicious Chinese takeout food with extra crab rangoon, because you need to focus on something other than Scandinavian cuisine. Trust me on this.

And make sure you’ve got the right tools. Like what? Well, since you asked, you can’t show up to the lefse party without a potato ricer, Cuz. This is what you need to go buy after you triumphantly throw those Potato Buds into a ditch (and light them on fire). You need to work those potatoes like you’re tilling the back forty into a fertile patch of life-giving earth. Peel them, boil them, and rice them into oblivion.

It’s widely know that Norwegians have the strongest hands on earth. And it’s from ricing all those damn potatoes.

And then? Add the butter, Bucko. Let it all cool and then, um ... then mix in some other important ingredients I can’t quite remember and start making patties. After that, it’s time to roll it out flat.

But! Do not pull out a regular, smooth rolling pin. You’ll just embarrass yourself and all of the other conflict-avoiding Midwesterners in the room. A real lefse rolling pin is big and corrugated, Buddy. It’s got deep grooves like an old vinyl record of your grandma’s favorite June Carter song. You gotta flour up that counter and start rolling. You gotta roll those patties out thin.

But not too thin.

Once you’ve made it all nice and flat, it’s time for the iron grill. My mom uses a dedicated, round lefse grill. And that means you should, too.

It’s widely know that Norwegians have the strongest hands on earth. And it’s from ricing all those damn potatoes.

To transfer, you just reach down and grab the raw lefse with your sticky fingers, right? WRONG. Are you crazy? You need a special turning stick, friend. When I was a kid, I loved my mom’s lefse-flipping stick thingie because it was basically a kid-sized samurai sword. Believe me – that lefse sword was my trusted companion in countless battles and conquests. I never could have crushed the couch cushion rebellion of 1984 without it.

With the effortless grace of a Viking ballerina, you use the flat stick to pick up the lefse and flip it onto the grill in one smooth motion (well, maybe two or three smooth motions), and then you let it cook for about 30 seconds on each side. Don’t let it linger on the heat too long! You’re not making crackers, Son.

Boom, that’s it. Put the cooked lefse on a towel or something (because that’s what my mom does) and go watch TV.

Lefse is something my family makes over hunting season to have on Thanksgiving and throughout the holidays. Rolled up with butter and brown sugar – that’s how we prepare it. But I’m absolutely open to wrapping just about anything in what’s essentially a mashed potato tortilla. Ham? Turkey? Gravy? Sausage? Sauerkraut? Chicken nuggets? Spinach ravioli? Why not?

My Grandpa Mansfield, who is currently fixing up old tractors in that great machine shed in the sky, was a particular fan. There was always lefse on the holiday dinner table at my grandparent’s western Wisconsin farm. This much I know: My great-grandma taught my grandma. My grandma taught my mom. My mom taught my wife. Who taught my great-grandma? Griddleburn the Norwegian goddess of tuber-based flatbreads herself, that’s who.

Me? I just keep out of it. All I know is what I’ve seen in brief glimpses over the years. So do not use what you’ve just read as a step-by-step guide to making delicious lefse, no mater how concise and persuasive it may appear. Find some old Norwegian lady in an apron and bribe her to teach you with whatever it is old Norwegian ladies like: cross country skis or rosemaled gravy boats or ... pickled herring or something.

Like I said, lefse is a tradition my family waits until late in the year to celebrate. So why the hell am I writing about in early April? Because I’m a crazy nutty wildcard like that. I’m zigging when I should be zagging, people. I’m a (really boring) rogue agent.

But maybe we could break outside of the box and make food like lefse to celebrate (and bid farwell) to the last of the winter days. Maybe it can be the last carb-binge of the season before the warm spring air sweeps us up and wafts us over to the Weber grill. The only thing that can stop us is our own imagination. And maybe Potato Buds.