Minnesota Prairie Roots

Writing and photography by Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Lutefisk, bars, kolacky, horseradish & more October 3, 2023

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Across the cornfield stands Vang Lutheran Church north of Kenyon and home to an annual lutefisk supper. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo October 2011)

IN THIS SEASON of church dinners, I am reminded of an event I covered decades ago as a young reporter fresh out of Minnesota State University, Mankato, with a journalism degree. My editor assigned me to write about and photograph the annual Lutefisk Dinner (or maybe it was supper) at Bernadotte Lutheran in Bernadotte, an unincorporated community northeast of New Ulm.

Having heard a few things about lutefisk—cod soaked in lye—I was in no hurry to undertake this assignment. But work is work and I eventually headed to this rural church to get the story. I don’t recall all the details from that late 1970s introduction to lutefisk. But I do remember a hardworking crew of volunteers, enthusiastic diners packing the church basement and my first taste of this Scandinavian seafood. A generous dose of melted butter made lutefisk, which reminded me of warm Jell-O, palatable. Sorry, Norwegians.

A sign promoting Vang’s 2014 Lutefisk & Meatball Supper. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2014)

Lutefisk dinners remain popular in Minnesota’s Scandinavian enclaves. Like Vang Lutheran, rural Dennison, hosting a Lutefisk and Meatball Dinner on Wednesday, October 11, starring lutefisk and Norwegian meatballs with gravy plus fruit soup, lefse and Norwegian pastries. On Saturday, October 14, First Lutheran in Blooming Prairie is also serving a Lutefisk and Meatball Dinner. Except their meatballs are Swedish (what’s the difference?). Sorry, folks, all three dine-in seatings at First Lutheran are sold out, proving just how popular lutefisk dinners are in these parts. The Blooming Prairie lutefisk dinners have been around since 1934.

Bars. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

BARS & BARS, NOT TO BE CONFUSED

This got me thinking about ethnic and unusual foods some of us love and others of us don’t. For example, this past July while vacationing in the central Minnesota lakes area, I came across turkey gizzards and pickled eggs prominently displayed on an end cap at a Crosslake grocery store. You couldn’t pay me to try the gizzards, priced at $12.49 for 16 ounces. But I’d give pickled eggs a try. Apparently there’s a market in Paul Bunyan country for these delicacies. And in some Minnesota bars, not to be confused with the bars we Minnesotans eat.

Ah, bars. They hold two definitions. I recall my native-born California son-in-law’s confusion about bars. It took a bit of explaining for him to understand that bars, besides a place to imbibe, are also, in Minnesota, a sweet treat that is not a cookie, cake or brownie. But similar, made in a cake pan and cut into squares.

Prune kolacky ready to bake at Franke’s Bakery. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo March 2013)

KOLACKY OR SAUERKRAUT

Then there are kolacky, a Czech pastry unknown to me until I moved to this region. It was at Franke’s Bakery in nearby Montgomery, self-proclaimed “Kolacky Capital of the World,” that I first tasted this dough into which prunes, apples, raspberries, blueberries and other fruit or a poppy seed filling are folded. Kolacky are so popular in this Czech stronghold that Franke’s baked nearly 1,800 dozen of the treats for the annual town celebration, Kolacky Days, in July. That’s a whole lot of kolacky, like nearly 22,000.

Me? I prefer a Bismarck oozing with custard. And, yes, I am German, which might also explain my love of sauerkraut. Henderson, where my paternal great grandparents settled upon arriving in America, celebrates Sauerkraut Days annually. And, yes, there’s a sauerkraut eating contest. I grew up eating homemade sauerkraut fermented from cabbage grown in our large garden. My grandma made kraut and my dad thereafter.

Homemade horseradish in jars. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo October 2012)

HOW ABOUT HORSERADISH OR COTTAGE CHEESE PIE?

Dad also made horseradish, a tradition which continues in my extended family today, 20 years after his death. Horseradish seems an acquired taste. Not everyone likes a condiment that burns nostrils, clears sinuses, waters eyes, nips the tongue. But I do.

And once upon a time I also ate SPAM, a canned meat made in Austin, Minnesota, and wildly popular in Hawaii. I liked it in Pizza Burgers—SPAM, onion and American cheese ground in a hand-cranked meat grinder and then canned chili (without beans) stirred in. I haven’t quite figured out the “without beans” in chili. Mom made and spread the mix on homemade bun halves, broiled until the cheese bubbled. Yum. I no longer eat SPAM. Or Jell-O. Make that red Jell-O with bananas, a staple of extended family gatherings many decades ago.

On the shelves at Reed’s Market in Crosslake. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2023)

Food, in many ways, connects to memories, traditions, heritage. You won’t find me eating peanut butter on pancakes or Cottage Cheese Pie, food oddities my husband brought into our marriage. I don’t much like pancakes and I’ve never made the Helbling signature pie. Nor have I made my mom’s favorite pie, Sour Cream Raisin. But I love cottage cheese and I eat Raisin Bran cereal. Just don’t ask me to eat turkey gizzards. Or lutefisk. Once was enough for this writer.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

My Minnesota family’s tradition: Harvesting & preserving horseradish November 5, 2015

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Freshly-processed horseradish from southwestern Minnesota.

Freshly-processed horseradish from southwestern Minnesota.

THE CREAMY SAUCE LINGERS on my tongue. Then, zip, my nostrils burn with the zing of stinging horseradish. My eyes water. And I wonder why I eat this stuff.

I like spicy. I like hot. Not jalapeno with too many seeds hot. But horseradish hot I can handle in small doses. It’s part of my DNA.

STEP ONE: Digging the horseradish, which grows like carrot roots underground.

STEP ONE: Digging the horseradish, which grows like carrots underground.

Just dug horseradish.

Just dug horseradish.

We arrive mid-morning on a cool and windy Saturday to process the horseradish.

We arrive mid-morning on a cool and windy Saturday in late October to process the horseradish.

For years, until his death in 2003, my dad made horseradish. You don’t really make horseradish. Rather you process the roots into a creamy white sauce. Horseradish preserved in vinegar.

STEP TWO: Scrubbing the dirt away with brushes.

STEP TWO: Scrubbing away the dirt.

STEP THREE: The horseradish if placed in laundry bags and washed in the washing machine. Here my brother carries the just-washed horseradish to the work area in his garage.

STEP THREE: The horseradish is placed in laundry bags and washed in the washing machine. Here my brother carries the just-washed horseradish to the work area in his garage.

The roots are now ready to be peeled with a knife and/or potato peeler.

The roots are now ready to be peeled with a knife and/or potato peeler. Every bit of brown must be removed to get a creamy white sauce.

My brother empties the second laundry bag.

My brother empties the second laundry bag.

It’s not an easy task. Creating a horseradish condiment requires a full day of digging, scrubbing, washing, peeling, washing, cutting, shredding, blending, pouring into jars and, finally, planting the peelings for new growth.

STEPS FOUR & FIVE: Family members peel horseradish before it's washed for a second time.

STEPS FOUR & FIVE: Family members peel horseradish before it’s washed for a second time.

STEP SIX: Using knives, we slice the horseradish into chunks.

STEP SIX: Using knives, we slice the horseradish into chunks.

My sister Lanae and her husband, Dale, whom Dad mentored in all things horseradish, pushed for continuing the family horseradish tradition. And so, on a Saturday each autumn, we gather at my middle brother and sister-in-law’s rural southwestern Minnesota acreage to honor our dad with this seasonal rite.

My niece cuts horseradish while her husband refines it in a food processor.

STEP SEVEN: My niece’s husband refines the horseradish in a food processor.

Sometimes the fumes are more than the workers can handle.

Sometimes the potent fumes are more than workers can handle.

STEP EIGHT: Blending horseradish and vinegar.

STEP EIGHT: Blending horseradish and vinegar.

Peelings and conversation fly. Washing machine, food processor and blender whir. Eyes water. Heads turn. And the beer stays in the fridge until the last knife is stashed away. But not always.

An overview of most of the crew.

An overview of most of the crew nearing the end of a long work day.

My nephew adds vinegar (it's by guess, not measurement) to the horseradish before blending.

My nephew adds vinegar (it’s by guess, not measurement) to the horseradish before blending.

STEP NINE: Filling jars.

STEP NINE: Filling jars.

It’s a day that’s as much about horseradish as about family. A coming together. Building memories. Remembering Dad.

STEP TEN, OPTIONAL: Counting the filled jars.

STEP TEN, OPTIONAL: Counting the filled jars.

This year a new supervisor—my sister-in-law’s mother from Iowa—replaced my mom, who is no longer able to watch over the crew and count the jars. Still, Mom asked how many jars we filled. No one counted. We told her 88.

The crew.

The crew.

Life changes. We age. Loved ones die. But we can honor their legacy, their love—for my family via harvesting the horseradish.

© Copyright 2015 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

A Minnesota family tradition: Honoring Dad by making horseradish October 7, 2013

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Horseradish planted last year in my brother's garden and ready to harvest in a few years. This year's horseradish came from a patch near Sanborn.

Horseradish planted last year in my brother and sister-in-law’s garden and ready to harvest in a few years. This year’s horseradish came from a patch near Sanborn.

FOR MY EXTENDED FAMILY, making horseradish marks a time-honored tradition started by my father and my Uncle Mike decades ago.

Dad died 10 years ago, Uncle Mike before him, and, for awhile, so did the annual ritual of making horseradish. In his last years, Dad made horseradish with my sister Lanae and her husband, Dale.

Washing mud and dirt from the horseradish roots with the garden hose is the first step after digging.

Washing mud and dirt from the horseradish roots with the garden hose is the first step after digging.

Then, in recent years, Lanae and my brother Brian restarted this family tradition. The past two autumns, my husband and I have traveled the 120 miles to Brian’s rural Lamberton home to peel and slice, process and bottle horseradish. Mostly, I’ve documented the process with my camera although I’ve also assisted (some) with the actual making of this condiment.

To be honest, the horseradish isn’t the reason I’m there. It’s the cherished time with my mom (also known as “The Supervisor”) and extended family that draws me back to my native southwestern Minnesota prairie. We are building memories and honoring the memory of my farmer father.

Dad would delight in our gathering—in hearing the laughter and bullshit (sorry, I can’t think of a better word choice) and seeing us together. Dad was all about family.

Like our father before us, we give away our horseradish. My husband and I gathered a baker’s dozen jars to take back to Faribault for Mick and Mooch, Howard and Neal, and Dan, Steve and John, and a few others who appreciate a good taste of potent, eye-stinging, nostril-clearing horseradish.

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THE STEP-BY-STEP PROCESS:

After the initial washing of the roots, the stems are trimmed away and the horseradish goes into a laundry bag for washing in the washing machine.

After the initial washing of the roots with a garden hose, the stems are trimmed away and the horseradish goes into a laundry bag for washing in the washing machine. Do NOT add laundry detergent.

The crew (not all shown) prepares to peel the brown outer layer from the roots. Remove all of the brown so the end product is a creamy white.

Part of the crew, left to right around the tables, Julie (a friend of my brother and his wife, and a newcomer) and family members Adrienne, Adam, Andy, Lanae and Tara, prepare to peel the brown outer layer from the roots. All of the brown is removed so the finished horseradish is a creamy and unblemished white.

Once peeled, the horseradish is dumped back into a laundry bag for a second wash in the washing machine. Do NOT add detergent.

Once peeled, the horseradish is dumped back into a laundry bag for a second wash in the washing machine. Do NOT add detergent.

Once out of the washing machine, the process of chopping the horseradish begins.

Once out of the washer, the horseradish is chopped.

Lots of horseradish to cut in to small pieces.

Lots of horseradish to cut in to small pieces.

Next, the horseradish pieces go into the food processor, operated here by my husband, Randy.

Next, the horseradish pieces go into the food processor, operated here by my husband, Randy.

Brian, left, and Lanae blend the horseradish with vinegar in blenders while Randy uses the food processor.

Brian, left, and Lanae blend the horseradish with vinegar in blenders while Randy uses the food processor.

Sometimes the powerful pungent fumes overpower the workers.

Sometimes the powerful pungent fumes overpower the workers.

Adrienne buried her nose in her sleeve and stepped out of the garage a few times when she couldn't handle the overwhelming sting of the horseradish.

Adrienne buries her nose in her sleeve and stepped out of the garage a few times when she couldn’t handle the overwhelming sting of the horseradish.

Once blended to just the right consistency with the correct amount of vinegar, the horseradish is poured into jars.

Once blended to just the right consistency with the correct amount of vinegar, the horseradish is poured into jars.

Lots and lots of jars of all sizes will hold the horseradish.

Lots and lots of jars of all sizes will hold the horseradish.

The Supervisor, aka my mom, Arlene, shows up to inspect.

“The Supervisor, ” aka my mom, Arlene, shows up to inspect.

After hours of labor, the beautiful results. Creamy white horseradish.

After hours of labor, the beautiful results. Creamy white horseradish.

As the final step, The Supervisor steps in to count the jars. My sister-in-law, Vicki, watches my mom at work.

The Supervisor counts the jars., 70 total ranging in size from baby food jars to around 12-ounce size. My sister-in-law, Vicki, watches my mom at work. At one point, when my brother suggested an easier method of counting, The Supervisor told him to “shut up.” We all cracked up. We know who’s boss, and it isn’t Brian.

The last step is to take the peelings and horseradish tops to the garden for planting. We want to assure that we will have horseradish for years to come, holding on to traditon, building memories.

The last step is to take the peelings and horseradish tops to the garden for planting. We want to assure that we have horseradish for years to come, holding on to tradition, building memories and honoring our dad.

CLICK HERE TO READ last year’s post about making horseradish.

© Copyright 2013 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Making horseradish, a family tradition October 24, 2012

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MY DAD WOULD HAVE loved it.

On Saturday, my husband and I gathered with extended family in a garage just north of Lamberton in rural southwestern Minnesota for the annual making of horseradish, a tradition started by my horseradish loving father many years ago.

Freshly dug horseradish, soaking in water and ready to be washed.

Back in the day, my dad and bachelor uncle, Mike, would occasionally make horseradish. Eventually my sister Lanae (and later her husband, Dale, too) began assisting Dad with the digging and washing and peeling and slicing and processing of this pungent root. And then, when the creamy white sauce was bottled, Dad would haul it down to the Vesta Community Hall for the annual Senior Citizens’ craft/bake/produce sale. Folks would wait in line to snap up Vern’s homemade horseradish.

The 2012 horseradish making crew, front row, left to right, Randy, Tara, Lanae and Arlene. Back row: Andy, Brian and Vicki. I’m obviously missing from the photo as are Al and Alyssa, who arrived later.

Dad has been gone for nearly 10 years now, his annual root rite resurrected in recent years by Lanae and my middle brother, Brian. For the first time I joined them and other family in making horseradish, and, although I will eat horseradish, I am not a fanatical fan like my siblings and our father before us.

Peeling the horseradish, the third step after digging and washing.

But it wasn’t the horseradish which drew Randy and me to drive more than two hours to Brian and Vicki’s rural acreage to stand at tables in a garage on a chilly Saturday to process horseradish that would soon overwhelm us with eye-stinging fumes.

It was family and tradition and memory-building and time together which brought us to this peaceful place, to this land where I grew up some 25 miles to the north and west. Any reason to return to my beloved prairie.

My mother, the main supervisor, watches from her chair. Vicki, who is recovering from surgery, also supervised.

And so Randy and I were instructed in the art of horseradish making while my 80-year-old mother supervised from a comfy chair, occasionally rising to skirt the tables, to check the progress.

We listened to the tales of horseradish making past, when metal shavings from the old meat grinder flaked into the horseradish. We heard of Dad’s old drill shorting and shocking whoever was using the drill (which he had rigged to drive the meat grinder) to pulverize the roots.

First the food grinder was used…

And when the food grinder continually plugged, the food processor was put into action and this worked.

The old meat grinder and drill have been stashed away now, replaced first by a modern electric grinder (which failed to work as planned) and then by a food processor before the pulverized roots were mixed with vinegar in a blender.

Proof that honeymooners Al and Alyssa helped make horseradish.

As words and horseradish peelings flew and laughter bounced around the garage, it was sometimes difficult to separate fact from fiction, especially when the beer was cracked open upon the arrival of honeymooners Al and Alyssa. Al and his bride of one week, on their way home from Duluth to Tyler, pitched in. And I photographed them so some day their children will believe their parents made horseradish on their honeymoon.

My mom, the supervisor, counts jars. We filled 66, a smaller yield than normal. Horseradish not kept by family is given away (never sold) as our Dad, except for those he sold at the fundraiser, gave his away. We honor him by gifting horseradish lovers with a jar.

The supervisor counts the jars of horseradish.

These are the moments that matter most in life, the sweet times with family. And nothing touched my heart more than watching my aging mom, the supervisor, rise from her chair to meticulously count and record the yield.

AND FOR THOSE OF YOU unfamiliar with the entire process, here are additional photos to show you the steps needed to grow and make horseradish:

STEP 1:

Plant the horseradish, which grows from the left-over scraps of roots, etc.

STEP 2:

The plants will need to grow for about three years before you can reap the first harvest. We will be looking for additional horseradish to harvest in 2013. If you live anywhere near Lamberton, Vesta,  Faribault or Waseca, and have extra horseradish, let me know.

STEP 3: Dig up the roots; I missed photographing this given I arrived after the digging.

STEP 4:

Wash the dirt from the roots using a hose.

STEP 5:

Peel the roots, remaining aware that your work is being closely monitored by the supervisor, right.

STEP 6:

Dump the horseradish into a laundry bag and wash in the washing machine, without detergent, of course, and I think on a gentle cycle. About this time, your crew can take a break and eat lunch which may or may not include red Jell-O with bananas.

STEP 7:

Chop the machine-washed horseradish.

STEP 8:

While one crew chops ,left, the other grinds the horseradish, step 8, with a grinder (fail) or food processor. The supervisor keeps a watchful eye over operations.

STEP 9:

Dump the pulverized roots into the blender, add vinegar and blend until creamy. You may want to cover your face, or make a face, to deal with the eye-stinging fumes.

STEP 10:

Pour into jars and cap.

STEP 11:

Label the jars. Stash jars in refrigerator. Give away or eat.

BONUS PHOTO:

Al and Alyssa’s dog, Lily, whom we had to keep from eating errant chunks of horseradish that fell onto the floor.

© Copyright 2012 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Mother’s Day: Of love, loss & legacies May 14, 2023

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I printed this message inside a handmade Mother’s Day card for my mom back in elementary school. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

I’VE WRITTEN OFTEN about my mom, the life she lived, the legacies of kindness, compassion and faith she left. But what about about you and your mom?

On this Mother’s Day, I invite you to share about your mom. What do you hold dear? What was she like? What did she pass along to you? Who was she, in addition to being your mother?

I don’t know what my children would write if asked those questions. But I hope they would describe me as loving, caring, compassionate, kind and supportive. Creative, too. I’ve tried to follow my mom’s example. And, even though my maternal grandmother died shortly after I was born, I’ve heard that Josephine was a kind and gentle soul. Just like my mom.

I recognize that Mother’s Day can be difficult, especially if you’ve recently lost your mom. Like my friend Gretchen. Grief rises anew in a day focused on mothers. To lose a mom is a profound loss, whether that occurred a month ago or 20 years ago. Mother and child share a bond unlike any other, which intensifies the depth of grief.

A page in an altered book my friend Kathleen created for me. That’s my mom on the left counting jars of homemade horseradish. That’s me with my clown birthday cake, which Mom made for my third birthday. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

Yet, to grieve is to recognize that we have loved. I consider all the ways my mom loved me. Though she didn’t tell me she loved me or even hug me when I was growing up (that would come later), I felt and saw her love. Her love showed in homemade bread and peanut butter oatmeal bars. Her love showed in the animal-shaped birthday cakes she made for my five siblings and me. Her loved showed in clothes washed in a Maytag wringer washer. Her love showed in quarts of fruits and vegetables lining planks in a dirt-floored cellar. Her love showed in clothing stitched from flour sacks. Her love showed in poring through booklets of house designs from the lumberyard, always believing that some day she would move into a new house. One with a bathroom and a shower to replace a galvanized tub set on the kitchen floor and a makeshift shower of garden hose strung through an open porch window. One with more than three cramped bedrooms. One with a furnace rather than an oil-burning stove. One with windows that didn’t rattle in the winter prairie wind.

The old woodframe farmhouse where I lived the first 11 years of my life with our new house in the background. That’s my sister Lanae posing on the porch steps.

Mom taught me to hold hope. She finally got her new house in 1967, the year my youngest brother, her final child, was born.

On this Mother’s Day, let’s honor our moms—those selfless, wonderful women who raised us as best they could. Those women who carried us, physically and emotionally, who want (ed) the best for us. Being a mother requires strength, energy and so much more, but, most of all, unconditional love.

Happy Mother’s Day, if you’re a mom! And if you are missing your mom, let’s celebrate her, too.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Autumn on a rural Minnesota acreage, a photo essay October 4, 2018

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A restored windmill towers above a refurbished mini barn (soon to be art studio) on my brother and sister-in-law’s rural Redwood County acreage.

 

OF SIX FARM-RAISED SIBLINGS, only two live in the country. Neither farmers. But two work in the ag industry, one as the CEO of an ethanol company, the other as part owner in an implement dealership.

 

 

My middle brother remains in our home county of Redwood and welcomes us back for extended family gatherings, most recently our annual autumn tradition of making horseradish—157 jars this year. The tradition honors our deceased farmer father. He dug and processed horseradish roots for many years. Now we do the same but with easier methods than using an old meat grinder powered by a drill. Like Dad, we give away the condiment.

 

Sunflowers ripen and dry under the prairie sky.

 

Our annual gathering in rural Lamberton isn’t about the horseradish as much as it is about family.

 

I’ve always delighted in milkweed pods bursting with seeds.

 

 

 

While I enjoy our time together, I usually slip away to meander, to take in the rural setting, to photograph. I need that peacefulness amid all the chattering and joking and loudness of a group with some strong personalities.

 

How lovely the broom corn rising and swaying in the prairie wind.

 

My artsy sister-in-law creates vignettes like this that change with the seasons.

 

A sunflower, heavy with seed, bows to the earth.

 

I need quiet. And I need to take in the shifting of the seasons, the artful autumn displays, the aged buildings, all the visual reminders of a rural life I still miss decades removed from the country.

 

A gazing ball in a flower garden reflects sky, land and dried black-eyed susan seed heads.

 

I am grateful for the opportunity to escape to this acreage, to reclaim the serenity of rural Minnesota.

 

An old shed recently moved onto the acreage, to be rebuilt or salvaged for the wood.

 

I realize nostalgia tinges my view of country life. Much has changed since I left the farm nearly 45 years ago. But not the love I hold for the land, for the quiet and grace and muted tones of harvest time.

 

© Copyright 2018 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

The season of harvest in southwestern Minnesota October 2, 2018

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THE FARMER IN THE HOODED sweatshirt and jeans motions from atop the combine to the trucker across the field. He’s ready to unload just picked corn into the grain truck late on a Sunday morning near Sleepy Eye.

 

 

Scenes like this repeat throughout southern Minnesota as the fall harvest is underway. I embrace this season as much for the memories as for the sights, sounds and smells.

 

 

 

 

The farm-raised girl in me emerges, vicariously experiencing the harvest through a camera lens.

 

 

 

 

I feel this intense desire to return to the land every autumn. And last weekend an annual horseradish making party with extended family took me back to my home county of Redwood. Along the route there and back, I documented the harvest. It is the closest I come now to being part of the process of bringing in the corn and soybeans.

 

 

 

 

I miss the closeness to the earth that comes with growing up on a farm. Sure things have changed a lot in the nearly 45 years since I left rural Redwood County. But the imprint of harvest remains, still strong. You can take the girl from the land. But you can’t take the land from the girl.

© Copyright 2018 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Another option for shopping local: the Faribault Winter Farmer’s Market December 15, 2016

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Bluebird Cakery in historic downtown Faribault is decorated for the holidays.

Bluebird Cakery in historic downtown Faribault is decorated for the holidays.

UPDATE, 1:50 PM Friday: Because of the winter storm, the Faribault Winter Farmers’ Market will be closed on Saturday. Instead, the market will be open from noon to 4 p.m. on Wednesday, December 21.

LOCALLY-GROWN/MADE has been trending for awhile. Know what you’re buying. Know the source. Know the farmer, the craftsman, the artisan.

Downtown Faribault last Saturday afternoon, here looking south on Central Avenue.

Downtown Faribault last Saturday afternoon, here looking south on Central Avenue.

This time of year, especially, we’re encouraged to shop local.

downtown-faribault-171-farmers-market

In my community of Faribault, it’s easy to buy local, direct from the hands of those who raised or grew or crafted. And nowhere is that more grassroots possible than at the Faribault Winter Farmers’ Market.

The musicians' list of holiday songs and music.

The musicians’ list of holiday songs and music.

New to Faribault’s holiday shopping scene, the market fills the cozy lobby of the Paradise Center for the Arts, 321 Central Avenue, in our historic downtown. Vendors offer jams, breads, cupcakes, horseradish, apples, maple syrup, beef, soap and more. I dropped by last Saturday afternoon to check out the winter market, recognizing sellers from the summer market in Central Park.

 

downtown-faribault-165-musicians-at-farmers-market

 

The mood was festive with a duo performing holiday tunes in a side meeting room/mini gallery. In the main gallery and in the gift shop, local art was available for purchase as part of the arts center’s Holly Days.

 

downtown-faribault-170-farmers-market

 

With the market winding down for the day, vendors had time to visit and personally promote their offerings. I sampled mango jelly on a saltine cracker. Randy sampled apples and bought a bulging bag of juicy Pzazz, an open-pollinated Honeycrisp cross. We love this apple, unheard of by us until the purchase from Apple Creek Orchard. We talked horseradish making with another vendor.

 

snowing-in-faribault-the-cheese-cave-at-night-copy

 

Earlier that day we shopped local across the street at our favorite cheese shop, The Cheese Cave. There Randy bought a wheel of St. Pete’s Select blue cheese and a chunk of a special edition Smoked St. Mary’s Grass-Fed Gouda, both made and aged in Faribault caves.

 

Faribault's Central Avenue from Fourth Street south.

Faribault’s Central Avenue from Fourth Street south.

 

I am fortunate to live in a community where local is valued, where good folks tend and harvest crops, where the bounty of the earth and of hands is shared at the farmers’ market and beyond.

TELL ME: What can you find that is locally-grown/made in your community?

FYI: The Faribault Winter Farmers’ Market is open this Saturday, December 17, from 1 – 4 p.m.

© Copyright 2016 Audrey Kletscher Helbing

 

Minnesota Faces: My mom, Arlene May 8, 2015

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Portrait #20: Arlene

 

My mom counts jars of horseradish with my sister-in-law after a family gathering to make horseradish.

My mom counts jars of horseradish with my sister-in-law after a family gathering to process horseradish. Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo 2013.

We sometimes call her Ma Cat. With fondness. It’s a fitting pet name for a woman who sing-songed The Three Little Kittens Have Lost Their Mittens while rocking wee ones in a cranberry-hued Naugahyde rocker in an aged woodframe farmhouse on the southwestern Minnesota prairie.

The only photo I have of my mom holding me. My dad is holding my brother Doug.

The only photo I have of my mom holding me. My dad is holding my brother Doug.

Mom devoted her life to raising her three sons and three daughters, born between 1955 and 1967. I am second oldest and the oldest girl.

I love my mom and I understand that her life was not always easy. She lost her own mother within months of my birth. Life as a young wife and mother on the farm, without a bathroom, no phone, a Maytag wringer washer to wash filthy barn clothes and little money, had to be challenging.

We were poor. But I didn’t know that, which is an absolute testament to my mom. She kept us fed with garden produce, baked goods and beef from our own cattle. She, somehow, managed to keep us clothed. We never got birthday gifts. We never knew to expect them. Instead, each birthday Mom baked a special animal-shaped cake for the birthday celebrant, the cake design chosen from a booklet she pulled out only on birthdays.

Mom instilled in all of us a deep faith in God. We attended church and Sunday School every week. We prayed. And, even more important, Mom has always lived out her faith in kindness and compassion shown to others. She once advised me, “Don’t talk about anyone else’s kids because you never know what your own kids will do.” In other words, do not gossip and keep your mouth shut if you have nothing good to say. And when others tell you something in confidence, keep it to yourself. I’ve tried to follow that advice throughout my life.

The past year has been a difficult one for my mom. In early 2014, physical problems forced her into a nursing home. Eventually, she grew strong enough to move into assisted living. But then, on a Sunday morning in August, she fell and suffered severe injuries that landed her in an ICU Trauma Unit. Eventually, Mom recovered and is now back in her apartment. But she knew she could never return to her home and the decision was made to sell her house.

Through it all, Mom has not complained. That is so typical of her, to adopt a positive attitude and make the best of whatever happens in her life. Because of that, and more, people love her. Her positivity shines as does her faithfulness.

She is a survivor of open heart surgery and breast cancer and a multitude of other medical emergencies and surgeries that should have killed her. But she always fought to survive and medical teams often marveled at her rallying. Sometimes I think of her as the cat with nine lives.

But mostly, I consider every day we have her to be a blessing.

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This is part of a series, Minnesota Faces, featured every Friday on Minnesota Prairie Roots.

To all of you mothers, Happy Mother’s Day.

© Copyright 2015 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

A close-up Journey to the Cross March 29, 2015

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Palm branches.

Palm branches.

PALM BRANCHES AND HOSANNAS. For the Christian church, both mark Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, the beginning of Holy Week.

Small groups participated in 45-minute tours on "Journey to the Cross."

Small groups participated in 45-minute tours on “Journey to the Cross.”

This morning at the church I attend, Trinity Lutheran in Faribault, Holy Week also began with a “Journey to the Cross” event. I was blessed to be a volunteer in this journey which led attendees through Christ’s final days to his glorious resurrection on Easter.

Participating kids (and some adults) carried passports. At nearly every station, stickers were distributed to place in the passports.

Participating kids (and some adults) carried passports. At nearly every station, stickers were distributed to place in the passports.

With passports in hand, kids and adults traveled from station to station, listening to performers role-play the parts of towns’ people, a temple worker, soldiers, an angel and others.

Participants had their hands washed by volunteers just as Christ washed his disciples' feet .

Participants had their hands washed by volunteers, following the example of Christ washing his disciples’ feet.

But this was about much more than sharing biblical history. This was about hands-on activities that reinforced the spoken word. This was about engaging the senses and experiencing Holy Week.

Matzo, unleavened bread from Jerusalem, was served as reprsentative of food from Jesus' time period.

Matzo, unleavened bread from Jerusalem, was served as representative of food from Jesus’ time period.

And therein lies the strength of “Journey to the Cross.” Participants received palm branches, felt the weight of the 30 silver coins Judas received for betraying Jesus, heard the crack of the whip against Jesus’ back, pounded nails into wood, tasted vinegar like that offered to Christ suffering on the cross, raised their voices in “He is risen!” at the vacant tomb and more.

A volunteer crafted this crow of thorns similar to the one Christ wore on the cross.

A volunteer crafted this crown of thorns similar to the one Christ wore on the cross. Tour participants saw it close up and could touch the crown.

I left with a deeper connection and understanding of what Christ endured. I could hear, see, feel, taste and smell the events of that final week. It was a memorable morning and the perfect contemplative beginning to Holy Week.

THE JOURNEY IN MORE PHOTOS:

Stop #1, Jerusalem on Palm Sunday:

Volunteer Theresa speaks to participants about Jesus' ride into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday.

Volunteer Theresa speaks to participants about Jesus’ ride into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday.

Stop #2, Judas betrays Jesus for 30 pieces of silver:

Randy, role-playing a temple worker.

Randy, role-playing a temple worker, tells how Judas betrayed Jesus.

Making coin rubbings in passports to remember how Judas betrayed Jesus with 30 pieces of silver.

Making coin rubbings in passports to remember how Judas betrayed Jesus with 30 pieces of silver.

Stop #3, Before the Passover meal on the Thursday of Holy Week, Jesus washed his disciples’ feet:

Actress Diane talks about Jesus gathering with his disciples and washing their feet.

Actress Diane talks about Jesus gathering with his disciples and washing their feet.

Rather than washing feet, hands were washed.

Rather than washing feet, hands were washed.

Stickers were handed out for placement in the passport after hands were washed.

Stickers were distributed for placement in the passport after the hand washing.

Stop #4, Remembering the Passover meal, Jesus’ last meal with his disciples:

Sings marked each station.

Signs marked each station.

Participants could sample various foods such as horseradish, matzo, grape juice and more.

Participants could sample various foods such as horseradish, matzo, grape juice and more.

Grape juice ready to be served.

Grape juice ready to be served.

Stop #5, Jesus prays in the Garden of Gethsemane:

A sign marks the station focusing on prayer.

A sign marks the station focusing on prayer.

Stop #6, Jesus was whipped, beaten and teased:

Volunteer Leann talks about the torture Jesus suffered even prior to his crucifixion.

Volunteer Leann talks about the torture Jesus suffered even prior to his crucifixion.

Wayne played perhaps the most memorable role, that of a soldier whipping Jesus.

Wayne played perhaps the most memorable role, that of a soldier whipping Jesus.

The whip cracked across the floor, toward the mannequin representing Jesus.

The whip cracks across the mannequin representing Jesus.

Stop #7, Christ is crucified on the cross:

The stage was set with a cross, hammer and nails. Participants pounded nails into wood. Christ was nailed to the cross.

The stage was set with a cross, hammer and nails. Participants pounded nails into wood to remember how Christ was nailed to the cross.

This artwork and nails were placed at the base of the cross.

This artwork and nails were placed at the base of the cross.

Stop #8: As Jesus died on the cross, he said he was thirsty. He was given vinegar to drink.  (I don’t have any photos from this station.) Participants could taste vinegar.

A photo of Christ's face from a stained glass window in my church, Trinity Lutheran, Faribault.

A photo of Christ’s face from a stained glass window in Trinity Lutheran, Faribault. This depicts Him after His resurrection.

Stop #9: Jesus’ tomb is found empty on Easter. (I don’t have any photos from this station.) Those on the tour joined the angel and the woman at the gravesite in celebrating Jesus resurrection with these words: He is risen!

Stop #10, The final check-in station allowed participants to talk and write about their experiences:

What a young girl, Jennifer, wrote.

What a young girl, Jennifer, wrote.

FYI: “Journey to the Cross” is available for purchase through Concordia Publishing House. Click here for more information.

It’s described as “an outreach and educational event for your congregation and community. Through activities based on Scripture, participants experience the joy of Palm Sunday, the disappointment of Judas’ betrayal, the devastation of the crucifixion, the jubilation of the resurrection, and so much more. This family program invites children and adults to walk the path that Jesus walked.”

© Copyright 2015 Audrey Kletscher Helbling