ŒSugestimı was pretty darned
good, especially for Norsk food

By Jim Pluimer

Tractor Tales
Posted 5/1/03

I was beginning a summer stay with my Uncle Al Tavista and Aunt Shirley at Summer lake. The fear of Scandinavian food on my plate made me think of the Swedes back in Milaca and their smelly lutefisk suppers. It was the real thing, you bet! If you happen to be Dutch, you might NOT bet.

WARNING: If you don't know what a torsk and a barrel of lye have in common, and you live in Minnesota, you'd better start asking questions!

A torsk is a torsk, of course, of course! And no one puts lye on a torsk, of course! Unless, of course, the torsk, Is the famous LUTEFISK!

A1 said grace as I peeked through my fingers. It looked strange and yet smelled so good. One thing for sure, it wasn't lutefisk. The amens went full circle and we opened our eyes. On the table was a large platter stacked high with steaming, deep-fried, cigarshaped things.

"You like fish, Jimmy?" Al asked as he passed the platter my way.

I felt embarrassed but I had to ask, "What is it?"

"Sugestim, " he replied. "Go ahead and try one." I wasn't sure if I was ready for culture shock, especially in the food category, but I took the plunge anyway. My first bite of sugestim melted away any misconceptions that I had about Norsk food. Next to the hamburger, it was the best thing I'd ever tasted!

Note: Sugestim was paper-thin lefse filled with flaked walleye, currants and spices then rolled up and deep fried. The preferred condiment with this delectable dish was George Rimbo's fish-fire sauce. In 1957 fiske-fyr sauce was available in three strengths: #2, #4, or #6. The #2 was very mild, almost sweet. The #4 tasted like a cross between hot pepper sauce and gunpowder; it was very hot. That brings us to #6. For one thing, it had the kick of two mules--hot doesn't even come close to describing the experience. It was consumed by connoisseurs and fools alike.

The recipe for fish-fire sauce was* a Rimbo family secret that came over from Norway in the late 1800s. Summer Lake, as far as I know, was the only place in the country where you could buy this strange brew. All I know for sure is the stuff was made from parts of the fish you normally throw away.

*Note: Sometimes I refer to Summer Lake in the past tense; there's a reason. On August 6, 1969, an F-4 tornado devastated parts of Aitkin County, leaving twelve dead and seventy injured. Although no loss of life was reported in Summer Lake, the entire east side of town had been pulled up by its roots and blown clear into the next county. That fall, the residents scattered like leaves in the wind to other parts of the country, mostly Canada and Alaska. By 1971 only the lake and three stubborn bachelors remained.

By 1971 Summer Lake, along with its closest neighbor, the small town of 3-Corners, joined the growing list of names that were slowly disappearing from the Minnesota road map. Back home, we had our own little casualties like Page, Johnsdale and Brickton--small towns with big stories.

Looking back on it, I doubt if the town of Summer Lake would have survived much longer even without the tornado. It was too isolated for one thing, plus during the mid-60s "old fashioned" was not "in fashion," and believe me, Summer Lake was a vacuum tube in a transistor world.

Summer Lake might have faded from the map, but her memories will always live on in the hearts of those who called the scenic valley "home," and in the stories of those, like myself, who were mere temporary residents.