Tag: lutefisk

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Summit’s Lutefisk Tradition

By John Andrews

Diners at Summit’s annual lutefisk supper got a plateful, but the fish was the star of the evening.

Editor’s Note: The town of Summit hosted an annual lutefisk supper for around 80 years, but the event ended after the 2019 gathering. This report is from our visit in November of 2016. It appeared in the November/December 2017 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

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Here’s a fun recipe for preparing lutefisk. Place a piece of lutefisk on a pine board and flatten it with a cleaver. Sprinkle salt and pepper over the fish and gently ladle melted butter over the top. Bake at a low heat for two hours. Then take the lutefisk out of the oven, throw it away and eat the pine board.

Lutefisk, the fishy centerpiece at the heart of countless memories for South Dakotans who grew up in Norwegian families, has gone from traditional holiday meal to punch line over the years. But it’s no joke in Summit, where every November the entire community helps stage one of the largest and longest-running lutefisk suppers in South Dakota. For $18, diners are treated to all the lutefisk, lefse, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn, ham, coleslaw, cranberries and coffee they can consume.

Lutefisk suppers don’t seem to fill the fall calendar in South Dakota as they once did. Perhaps younger generations aren’t as enamored with the idea of eating fish that’s been preserved in lye. Maybe it’s the distinctly fishy aroma that can emanate from a boiling pot of lutefisk, or the gelatinous texture it can take on when overcooked. Still, the lutefisk suppers that remain often sell out, attracting diners who both truly love the fish and those who are willing to eat it once a year for the sake of nostalgia or to preserve their cultural heritage. We headed into the Glacial Lakes country last year with a camera, notebook and an empty stomach to see how Summit has sustained its lutefisk tradition for nearly eight decades.

Diane Knutson, of Summit, is among the chefs who have perfected the art of cooking lutefisk.

The community of about 290 people lies in the far southern edge of Roberts County and just inside the Lake Traverse Reservation, home to the Sisseton Wahpeton Oyate. Its name comes from its location atop the Coteau des Prairies, a rise of rolling hills that sweeps down the eastern third of the state. At 1,968 feet above sea level, it was the highest point between Chicago and Mobridge when the Chicago, St. Paul and Milwaukee Railroad established a station there in 1880.

Because of the elevation, Summit is often susceptible to particularly harsh winter weather. But temperatures were unseasonably warm in the lower 60s when we pulled up in front of the Summit Community Hall. Built in 1952, the gymnasium, with its white block exterior and wood-brown basketball floor and bleachers, looks like something straight out of Hoosiers. In fact, the Summit Eagles (now the Waubay-Summit Mustangs co-op) played basketball there until just last year, when a new $3.5 million addition to the Summit school — including a new gym, music classrooms and community wellness center — was completed.

Advertisements said serving began at 5 p.m., but there were already couples patiently waiting in their cars when we arrived at 3:30. Brenda Redlin, one of the supper’s main organizers, said they often start serving at 4 to accommodate the dozens of people who arrive early and to be sure the lutefisk chefs don’t fall behind. Early arrivals head inside, take a number and patiently wait for their table to be seated.

She expected 550 diners that evening — nearly twice the population of the town — but when she began working at the supper as a high school student in the 1970s, 1,000 guests was the norm.”Back then we couldn’t cook the fish as fast, because we didn’t have the equipment that we do now,” Redlin says.”We had people on both sides of the stands just waiting and waiting. Some people would come buy their tickets and go to the bar. Now we get them through pretty fast.”

Victoria Zirbel (left) and Cathy Bauer were among the many high school students recruited to deliver plates of fish to the tables.

Volunteers are clearly at the heart of the annual supper, and it seems that nearly everyone in town has a job to do. Two days before the feed, fourth-graders at the Summit school devote their physical education class time to hauling tables and chairs and setting them up on the gym floor. On Friday night, high school honor society members carefully assemble each place setting.

Redlin has a list of ladies who help prepare 140 dozen lefse, a Norwegian flatbread made from potatoes. The ham and mashed potatoes are prepared at the school and shuttled to the hall because there’s not enough room in the tiny kitchen. Then there’s the cashier, the announcer, the servers, the butter melters, the coffee makers and the dishwashers.

But lutefisk is the star of the show. In 2016, they bought 800 pounds of lutefisk from the Olsen Fish Company. Founded in 1910 in downtown Minneapolis, Olsen’s processes 650,000 pounds of lutefisk annually, making it the largest lutefisk producer in the world. Fish from Olsen’s is used at nearly 500 community suppers throughout the country every year. They also supply novelty napkins and placemats that explain the lutefisk tradition for newcomers.

Pinpointing lutefisk’s beginnings can be troublesome. A popular folk tale says it all began more than 1,000 years ago when Irish citizens, hoping to poison a group of pillaging Vikings, boarded the Norse long ships and poured lye over their fish. But instead of dying, the Norwegians ate heartily and declared the lye-soaked fish a delicacy.

The earliest written reference to lutefisk is in a book by Olaus Magnus, a Swedish writer who worked in the 16th century. Eric Dregni discovered it while working on his book, Vikings in the Attic, about Scandinavian-Americans and the traditions they hold dear. Dregni is a professor at Concordia University in St. Paul, Minnesota, and is also the author of In Cod We Trust, an account of his year spent living in Trondheim, Norway.

Magnus’ book tells the story of an overwhelmingly successful fishing expedition in the North Atlantic. The fishermen brought their bounty of cod to shore, cleaned it on the rocks and cooked and ate as much as they could. When they finished, they simply left the rest behind.

The boisterous kitchen crew included (from left) Laurie Kneeland, Billi Whempner, Gretchen Wiste, Pan Neugebauer and Stacey Amdahl.

“Among these rocks were natural basins that filled up with rain,” Dregni says.”Birch ash leftover from their fires combined with water turns to lye, or ‘lute.’ When they came back much later, they found the fish had been perfectly preserved in this lye water. They couldn’t catch anything, so they took this leftover fish down to the sea, washed it off and cooked it. They realized this was a good way to preserve fish.”

Norwegian families used the method for centuries. The process is a bit more refined these days. Cod caught in Norwegian waters is dried before it arrives at Olsen’s in Minneapolis. It’s reconstituted in alternating baths of lye and water for about two weeks.

The lutefisk is delivered to the Summit school and refrigerated in the kitchen’s large coolers. The night before the feed, volunteers bring the fish to the community hall, where they cut it into 2- or 3-inch pieces and soak it overnight in salt water. In the morning, the fish is rinsed and prepared for cooking.

That task falls into the able hands of Diane Knutson and Sheryl Steinocker. They’ve both worked at the annual dinner for over 40 years, and have learned the proper way to prepare lutefisk more by experience than any written recipe. Water boiled steadily in two pots while they explained the process. The fish is placed inside cheesecloth and plunged into boiling water.”They used to say 4 or 5 minutes, but you can’t go by that because some pieces are thicker than others,” Knutson says.”So we stab each bag.”

Lutefisk. Cheesecloth. Boiling water. Five minutes. It sounds simple, but there’s a lot riding on the preparation.”It has to be fork tender,” Steinocker says.”There’s a fine line.”

“And a true lutefisk lover knows where that fine line is, so we have to get it right,” Knutson adds.

When they get it right, they can see it in the empty platters that return to the kitchen almost as quickly as they left.”Sometimes the plate makes it all the way around the table, and other times it only makes it through two people,” Knutson says.”That’s how you tell who the real Norwegians are.”

Patrick and Maria Quale came from Volga to help their grandmother, Kathy Quale, at the butter-melting table. The siblings are the fourth generation in their family to melt the butter for Summit’s annual lutefisk supper.

Retaining cultural identity is important to those”real Norwegians” as well as South Dakotans from other ethnic backgrounds. It may have played a role in turning this regular Norwegian meal into a community gathering. Dregni points to the World War I era, when immigrant families in the Upper Midwest still spoke their native languages, read native language newspapers and engaged in cultural practices brought over from Europe. When war broke out and patriotic fervor swept the nation, a shadow of suspicion was cast over these families (Germans specifically, but Scandinavians were sometimes included). Dregni believes get-togethers such as lutefisk dinners helped families retain their Norwegian-ness. Summit’s began at the Hope Lutheran Church. It’s now organized by a group called Summit Area Economic Growth, and money raised goes back into the community to support summertime activities for youth.

Despite the sense of togetherness lutefisk helps to foster, at some point it became the strange fish that people like to joke about. Even the internet is getting in on the fun, though perhaps unintentionally. Google the word lutefisk and among the first results is a pronunciation guide that explains the first syllable sounds like”lewd,” as in something dirty, filthy, foul, gross or nasty.

We found the pine board recipe in a book called O Lutefisk by Red Stangland, who grew up in Hetland and worked in radio in Sioux Falls but found his niche in the ethnic joke industry. He founded Norse Press and published millions of joke books featuring the exploits of Norwegian characters like Ole, Lena, Sven and the often-disparaged lutefisk. Here’s the first verse of Oh Lutefisk, Stangland’s parody of the Christmas song Oh Tanenbaum:

Lutefisk Ö Oh Lutefisk Ö how fragrant your aroma

Oh Lutefisk Ö Oh Lutefisk Ö you put me in a coma

You smell so strong Ö you look like glue

You taste yust like an overshoe

But Lutefisk Ö come Saturday

I tink I’ll eat you anyway.

We also learn through Stangland and other Scandinavian humorists like Ed Fischer that lutefisk, when placed around a campsite, is an effective bear repellent. Wrapping your money in lutefisk wards off potential robbers, but lutefisk scented after-shave is a sure way to attract a Norwegian wife.

Did you know that the first person to fly an airplane solo across the Atlantic Ocean was not Charles Lindbergh but a Norwegian pilot from Minnesota? Unfortunately his plane carried a cargo of lutefisk, so no one met him at the airport. You get the idea.

Rick Knutson (left) and Pete Eccles happily scrubbed dishes in metal washtubs.

The Summit dinner has not been without its own strange-but-true foibles. One night about 25 years ago the worst-case scenario happened: they ran out of lutefisk. So someone called a grocery store in Milbank, 22 miles east along Highway 12. The clerk put some lutefisk in the back of the county sheriff’s car and the officer sped west with lights flashing to Marvin Hill, a high spot about midway between the two towns, where he met someone from Summit who transported the precious cargo the rest of the way. Crisis was averted thanks to a law enforcement escort that perhaps no South Dakota food other than lutefisk would ever receive.

But we didn’t notice any hiccups. A kitchen full of sous chefs happily prepped hundreds of pounds of lutefisk, despite questions from a magazine writer. (“Do you want a mimosa?” one of them asked us.”Don’t put that in your article!” said another amid gales of laughter.) Kathy Quale and her grandchildren, Patrick and Maria Quale, melted 108 pounds of butter and skimmed the foam off the top of every cup, just the way grandma used to. Lyle and Candace Zirbel kept watch over the egg coffee. Earline Holt, Rick Knutson and Pete Eccles, who also serves as the mayor of Summit, joked as they scrubbed dishes in old washtubs. It seemed there was no place any of them would rather be.

And the plate of lutefisk we enjoyed was perfectly flaky, topped with a shake of pepper and a couple of tablespoons of silky melted butter. We didn’t even miss the pine board.

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To All the Lutefisk We’ve Loved Before

By John Andrews

I’ve always thought that neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night could keep a Norwegian from a plate of lutefisk, but this year has challenged that belief. COVID-19 forced the cancellation of family holiday get-togethers and community celebrations across the state, including the venerable Summit Lutefisk Supper. This would have been the 82nd annual feast and tribute to the finicky fish that both unites a culture and serves as punch line to countless jokes like this one: Did you know that the first person to fly an airplane solo across the Atlantic Ocean was not Charles Lindbergh but a Norwegian pilot from Minnesota? Unfortunately, his plane carried a cargo of lutefisk, so no one met him at the airport.

Lutefisk is a culinary oddity whose origins are tough to pin down. A popular folk tale says it all began more than 1,000 years ago when Irish citizens, hoping to poison a group of pillaging Vikings, boarded the Norse long ships and poured lye over their fish. But instead of dying, the Norwegians ate heartily and declared the lye-soaked fish a delicacy. Another reference in a 16th century book tells of a successful Norwegian fishing trip to the North Atlantic. After the men had eaten their fill, they left the remaining cod on the beach. Birch ash leftover from their fires combined with water to create lye, or”lute.” The fishermen noticed that it had perfectly preserved their catch. All they needed to do was rinse, cook and eat. The method was passed through Norwegian families for generations.

We traveled to Summit a few years ago to see how the town of 290 people stages an event that often draws twice that many diners. It seems nearly everyone in town has a job. Two days before the feed, fourth graders at the Summit school devote their physical education class time to hauling tables and chairs and setting them up on the old gym floor of the Summit Hall. On Friday night, high school honor society members carefully assemble each place setting. There are butter melters, lefse makers, coffee brewers, dishwashers and the all-important lutefisk chefs, led by Diane Knutson and Sheryl Steinocker, both veterans of at least 40 lutefisk suppers.

We watched as they prepared the fish for that evening’s dinner. Water boiled steadily in two pots while they explained the process. The fish is placed inside cheesecloth and plunged into boiling water.”They used to say 4 or 5 minutes, but you can’t go by that because some pieces are thicker than others,” Knutson said.”So we stab each bag.”

Lutefisk. Cheesecloth. Boiling water. Five minutes. It sounds simple, but there’s a lot riding on the preparation.”It has to be fork tender,” Steinocker said.”There’s a fine line.”

“And a true lutefisk lover knows where that fine line is, so we have to get it right,” Knutson adds.

When they get it right, they can see it in the empty platters that return to the kitchen almost as quickly as they left.”Sometimes the plate makes it all the way around the table, and other times it only makes it through two people,” Knutson said.”That’s how you tell who the real Norwegians are.”

Even in pre-pandemic years, lutefisk suppers didn’t seem to fill the fall calendar in South Dakota as they once did. Perhaps younger generations aren’t as enamored with the idea of eating fish that is preserved in lye. Maybe it’s the distinctly fishy aroma that can emanate from a boiling pot of lutefisk, or the gelatinous texture it can take on when overcooked. Still, the lutefisk suppers that remain often sell out, attracting diners who both truly love the fish and those who are willing to eat it once a year for the sake of nostalgia or to preserve their cultural heritage.

We’ll have to put the fun and fellowship that comes with community suppers like the Summit lutefisk feed aside for the moment, but cod willing, we’ll be back in 2021.

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A Christmas Ode to Lutefisk

By John Andrews

I heard a story once that the grocer in my hometown ordered a barrel full of lutefisk in preparation for the holiday season. When the truck delivered it, the driver left the barrel sitting outside the back door to the store. Unfortunately, lutefisk delivery day also happened to be garbage day, and when the refuse wagon made its way down the alley behind Main Street just a few hours later, the garbage man tossed the barrel of fish in the back and went on his merry way.

I honestly have no idea if this is true. It seems like just the type of mix-up that could plausibly occur in a small town, but it could also simply be one of the countless jokes that have emerged over the decades with the much-maligned lutefisk as the punch line.

Our Norwegian ancestors delighted in a Christmastime lutefisk meal because it connected them to their homeland. Over the years, however, the funky fish has fallen out of favor, especially, it seems, with South Dakotans of my generation. It could be because cod that’s been soaked in lye doesn’t necessarily conform to today’s prevailing culinary attitudes that tend to favor fresh, organic ingredients that have never seen a whiff of pesticides or herbicides. Still, there are those of us who look past that minor detail and enjoy a piece of lutefisk this time of year. Whether it’s because we truly love it or we simply want to celebrate our cultural heritage and preserve memories remains up in the fishy air.

My grandmother deserves credit for introducing me to lutefisk. Grandma came to America from Norway in 1916. She took a housekeeping job with another Norwegian family, married one of the boys and became the matriarch of a huge family. By the time I came along in 1979, Christmases at the farm were loud and crowded affairs.

The one constant presence at these gatherings was a boiling pot of lutefisk. Grandma initiated all of the grandchildren early in our lives. She fed us a small spoonful of lutefisk as soon as we could consume semi-solid foods, and the portions slowly grew as we aged. The experiment failed with several of my cousins, but, incredibly, I did acquire a taste for it.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but my childhood years coincided with a golden age of lutefisk feeds. There are far fewer today, but at least one church in my hometown always had one. Relatives owned two small town cafes, and each one hosted a lutefisk feed. Pulling up in front of the cafe on a frigid December night, its front windows completely steamed over from the lutefisk boiling away in the kitchen, remains a fond memory.

My lutefisk consumption declined precipitously after Grandma died in 2003. The cafes were sold, and lutefisk suppers in general declined. Many dark, lutefisk-less winters passed. Then, in the fall of 2016, I traveled to Summit, home to one of the longest running lutefisk feeds in South Dakota. All the sights, sounds and aromas from my childhood came rushing back. Most importantly, the perfectly cooked, flaky piece of lutefisk that I enjoyed brought me right back to Grandma’s table. And isn’t that where we’d all like to be during the holidays?

Here’s hoping your Christmas season is merry and bright — and that your lutefisk isn’t mistaken for trash.

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That’s No Lye

By Fran Hill

Last month, I ate lutefisk for the first time. I ate cod that had been dried, soaked in lye, rehydrated, rinsed, and then boiled and served with melted butter. At Summit’s 80th Lutefisk Supper, I filled my plate with mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, coleslaw, cranberries, lefse spread with butter and sprinkled with sugar, and a large gelatinous pile of lutefisk drenched in butter. I had seconds. And thirds. Dare I say that I liked it?

It’s no secret that I have been a devoted sushi fan for many years, but somehow my exposure to the Norwegian delicacy of lutefisk had been non-existent. My friendship with Laura Johnson Andrews, South Dakota Magazine‘s Departments Editor, pretty much made this a sacrilege. Laura’s blood pumps with melted butter and Jell-o-like cod. Her adoration piqued my interest, and I am thankful to report that she shared my first lutefisk adventure with me. It won’t be our last.

While Laura and I have Summit’s Lutefisk Supper penciled in for next year (and are taking suggestions for other community and church dinners to check out), it is safe to say that lutefisk isn’t something that I will make at home. I will leave that to the professionals.

At home, I will stick with Torsk. This cod dish has been a favorite from the menu of an area steakhouse for many years. Creating it at home is not nearly as labor intensive as removing lye from lutefisk. Torsk is flaky and has none of the sometimes off-putting gelatinous texture. Traditionally, Torsk is seasoned with paprika, but my husband prefers the seasoning that the steakhouse uses in their preparation. It adds a kick to the mild flavor of the fish.

Torsk may not have the history, tradition, or aroma of lutefisk, but it is an excellent simple dinner to tide me over until Laura and I head out for our next lutefisk adventure.

Don’t like the idea of fish soaked in lye or the sometimes gelatinous texture of lutefisk? Flaky torsk is a delicious substitute.

Torsk

6 FROZEN cod fillets (This is not a mistake. This preparation is from frozen. Do not defrost.)

6 cups water

2-3 tablespoons honey

2 tablespoons salt

1 1/2 cups butter, melted

paprika or steak seasoning

Preheat broiler and brush a baking sheet with some of the melted butter.

Dissolve the honey and salt in a cup of hot water. Arrange the FROZEN fish in a large saucepan and pour the water mixture over the fillets. Add the additional 5 cups of water (make sure the fish is covered; add additional water, if necessary). Bring to a boil over medium heat. Boil for 5 minutes. Fish should be soft, but not yet flaky.

Remove the fillets from the water, and blot with paper toweling to remove excess water. Arrange in a single layer on a baking sheet and brush each fillet with roughly 1 tablespoon each of melted butter. Season with paprika or steak seasoning.

Broil for approximately 8-10 minutes, or until the fillets are golden and flaky. Serve with the remaining melted butter for dipping. (Serves 6)

Fran Hill has been blogging about food at On My Plate since October of 2006. She, her husband and their three dogs ranch near Colome.

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The Lutefisk Tradition

Our November/December issue features the annual lutefisk supper in Summit, a town of about 290 people in southern Roberts County. Hundreds of people headed for Summit on Nov. 4 for the town’s 79th such gathering. Managing Editor John Andrews traveled to Summit for last year’s supper with a camera, notebook and an empty stomach. Here are a few extra photos that didn’t make the magazine.

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Cod is Love

By Michael Zimny

Brenda Redlin makes sure the lutefisk feed runs swimmingly.

Long ago, as buxom valkyries hurtled over the foggy shores of ⁄lfsj·r, astride winged horses on their way to war, some ancestral peasant chef in the Nordic homeland discovered a method for rehydrating rack-dried fish with lye made from birch ash. The pungent pudding o’ the sea that resulted must have been a hit. Centuries later, across the Atlantic, in the land that invented fish by the stick, people still come together for a viscous plate of lutefisk, all ashimmer with tradition.

Nobody knows exactly how the tradition began. Some have attributed the concoction to the Vikings. Maybe it was a lack of proper charcoal for lutefisk prep that drove the Nordic settlers to abandon Greenland. Either way, thanks to Scandinavian emigrants, the strange seasonal dish found its way to the New World.

Every winter at supper tables in Lutheran churches and community centers throughout the upper Midwest, volunteer cooks bring the custom — and the fish — to life, sometimes with a little lye, always with a tenacious love for their culinary heritage.

There may be no more dedicated group of lutefiskers than the women who keep the annual Summit Lutefisk Feed — which celebrated its 77th year on November 7 — going strong. Billi Whempner, Pam Neugebauer, Laurie Kneeland, Kathy Brink, Gretchen Wiste, Diane Knutson and Sheryl Steinocker have centuries of experience in the art. Most of them were preceded in the Summit community lutefisk kitchen by mothers or mothers-in-law or sometimes mother’s mothers.

Everyone in the kitchen has a job.

Organizer Brenda Redlin can’t recall one origin story behind the dish, just snippets of “fairy tales” about Vikings and spoiled fish. The Summit tradition was started by the Hope Lutheran Church, then moved to the community center when it outgrew the church. The dinner helps raise a few dollars for the community center, but mostly serves as a fjord of sorts into Summit’s ocean-deep inheritance of Norwegian culture.

“It’s not a humongous money maker, but it’s something where our whole community gets together and works together,” Redlin says. “And you get so many people who come from other towns every year.” Nearby Webster is one town that sends a bus of lutefisk aficionados annually. “It’s just a good community thing to do.”

“The ladies in the kitchen know how to make the fish, and they know how to make it good.”

“The only way to get out is to die,” says long time lutefisk chef Sheryl Steinocker. “It’s kind of like a church committee. Once you’re in it, you’re in it.”

Diners await their meal.

Diane Knutson — an Armenian-Bohemian by birth, who married into the lutefisk game — agrees. “Once, you’re on it, you’re stuck. Cause nobody wants this job.” Though it does have rewards. “We have a great group. All of us have been in here for quite a few years. Everybody has a spot. They come in. They take their place. We don’t tell anybody what to do because they know what they have to do. It’s very smooth.”

Sheryl and Diane didn’t grow up in lutefisk households. After she married a Norwegian, Sheryl acquired the taste, slowly. “Harold told me, what you do is take a tablespoon and mix it with your mashed potatoes and butter.” The next year, two tablespoons and so on. “It takes you 10 years,” laughs Diane. “I can eat it straight now,” says Sheryl.

Preparation for the feed can start a couple weeks in advance, with the baking of the lefse, a Norwegian flatbread. Lefse makers around the community, boil, peel and rice potatoes with a potato ricer, then mix it into a dough and grill the lefse. This year Christina Brandsrud, Brenda Redlin’s daughter, led a group of younger Summiters in learning lefse.

A finished table with lutefisk as the centerpiece.

The fish preparation starts the day before the feed. A crew comes in to cut long pieces of cod into manageable portions, bundle them in cheesecloth and soak them overnight in salt water. They’re able to skip a few steps because for decades now the Olsen Fish Company of Minneapolis has provided lutefisk that has already received the lye-reconstitution treatment. Diane recalls that before Olsen started skinning the fish, crews would spend nearly all night rolling the skin off from the tails up with hand-operated skinners.

On the day of the dinner, the bundles of fish are boiled in salt water until they reach the proper consistency. This is where years of experience come into play. A veteran chef knows the perfect level of tenderness by rote, with one stab of the fork.

The boiled fish has a gelatinous texture. Some have complained of an odor, maybe a throwback from the old days when the lye treatment was a DIY affair. There were no strong smells, or flavors, at the Summit feed, just the unshakeable bonds forged by a culinary tradition sailing ever forward, like the dragon’s head on the bow of a Viking ship.

The holiday season brings many opportunities to try lutefisk for the first time or enjoy it once again. Find a lutefisk feed near you in our online calendar.

Michael Zimny is the social media engagement specialist for South Dakota Public Broadcasting in Vermillion. He blogs for SDPB and contributes arts columns to the South Dakota Magazine website.