12/23/2025
Decades-old Lefse Making Day Tradition Continues at RMC
The scent of warm potatoes, butter and sugar is the smell of tradition for many Norwegian families. It’s a love language that is passed down through the generations. At Roosevelt Medical Center, Vickie Grimsrud has been the activities director for 39-years, and she’s learned that the best activities aren’t the ones with the fanciest supplies or the most elaborate decorations—they are the ones that carry a piece of someone’s heart. And for many, during the holidays, that heart finds connection through lefse.
Since as far back as 1995, Lefse Day at RMC has been rooted in the celebration of age-old traditions. It’s a day when residents, staff, family and friends gather to make lefse, a thin, soft flatbread from Norway. Often eaten warm and smothered with butter and sugar, for many, it is comforting to taste and a memory to hold.
This year, Lefse Day took place on December 18.
Grimsrud’s family started the Lefse Day tradition four generations ago with Marian Snellman, Vickie’s grandmother, and moved down through the generations. Grandma Marian used to visit the facility with her daughter Marilyn and made lefse for the residents to enjoy. Marilyn continued the tradition with her daughter, Vickie. Vickie then brought her daughter, Cora.
On the afternoon of the most recent lefse-making day, the dining room transformed into a cozy kitchen. The residents gathered around the tables, some in wheelchairs, others leaning on walkers eager to offer advice and share lefse stories of Christmases past.
Vickie wheeled in a cart piled high with stacks of potato-balls, flour, and a special rolling pin that had seen more Christmases than she had. The over-a-century-old roller is a family heirloom passed down through four generations. It was given to her great grandmother as a wedding present. The rolling pin, carved from a tree branch, is as much of a tradition to Lefse Day as the lefse itself. The pin is pocked with imperfections and knicks from years of use and so it is covered in cloth when used. But with all its imperfections, it brings a sense of magic to the story as it continues to flatten dough so that new memories can be made.
While some work to create the delicacies, kneading, rolling, flipping and stacking the potato dough, others simply wait, savoring the smell, the anticipation, and the first warm bite.
There is an unspoken agreement that some will and will not make the lefse, a rhythm perhaps as old as the recipe itself. This year, half-a dozen attendees attempted to make their first piece under the encouraging eye of Grimsrud. “Why is mine bubbling up,” asked Kim Rhodes, a billing clerk. “You’ve got to s***k the lefse to get the bubbles out,” replied Grimsrud. Of course, those who have attended before know this is a source of contention for many, with an equal amount of lefse makers on each side of the iron griddle.
For some, it’s all about the stick that moves and lays the lefse flat. “My dad made this turning stick for me and it’s the one I always use. He is gone now and I can never have it replaced,” Grimsrud said. The griddle surface tells it’s own story, with faint rings where batter bubbled to long, tiny scratches from the edge of the turning stick, and a light sheen in the center where countless rounds of lefse were browned too long.
While Grimsrud did not begin making lefse until she made it at RMC, she spent years listening and learning the family secrets to making the perfect batch. Jokingly, she explained that not all lefse in her family is created equal. “One of my grandpas called his wife’s lefse “Lumpa” because she didn’t rice the potatoes and there were lumps in it,” she said. And some didn’t use the lefse in a way most approved of. “I’m pretty sure my great-grandpa Hippe invented the Norwegian burrito. He would roll his lutefisk, potatoes and dressing up in his and eat it. Bleck,” she recalled.
Grimsrud always prepares the potato rounds the night before Lefse Day because they require the most physical “oomph.” “My mom always said the potatoes had to be cool before you riced them and when mixing in the flour. Last year, I riced them when they were warm and it took way less muscle. I think my mom just wanted me to do more work,” she laughed.
As the lefse making began, Grimsrud began to explain the process. Grabbing the dough—soft, and pliable, she placed them on the pastry cloth. “The trick is to get the dough rolled so thin that you can see the writing on the board underneath it,” she said. But the rolling was not the hardest part. No, the true test was coming. The flip. With the long wooden turning stick in hand. Grimsrud moved with the grace of someone who had flipped a thousand times, sliding the stick under the lefse in one smooth motion, lifting it like a fragile sheet of silk, and turning it over without a tear.
When the first lefse landed flat on the hot griddle, the air filled with a soft hiss and the scent of home. After turning it until it was perfectly browned, she passed the first lefse to Isabella O’Neill, an activities aide, who then slathered butter and sugar along its imperfect shape. Rolling them into cigar-shaped rolls, the lefse were passed around and enjoyed with several asking for seconds.
As Grimsrud rolled the last potato round, her heart smiled. For her, the tradition wasn’t about the perfect bite or even the best recipe but rather, the best memories. And she had plenty to hold on to.
When the last batch was cooked and the flour swept away, the warmth lingered. Lefse Day wasn’t just about lefse, it was about the way it brought people together, binding patients, staff and visitors into an extended family. It was about giving the residents a taste of their own memories.
“In my heart lefse will always remind me of yummy goodness, and treasured memories with family and friends gathered for meals and the holidays together. Traditions like this don’t end when loved ones are gone, they live on in the hands of those who remember,” she said.
That night, Grimsrud felt a tug in her chest. She didn’t say it out loud, but she felt it. Memories of her mother, Marilyn, her grandmother, Marian, and her great grandmothers, Anna & Caroline donning flour-dusted aprons in the warmth of a kitchen together. In that moment, they were all there, next to her.
