As a boy, my father Tim used to look forward to the annual late summer vacation with his Norwegian cousins with a mixture of fascination and dread. The family, who had made a small fortune in pharmaceuticals, lived on a large property in the town of Moss overlooking the Oslo Fjord, in what can best be described as one part country estate mixed with two parts scout camp. Resolutely off the grid at a time when the rest of Europe’s wealthy and powerful were embracing every creature comfort that money could buy, Feste House which had neither mains drainage nor electricity, was a wildly eccentric Scandinavian outpost of muscular Christianity.
Every morning in all weathers, except on those rare occasions that the fjord was iced over, Wilhelm the family patriarch, known to everyone as ‘Bestefar’ (Norwegian for grandpa) would march to the water’s edge in his pyjamas to take a bracing naked dip and then repair to one of the small ‘earth closet’ huts ranged across the hillside, to read his copy of Norske Dagsbladet. Having once stumbled bleary eyed on an irascible Bestefar in the middle of this ritual, my father was terrified whenever nature called.
With five sons who were members of the Norwegian parliament, a daughter (my great aunt Maria) and three grandsons (John, Olaf and Martin) who were close to my father’s age, Bestefar would preside over enormous extended family meals eaten at all hours at a long table next to the croquet lawn, in the near perpetual daylight of a Scandinavian summer. Inevitably the centrepiece would be a pickled herring dish of one kind or another but on one strange and unforgettable occasion my father was part of an ancient Viking tradition. As dessert was cleared away Bestefar announced “Olaf, time for the old cheese! Take Tim with you.”
Olaf set off across the croquet lawn with my father in tow and disappeared into a thicket of rhododendrons, which revealed a hitherto unnoticed wooden box that was about six feet square. Ranged neatly inside it were several large tins with dates on the labels like so many wine vintages. Selecting the oldest of them, which dated back to the early 1920s, they headed back to the excited gathering. Eyes shining, Bestefar opened the tin of Gamalost (Norwegian for ‘old cheese’) and my father’s senses were assaulted by a pungent smell that has been flatteringly described as ‘dog’s bed’ or ‘old socks’.
That visit was in August 1939. On the second of September, with a British declaration of war against Germany seemingly inevitable, my father and his family hastily packed and boarded the boat train from Oslo to Newcastle. Nervously scanning the horizon in their lifejackets for hostile shipping throughout the crossing, they made it back home hours before war broke out. The following evening the SS Athenia, an unarmed passenger ship was torpedoed by a U boat in the Eastern Atlantic and the blockade of Norway’s ports which culminated in Germany’s invasion and occupation began.
These extended family gatherings resumed for two summers starting in 1947, but somehow with Bestefar no longer around, (he had passed away in 1945 at the age of 101) and with the lingering hangover of a conflict that no one wanted to talk about, the visits petered out.
Pickled Herring: Serves 4 to 6
While not exactly my favourite thing in the world (I much prefer them smoked), we became very familiar with this dish when we lived in Warsaw in the 1990s. This Swedish version is the best I’ve found.
¼ cup kosher salt
5 cups of water, divided
1lb herring fillets
2 cups distilled vinegar
¼ cup sugar
1 tsp mustard seeds
2 tsp whole allspice
2 tsp black peppercorns
3 bay leaves
2 cloves
1 medium red onion, thinly sliced
Heat 4 cups of water to dissolve the salt then let the resulting brine cool to room temperature. Add the herring fillets to the brine and refrigerate overnight or up to 24 hours. Bring the sugar, vinegar, spices, and remaining cup of water to the boil, simmer for 5 minutes, then turn off the heat and let it steep until cold.
Remove the herrings from the brine and layer them in a glass jar alternating with slices of onion. Divide the spices if using more than one jar. Pour the pickling liquid into the jars and seal.
Wait at least one day before consuming. They’ll happily store in the fridge for up to one month.