On Sausages and Astonishment: Icelandic Food and Language

In the land of fire and ice, of waterfalls, wild-maned horses, free ranging sheep, sagas, sweaters and so many jaw dropping sources of beauty and wonder, Iceland can be forgiven for not being known for its food. It is a country where survival and heartiness have, for centuries, been the touchstone of culinary aspiration, and thus it is the ideal location for a trepidatious cook such as myself to gain some reps and confidence. When I weekly make dinner for the family and issue caveat upon caveat before even putting it down on the table (“it’s not much… I hope the fish is how you like it” etc.) Anna will smile and laugh at my anxiety. “We’re Icelanders,” she has repeatedly assured me, “we eat anything.” 

Iceland’s most infamous cuisine is no doubt the famed Hákarl, fermented shark. Hákarl was made extra famous by the iconic world traveling adventurous eater, Anthony Bourdain, who in his Iceland episode of the show “No Reservations” claimed hákarl was “unspeakably nasty ... probably the single worst thing I've ever put in my mouth” (above warthog anus, pig blood soup, and raw seal eyeballs, for the record). I tried it during a previous Icelandic visit and found that its  reputation for the acrid ammonia smell being actually more intimidating than the taste, was warrented. I’m sure it can be prepared many ways, but when I tried it, it was laid out in a small, plastic container in cubes like small white dice, pricked with toothpicks for easy consumption as casually as a cheese cube, and set on a table of desserts after a big communal soup dinner. Rakel had in front of her: a cup of coffee, a slice of chocolate cake, a plate of hákarl and a glass of Pepsi Max. Party time for the tastebuds, indeed. 

There are other culinary particulars in Iceland that fall far short of Hákarl, but that I’ve never encountered in the U.S. as well. Last Saturday I passed a sandwich board outside the pub at the base of the Akureyri Backpacker hostel–a cozy, above ground Cheers-like vibe for young travelers, returning trekkers, and perpetually pickled locals alike–that was attempting to lure in more passersby with their $26 reindeer burger. “Damn,” I imagined a hungover backpacker bemoaning to a fellow ragamuffin. “I could really go for a double Rudolph and some fries!” Other culinary idiosyncrasies show up in language as well. The phrase “Rúsínan Í Pylsuendanum” or, “raisin at the end of the hotdog” is the rough equivalent to “cherry on top of the sundae” for something pleasant, or the peak element of an experience. 

I say all this, but in truth, I adore the cuisine here and I do feel like the quality and unprocessed straight forwardness of the food creates a feeling of clear-eyed vigor that is noticeable. Breakfasts are generally Skyr (the protein-rich Icelandic yogurt), mixed with the AB Mjólk (a kind of probiotic cross between milk and yogurt, so named for the two types of bacteria Lactobacillus acidophilus (A) and Bifidobacterium bifidum (B) most active in it. We also give a squeeze of this to all the lambs when they’re first born to aid their digestive system), and sprinkled with raisins, or bananas and apples if fresh options are available. The Icelanders in the house generally top this off with a big spoonful of yellow cod liver oil and Sveinn likes to have a couple slices of cold sausage as well (more on that later…) About these later elements Anna says, “it is not so much for the taste, but it is like a kind of medicine in the morning.”

Lunches are on different schedules as everyone’s duties and timing are different, so a find-it-and-fix-it affair, generally incorporating a previous dinner’s leftovers, is in order. 

Dinners are almost always potatoes (from the farm, of course), a meat (generally lamb from the farm or cod or halibut which Svienn’s half brother catches and shares) and most often a frozen vegetable, cooked, and sometimes served with a loaf of rúgbrauð, the Icelandic rye bread which is crustless and dense, but sweeter than American ryes, and more moist. Contrary to popular belief, they do have vegetables in Iceland– especially tomatoes, English cucumbers, and red bell peppers, which all grow extremely well in the many geo-thermal assisted greenhouses throughout the country. A head of lettuce, however? That is truly only for special occasions. Anna cooks most nights, bless her cotton socks, with Silla pitching in from time to time and I make something once a week as well and there are independent leftover nights as well. 

The other night, we had a very old-meets-new meal. I came in from the sheep house around 7:30 and sitting on the stove was a large vat of hrísgrjónagrautur, the classic Icelandic rice pudding made with rice, milk, salt, sugar and cinnamon, and with a texture somewhat similar to grits. So far, so good. There was a shaker of extra cinnamon set out along the stove, along with milk and raisins suggesting a similar preparation to oatmeal. Alongside the main dish, however, were two ingredients I was unsure how to incorporate. There on the counter were two large logs of sausage, each shaped more like a child’s football than the long cylinders I would typically associate with a sausage–one burnt mahogany colored and made of sheep blood, and the other one a grayish shade made from sheep liver. I watched Anna, Sveinn and Silla ladle a large scoop of hrísgrjónagrautur into their bowls, cut a thick disk from each sausage mound to top it, then grab a piece of cheese pizza from the Akureyri pizza parlor which Silla had brought on her way home from track practice, and head to the dining room. German Saskia and I followed suit. The family gamely started speaking in happy Icelandic (meals are usually a mix of languages), nonchalantly dicing their sausage pucks into bite sized pieces and pouring additional milk on top before adding another dash of cinnamon and then stirring it all together.  “Mmmmm!” said Silla, clearly lost in the revelry of sensory memory. “It tastes like childhood!” 

I’m so glad I went through my militant vegetarian stage of life from ages 7-25. Youth is a good time to be strident about one’s causes. And equally, I am grateful that my restrictive dietary reigns first loosened (Salmon, being the weed of the meat world, a total gateway…) before slackening totally and allowing me to be a more flexible and appreciative guest wherever life takes me. 18-year-old me would have never even tried the blood sausage-as-cereal-topping combination, and thus would never have discovered the somewhat anticlimactic fact that it didn’t even really have that much flavor. I associate “sausage” in my mind with the cayenne pepper laced patties of my paternal grandmother’s recipe, raised on a cattle ranch in Arizona. Or the “Louisiana hots” from my maternal grandmother, with their mix of beef/pork/crawfish/ squirrel/gator whatever used to be alive and was currently dead and near the stove at the time of preparation, as long as it’s hot. But Icelandic sausage turned out to be more a texture than a flavor–mildly chewy, not chalky or juicy, just… food. I said, complimentary, that no doubt it made for an incredibly protein-rich addition to the meal, and told them that when people are anemic in the United States, they sometimes get blood infusions, but if they ate this, it might be unnecessary. The family nodded and smiled. 

Saskia was completely underwhelmed, and for better or worse, did not put her acting skills to use to try to fake enjoyment. With a wrinkled up nose and embarrassed tone, she asked if she had to finish it, and Anna assured her that of course, no, Pilla the dog will enjoy it. Nothing goes to waste. We love everything. 

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In returning to Iceland, there should, of course, be a waterfall of simple vocabulary words that are ringing familiar. My daily 30 minute Pimslur lessons are helpful in ringing bells that should not be so rusty, but there are other small subtleties of the Icelandic language, upon re-entry, that have delighted me anew even more. One is the slight intake of breath they do as a sign of agreement. To an American ear, it sounds like a gasp, typical when someone is surprised or astonished. Linguists call it a “pulmonic ingressive” (inhaled breath) and apparently it is common also in Faroese, and, (says the internet) “ja” for yes is pronounced with an inhaled breath in other Scandinavian languages like Norwegian and Danish. 

I also really enjoy learning the filler words in other languages. The Icelandic equivalent of “like/um/so” is hérna (pronounced “hetna”) and used, like English fillers, in moments of hesitation, or to connect sentences without any real meaning. Literally though it means here, to be here and one hears it 100s of times a day when in the flow of overheard Icelandic. 

Taken together, I love to think about these two linguistic elements in literal translation. Já, já, (gasp) I am astonished at our agreement. I am astonished anytime two individuals come together and with their two distinct eyes, brains, and souls, interpret the world as one. 

And hérna– here, here, to be here, as a subliminal mantra throughout the day. The Buddha himself should be so lucky to speak and think, every day, in Icelandic.