Bismarck Food Culture

These hand-rolled dumplings, the size of ping-pong balls, swim in chicken broth with potatoes and celery that's been simmered until it surrenders completely. The dumplings have the density of a good matzo ball, and you'll find them at Kroll's Diner where they arrive in bowls large enough to use as helmets.

German-Russian grandmothers have been making this for 150 years, and it still tastes like winter survival.

Paper-thin Norwegian potato flatbread, rolled around butter and sugar until it crackles. At the Scandinavian Heritage Association's annual Norsk Høstfest, elderly women roll it out on floured boards while telling you about their great-grandmother's recipe. The texture is somewhere between a crepe and a tortilla. But the taste is pure nostalgia.

Dark purple and tart enough to make your tongue curl, this gets drizzled over pancakes at The Shack on Fridays, when they make them as big as the plate.

The berries grow wild along the Missouri's banks; locals pick them in August and spend September boiling them down with more sugar than seems reasonable.

The state fish appears everywhere from the hospital cafeteria to the Country Club's white-tablecloth dining room. At The Walrus, it arrives pan-fried in butter until the edges lace themselves golden, served with wild rice that still has some bite. The fish flakes into thick white pieces that taste like the river itself - clean, cold, slightly mineral.

Not casserole. Hotdish. Ground beef, tater tots, cream of mushroom soup from a can. At family reunions, it appears in 9x13 pans with minor variations (some add green beans, others corn). The tots on top get crispy while everything underneath turns into an unified mass of comfort.

German coffee cake, dense and sweet, filled with custard and topped with seasonal fruit. At Bread Poets on 3rd Street, they make it with rhubarb in May and chokecherries in August. The crust cracks slightly when you bite it, revealing lemon-scented custard that runs down your chin.

cultivated in Minnesota. But North Dakotans have claimed it. Thick, creamy, loaded with chicken and carrots cut into perfect quarter-inch dice. At the cafeteria in the State Capitol, legislators slurp it between committee meetings, and it's consistently better than it needs to be.

Leaner than beef, with a mineral depth that tastes like the prairie itself. At JL Beers downtown, they grind it fresh daily and serve it on a brioche bun that's slightly sweet against the bison's earthy notes. The patty comes medium-rare whether you order it that way or not - the kitchen knows better.

The lazy baker's version of kuchen, pressed into a sheet pan and cut into squares. Every church basement has competing recipes. The Lutherans add almond extract, the Catholics use more butter. At the annual craft fair, you can buy them from women whose recipe cards are stained with fifty years of use.

Only appears at Christmas. The lutefisk (dried cod reconstituted in lye) has a gelatinous texture that divides families. It tastes like salt and fish and tradition, served with melted butter and a prayer. At Sons of Norway lodge, they make it once a year, and even Norwegians admit it's an acquired taste.