Iceland review - 2016, Qupperneq 91

ICELAND REVIEW 89
T R A D I T I O N
or 25,” says Anna Kristín. Everyone had
to help out. “To begin with, us kids sewed
the stomachs,” remembers Gunna. “Also
the boys?” I ask. “Also the boys…” mocks
my dad, currently peeling the membrane
from the liver, kidneys and diaphragms,
and cutting fat from the hearts. “Of
course! I sewed stomachs.” This was a
lot of work. Gunna sighs, “I remember
thinking ‘no… there can’t still be more
stomachs to sew!’” This was usually done
the day prior and the slátur-making took
two whole days. “How often did you eat
it?” I ask. “At least once a week,” responds
Anna Kristín.
Halla’s kids appear in the garage.
“What’s that?” asks six-year-old Orri.
Gunna shows him what she’s sewing.
“That’s the stomach of the lamb. And
if we run out, we might have to use
yours.” Orri looks alarmed for a second,
then laughs at his grandmother’s joke.
At eight, his sister Ísold is interested in
giving sewing a try. Gunna shows her
the technique. My son Páll Ernir, almost
three, wants to participate, too. Proudly
wearing his little apron, he takes a seat
in my lap and grabs a sheep stomach.
He’s not that keen on sewing, though.
“I’m going to squeeze it,” he says. It feels
funny in his hands.
TIME FOR DINNER
My dad has moved on to boiling the
sheep heads for making sviðasulta, or
head cheese, and Anna Kristín is grind-
ing the offal for the liver sausage. Every
now and then, she adds a piece of onion.
“This was mom’s invention. She was
always coming up with ways for making
it tastier.”
Gunna’s youngest, Daníel, and his girl-
friend Andrea, who are in their early
twenties, want to help out. Slátur-making
is new to both of them. Andrea takes a
seat at the sewing table and Daníel helps
Anna Kristín mix the ground offal with
chopped-up fat, oatmeal, rye and milk,
seasoning it with salt and stock cubes.
Stirring with her hand, she tastes the raw
mixture to make sure it’s right before
stuffing the sheep stomachs, showing her
nephew the ropes. “You have to put your
whole hand through the opening.”
Next up is the blood pudding: blood,
water, rye, oatmeal, flour, salt and fat—
the fat is important. My dad recounts
the time he introduced my mother—a
Norwegian—to slátur-making. She was
shocked at the amount of fat that went
into the batter. “She went berserk every
time I tried to add some. The slátur
ended up rock-hard. Not even the dog
would touch it.” Up to her elbows in the
crimson batter, Anna Kristín teases Ísold.
“Do you want a taste?” Turning up her
nose, Ísold passes.
Gunna hurriedly sews four blood pud-
dings shut so that they can be boiled
with the liver sausages in time for dinner.
Gathered around the table, the family
looks proud of the day’s work, resulting
in approximately 60 pieces of slátur. And
it’s absolutely delicious. u
Icelandic sheep roam free in highland pastures in the summer and are rounded-up
in time for the slaughter season in the autumn.
I remember thinking ‘no…
there can’t still be more
stomachs to sew!’