Land of 10,000 Plates: Stories and Recipes from Minnesota

My driver reprimanded me for selecting the Upper Level because he’d circled for a few minutes below, but he was friendly enough as we sped past the National Mall, where ten years earlier I was a grad student and peripheral member of the University of Minnesota ICON Solar House team at the US Department of Energy competition. Twenty little modular homes were set up right on the Mall, and I was our team’s cook. We had two dinner parties in the houses with team members from other houses as guests. It was surreal and amazing, and for a week I felt like I lived right there between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument, which I could see out the kitchen window as I washed up each night. How cool is that? A few years before ICON, I’d marched with my teen daughter for reproductive choice on the same spot. The National Mall represents America’s opportunity as well as responsibility, and for me it is personal.

I returned, again, to embark on a really cool adventure. I was in DC to judge the Minnesota Congressional Delegation Hotdish Competition. It was the ninth annual, having its roots with Senator Al Franken thanks to input from his press secretary, Maggie Rousseau. Maggie continues the tradition, which brings together both sides of the aisle in an increasingly combative political world. Minnesotans show everyone else what it takes to have a meaningful discussion, even if the topic is how best to showcase tater tots; the best conversations often begin in the kitchen.

That night, driving past the glowing monuments, the beauty of the Capitol made me breathless. For a moment I forgot that politics continue to divide us.

In the morning, my nephew Oliver found me, and we took the Metro from Dupont Circle to Dirksen Senate Office Building. Oliver went to college in DC and had acted as Minnesota senator Amy Klobuchar’s intern the year prior. His good company and knowledge of the map made him an excellent companion. As we stood in the security line, a parade of assistants marched behind a man I didn’t recognize. The man held a foil-covered hotdish with the reverence of Rafiki presenting Simba on Pride Rock. The ensemble left the building with much fanfare, and I wondered if they were non-midwesterners attempting to make casserole cook-offs a thing.

We made our way to the hotdish room, where dozens of reporters were already vying to be closest to the display table, jostling cameras of every shape and size and positioning furry microphones. Senator Tina Smith’s press secretary Molly Morrissey greeted us and got me settled on the judge’s side of the large hearing room. I familiarized myself with the judging sheet. Along the left column were boxes for Hotdish 1 through 10, and the top row designated the point scale: up to 10 points for taste, 5 for originality, and 5 for presentation (meaning the inclusion of starch, dairy product, protein, and Minnesota ingredients). A disclaimer on the bottom of the sheet stated that in the event of a tie the master of ceremonies would cast the winning vote. Contrary to public opinion, politicians can be proactive when it comes to making decisions.

We three judges introduced ourselves, and as the room continued to fill with reporters, the Minnesota congressional members and their interns arrived with hotdishes and varied components of flair: a Minnesota-shaped baking dish cradled something covered in foil, hotdish towels and a matching hot pad blinged out a tater tot number, while Representative Angie Craig and her interns added a basketball hoop, foam finger, and cheeseball basketballs to create a hotdish basketball court honoring Minnesota’s WNBA champion Lynx. The packed room filled with conversation, laughter, and delicious smells. I heard a story about Minnesota governor Tim Walz’s reign as hotdish champion: “He won three times, and he and his staff made quite a production. They formed a parade with his trophies and the hotdish.”

We judges sat at a table while, one by one, samples of hotdish were placed before us. We tasted, we assessed, we scored. Finally, we conferred and realized that we agreed on the top three dishes. “If the Lynx hotdish came with the cheeseball garnish it would have been a contender,” I offered. “And if the curry hotdish was a little spicier it would be my winner.” The other two judges nodded, and our tallied sheets were confirmed before the winner was announced.

Across America there was a rise in anti-immigrant sentiment and racist rhetoric, and it was not lost on me that our three favorite hotdishes represented the flavors of new immigrants: Representative Betty McCollum’s Hotdish A-Hmong Friends, Representative Ilhan Omar’s Little Moga-hot-dishu, and Representative Dean Phillips’s From Monrovia with Love: Liberian Inspired Hotdish. Diversity doesn’t only make us stronger; diversity also gives us amazing flavors. I was reminded of a Minnesota State Fair a few years earlier when I met chef Yia Vang, who introduced me to Hmong hotdish. His tater tot creation tells his story of food, place, and belonging.

You learn a lot about a person when you eat their hotdish. To sit down together at the table has always symbolized an understanding and even a certain intimacy. The food we serve represents our culture, values, likes, and dislikes―and our history. That means that I appreciate your tuna noodle regardless of whether your peas are canned or frozen (but if you really want to get my admiration, you’d better top it with a thick layer of potato chips before baking). The heart of hotdish is its humble wisdom. Hotdish is not grandiose. It is a good Minnesotan who refrains from discussing their disappointment in your voting record before you’ve finished dessert.

Minnesota is not a melting pot. We are a hotdish.