SEPTEMBER 10, 2026 – I’m an optimist. And perhaps an unrealistic one: I keep hoping that by hanging out with real writers, I stand a better chance of becoming one myself. Okay, okay—in part I jest: My writing buddy, Erik Hansen, would be my friend even if he weren’t one of the finest writers I’ve ever encountered[1]. Our usual place of conversation is the Finnish Bistro in St. Anthony Park. It’s an appropriate establishment, given our Scandinavian backgrounds, especially when considering Finland’s historic and cultural Swedish flavor. But in scheduling yesterday’s repast, Erik suggested frukost[2] at the Danish American Center on West River Road just beyond the Lake Street Bridge in Minneapolis.
I was all in. Though during my law school days I ran past “DANEBO,” as it was called back then, every single day, I never set foot inside. “Danebo” in Danish, I assumed, meant “Danish Old Folks Home,” which, was a fair interpretation of two inseparable icons: the old Georgian style structure-with-Danish-flag-flapping prominently-in-front-of-the-place. Yesterday I learned that my impression had been accurate. I also learned about the demise of the “old folks home” and transformation of the place into a Danish cultural center.
Apparently, after a long run the nursing home died out, so to speak, except for one lone resident and one full-time staff member—the cook, who doubled as the resident’s caretaker. But then one day the (very elderly) resident came down to “morgenmad” (the Danish word for breakfast) . . . stark raving “mad” (as in English) and not wearing a stitch of clothing. The cook had no recipe for containment, so “DANEBO” met its end.
But the Danes are a plucky group—just examine their record of courage during the Nazi occupation during World War II as they put their own lives on the line to help 7,000 Danish Jews escape to neutral Sweden; or their prior record of survival during prior devastation, though oppressive conditions led to many Danes calling it quits—and mass migration to America in the late 19th century, many of them landing in Minnesota and other farm states of the Upper Midwest. In any event, Erik’s sister, Sonja, a retired Minneapolis educator, whom I met yesterday, was among the group that turned “DANEBO” into a veritable phoenix. They organized, raised funds, and hired an architect (a fellow Dane) to transform the building into a showcase cultural facility.
Upon entering the modern but architecturally complementary atrium, I was immediately struck by the quintessential Scandinavian design featuring light, lightness, warmth and simplicity. Nothing could make it more welcoming. Erik greeted me, and the second person to shake my hand was another gentleman bearing the same name. Being an Eric with a “c” and having the last name of “Nilsson” instead of “Nielsen,” I felt a bit like an interloper; an invader from times past, but being a friendly and accepting lot, the Danes showed no ill-will toward the descendant of the long-time enemies of their ancestors. (For centuries, Danes and Swedes fought bloody wars against each other.) And I was able to lay aside what the Danish King Valdemar IV Atterdag had done to the Swedes of Visby[3]. Let by-gones be by-gones.
Erik proceeded to lead me on a tour of the center, and every room, every hallway, every nook, every cranny was a mirror of Danish grace, taste, and elegant simplicity. Overarching things-Danish is a confident modesty; no need to fly the flag in your face; no need to tout the martial legends of yore; no need to say, “We’re great—and you’re not so great [or worse]!”
He showed me into one fresh space after another, each comfortably appointed; down hallways lined with modest-size but exceptional paintings; a small “bibliotek” or library; meeting spaces; performance area; and one of the visitor overnight rooms for rent—by Danish guests or students—with such instant appeal it could’ve been a showcase inside the studio of a smart, thoughtful, practical and affordable architect.
At the end of one hall, Erik led me into the office where I was introduced to one Susan Jacobsen, the corporate secretary—and originally from Danebod, the Danish community in Tyler, Minnesota, Erik and Sonja’s hometown. After a very brief chat with Susan, Erik and I continued back down the hallway. Erik noted offhandedly that Susan had been on the staff of the Minneapolis Institute of Art. Just as offhandedly, I mentioned that my mother had been a docent at “MIA,” whereupon, Erik wondered aloud whether Susan might have known my mother.
“Let’s ask,” he said.
“What was your mother’s name?” asked Susan.
“Orrell Nilsson.”
“Orrell Nilsson!” She exclaimed with Danish enthusiasm. “Why of course! Everyone knew Orrell. She was our favorite docent. She was the most amazing person!”[4]
After this “small world” encounter, nearly everyone (as far as I could tell) present on the premises—approximately 30 people—congregated in the dining room for . . . frukost. In the corner a cellist and guitar player—both members of the center—provided background music. Before the delectable lunch was served, we sang a couple of traditional Danish songs—a cappella—from the songbooks placed at the end of each table. We—or rather, the company in which I found myself—sang first in English, then in Danish. When I complimented Sonja on her Danish, she explained that having grown up in Tyler, Danish was her first language (and Erik’s too).
If I found myself in the company of people who looked and sounded “just like” Danes of København (Copenhagen), Hirtshals, Herning, Aalborg, Aarhus or the farms of Jutland, I was also in the presence of the “old” Minnesota—descendants of immigrants of a prior era. Just as ASI (American Swedish Institute) is doing a few miles away—amidst the latest immigrant groups from East Africa—the Danish American Center welcomes anyone curious about their many offerings, traditional and contemporary. Membership is wide open and for the modest annual fee of $35.
The woman in charge of the frukost program was full of humor, energy and good cheer. She’d long filled the role, as revealed by her invitation . . . er, plea . . . to be succeeded. Clearly, though, her term of service was in perpetuum, which in non-profit organizations, is the standard for competent volunteers. She received no apparent sympathy when she encountered difficulty reading her notes and complained out loud about her eyesight. As long as she could talk, she’d have the job.
At precisely 12:15, as advertised, two other volunteers brought out the frukost plates. They were straight out of the “Food” section of a “Visit Denmark!” brochure of old—shrimp and a quarter hard-boiled egg over spinach leaves, the protein separated by an artfully twisted slice of lemon garnished with a sprig of dill; a slice of Danish ham bearing a dollop of baby pea-in-mayo and resting on a bed of soft cheese atop a very thin piece of wholesome grainy bread; an additional plain slice of dark bread, lightly buttered; two small tomato quarters; a wedge of brie-like Danish cheese aboard a water cracker; and what no true Scandinavian can do without—a serving of “sill” (Swedish)/ “sild” (Danish/Norwegian)—with two small slices of red onion for color.[5]
Every morsel on the plate was delectable. By American standards, the plate seemed to offer samplings, not a full “lunch.” But in fact, the portions were calibrated to perfection: it was the quality of the food, not inadequate quantity, that sustained my continuing membership in the “clean plate society.” In celebration of a member’s birthday, we (they) sang another song from the Danish songbook, and were served a piece of Danish birthday cake.
With that my magical visit at the Danish American Center drew to a close, and we stepped out into the glorious day outside. I was about to say “hej hej” (“hejdå” in Swedish; “good-bye” in English) to Erik and Sonja, when Erik told me to wait a minute; he had something for me back in his car.
A minute later he handed me an issue of The Bridge, the Journal of the Danish American Heritage Society. The scholarly journal (Vol. 34, Number 1, 2011, p. 76) contained an article that Erik had written several years ago about his legendary, story-telling grandfather: Christian Hansen Eventymanden – The Fairy Tale Man and the Jutland Storyteller Tradition. Erik is currently working on an autobiographical novel, Let Go the Heart, which weaves his grandfather’s immigrant story (and stories) into his own “emigrant” story (and stories). Having read what Erik has written thus far, I can attest that it is a fascinating study of introspection, as well as a broader insightful examination of the human condition—and beautifully executed work of literature.
The journal issue with Erik’s article was a perfect capstone to frukost . . . and reward for hanging out with a real writer. Life is as rich as you let it be.
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
[1] Here I need to issue a “shout out” for my readers who are writers of the very highest caliber—you know who you are. Frankly, I’m as humbled as I am delighted by your correspondence—and deeply grateful for it too.
[2] Fun fact: In Swedish, “frukost” means breakfast, but in Danish, it means lunch. I can’t resist joking, that “Swedes have always been ahead of the Danes—by a few hours, at least.”
[3] A long story, but in 1361 after bringing the Hanseatic town of Visby (on the island of Gotland in the Baltic) to its knees, he agreed not to torch the place if the citizens paid a handsome ransom. This piece of history was etched into my memory at a very young age—by way of the enormous stain glass window on the south wall of the landing at the American Swedish Institute, which our family visited with some regularity. The magnificent window featured the 1882 painting by Swedish artist, Carl Gustaf Hellqvist depicting the citizens of Visby carrying their precious possessions to the city square and placing the riches at the feet of the triumphant Danish monarch.
[4] The little boy voice inside me said (to me), “Are we talking about the same person?” But I quickly came to my senses. Later in life I realized the degree to which I’d sold my mother short—mostly by the simple fact that she was my parent, who made me go to bed when it was still light out, dragged me to church, dragged me to choir practice, dragged me to violin lessons (then, to add insult to injury, made me practice (every day!)), dragged me kicking and screaming to Pee Wee baseball (which I hated until about 10 minutes after she dropped me off, then couldn’t get enough of baseball!), made me wear snow boots to school, asked me hard questions, dodged my hard questions by asking harder questions, but also the one who gave my sisters and me BubbleUp when we had the stomach flu and didn’t get mad when she found out I’d diluted the grape juice in the pitcher one day after gulping down more than my fair share. And here was a person who knew Mother and was impressed by her. It was a reminder of Mother’s remarkable brain, talents, interests, and above all, her love of humanity.
[5] In another “small world” element of my visit at the center, the woman sitting next to Sonja, who was sitting directly across from me, was someone I know from Grindstone Lake. Her late husband was 100% Danish and a member of the center; she has no Danish ancestry but maintains her ties to the institution. Because she isn’t Danish, she asked if anyone wanted her sill/sild. I certainly would have welcomed it onto my plate, but I hesitated. Erik, sitting next to me and across from the woman, said politely that he would take the sild if she didn’t want it.
