Woven into a northland year are food rituals that sustain us and connect us to our region, our climate, and one another. Meat raffles. Fish frys. Pizza farms. Booya. As surely as winter changes to spring to summer to autumn in Minnesota, highly anticipated seasonal events bring folks together for fortifying fare and good company. Still other dishes appearing on the quintessential northland table know no season: Tater Tot Hotdish, Jell-O Salad, SPAM Lefse Pizza, Apple Cider Muffins. Minnesotans make the most of the changing calendar by ice fishing on lakes big and small, foraging for ramps and tapping trees for maple syrup, marveling at farmers markets’ late-summer bounty, and picking apples and pumpkins in the deliciously crisp fall air. In Land of 10,000 Plates , Patrice M. Johnson highlights food rituals from her own life and explores Minnesota fare far and wide, experiencing the festivals, speaking with revelers, and celebrating the foodways that define the northland. Inventive recipes that mark the seasons$mdash; like Blåbärsoppa (Bilberry soup), Caraway Rye Pretzels, Savory Pudding with Roasted Cherry Tomatoes and Radish, and Coconut Ginger Pumpkin Pie—accompany stories about people who thrive in the North. Patrice M. Johnson , a cultural communicator specializing in Nordic foodways, is the author of Jul: Swedish American Holiday Traditions . She teaches Nordic food classes and presents interactive cooking demonstrations at sites throughout the Twin Cities and beyond. Diary of a Minnesota Congressional Delegation Hotdish Competition Judge It was as hot as August in DC, but back in Minnesota folks were bracing for a blizzard. We were an assortment of travelers standing in what we hoped was the Upper Level Door 3 of the Washington National Airport, where our Lyft, shuttles, and Uber apps directed us to meet them to save us from the sweaty April heat and take us to our hotels and Airbnbs. 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. Contrar