My name is Courtney.
I assume that most people believe Minnesota is a state populated by nothing but giant Scandinavian-Lutheran people whose last name is Gunderson that only eat meat-filled carbo-loaded casserole dishes and speak with an accent like William H. Macy in Fargo. Well, you wouldn’t be incorrect in that assumption. I mean, that is probably a solid 60% of the population. Essentially, the way I picture the white folk invading Minnesota it probably went something like this:
About 200 years ago Hans and Olga Gunderson immigrated from Sweden or Norway (whichever), they decided it was cold and barren enough to pass for whatever ice cap they had crawled out from under, and promptly shat out 214 kids. And that is (probably) how Minnesota came to be. For the record, the Gunderson clan is still thriving despite 200 years of obvious inbreeding.
The story I’m about to tell certainly won’t do anything to dispel those stereotypes, but whatever, the truth hurts. A few weeks back I joined a few of my friends at a blue collar bar* in Northeast Minneapolis for a couple of beers and hopefully no interaction with strangers. Upon arrival we were informed that the meat raffle would be starting in 20 minutes, and we should buy our tickets now. What is a meat raffle you ask? It can’t possibly be what it sounds like, right? A raffle where you win meat? Why would that happen? I don’t know, but it certainly does, and it only occurred to me recently that this isn’t a thing outside of Minnesota and Wisconsin. Anyway, this is how it works:
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A guy, who is mostly likely named Mark Gunderson, sets up a giant card table and then places dozens of cuts of raw meat on said table. Where does the meat come from? I don’t really know. Wherever meat comes from, I guess.
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A woman, whose name is Marge Gunderson, then comes around and sells raffle tickets for $1.
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A woman, probably named Patti Gunderson, then calls out ticket numbers.
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A winner, who is certainly a first or second cousin of Patti named Lars or Bjorn Gunderson, then goes up to the table where he picks out a cut of meat, asks cousin Patti if it is cold enough for her (Minnesotan for “How’s the weather?”), and then returns to his seat where the raw, unrefrigerated hunk of meat begins to spoil while Uncle Bob Gunderson fetches Lars/Bjorn another PBR which will be consumed unironically. The end.
I have participated in two meat raffles in my entire life. The second time I played I won a pork shoulder thing of some sort, which I left in the backseat of my car until it spoiled so badly I had to get rid of the car. So, if any of you come to Minneapolis, let me know. We’ll make sure you win some meat from the local tavern before you leave. Uff da.
*The bar is half filled with people who look like the cast of “Roseanne,” and half filled with idiots with $200K liberal arts degrees, who also look like the cast of Roseane, but who are just trying to be super cool by hanging out at a meat raffle.
