Most people who collect recipes have a particular goal in mind--namely, cooking. Not me; I’m what you might call a purist. I collect recipes just for the vicarious pleasure of following along--imagining a house filled with savory deliciousness.  If the recipe has pictures, so much the better.

I don’t carry the cooking gene--the baking, boiling, broiling, frying and grilling gene--just the reading gene.

Apparently the cooking gene skips a generation, because my mother was a master chef.  And I have some of my mom’s recipes, most of which came from the old country, some recorded in an ancient Kokebok.

Norway may not be the first place that springs to mind when you think of gastronomical delights. The blame for this probably rests on Lutefisk, a stinky and fishy article whose reputation has reached near mythological proportions. Let me assure you, I know not one Norwegian who has ever eaten Lutefisk, or at least lived to tell the tale. As for those who perpetuate the myth that Scandinavian cooking is nothing but dehydrated fish, I’d like to slap them around with a wet cod.

Take Christmas time--that’s when we immigrants from north of the northern hemisphere and first-generations thereof, really shine, with coffee cakes, cookies, cheese, duck, wild mushrooms, root vegetables and a cozy house heated to near sauna levels.

But the real star of the Norwegian-style Christmas Eve table is Ribbe.

Ribbe is a 4 or 5 pound plump pork rib roast wrapped in rind–and rind is a polite word for the the roast’s succulent, soon-to-be toasted layer of fat. If you believe that bacon stands supreme at the top of the food pyramid, Ribbe is bacon multiplied by 1,000 delights. It can go toe-to-toe with any other ethnic Christmas food tradition, even Beef Wellington, real country ham, gumbo and tamales.

A Ribbe recipe isn’t complicated, but timing and quality is everything. (Hint: You won’t find the proper roast sweating it out in a shrink-wrapped package at Ralphs.) You need a pork loin rib roast cut by a professional butcher, with just the right amount of fat on top. In Seattle, they’ll know what you’re after.  In Southern California, probably Whole Foods or Bristol Farms could fix you up.

The closest I could come to my mom’s recipe is the one by Andreas Viestad, a Norwegian master chef in his own right. (Yes, he’s hoisting a giant trout on the cover of the cookbook, but judging from his expression,  I think the photographer just  tossed him a fish and said, “Here, hold this, I’ll be right back.”)

Though I can’t prepare a proper Ribbe myself, I do know it’s all in the wrist. You must score the rind to geometric precision. After a long, slow roasting, broil this beauty to a point where the crackling actually makes the sound of snap, crackle and pop, then separates into delicious squares of toasted cholesterol cautions. One additional secret from my mom, lay a few slices of lemon on top.

Do I have a picture of the finished product? No, but this is where you come in; I’m hoping you’re now tempted to try your hand at Ribbe. I’ll come over for the taste test.  But if you decide Ribbe has no place on your holiday menu, I’m also available for photo ops involving South American, African American, British, Asian, and Italian delicacies.  I’m an equal opportunity gourmet, and appreciate anyone's cooking except my own.

Post photos of your favorite holiday food here!