Simple geography aside, Iceland remains a country apart from the rest of Scandinavia. Its notoriously cantankerous climate and its shortage of arable land have of necessity fostered an inventive spirit in its growers and cooks, one that makes the most of and fiercely protects what this rugged land provides.
And Iceland provides what few other countries can—an astoundingly pristine environment. Its rivers and streams are still free of effluents and other pollutants, and the island’s many geothermal springs supply a powerful and clean source of energy. Few bugs can survive the cold climate, so pesticide use is minimal. Its very isolation means protection from animal diseases like foot-and-mouth and mad cow. Government regulations concerning meat production are very strict—the use of hormones or feed made from animal products is prohibited, although some of the grain used in animal feed has been treated with pesticides. And the puffins and guillemots and cormorants Icelanders customarily eat, birds who feed on small fish, give a whole new meaning to “free range.” (The guillemot’s eggs, each about five inches long and gorgeously speckled in black on a teal or cream-colored shell, are often found on breakfast tables here.)
Public awareness of the country’s pure ecosystem is on the rise, and is now used as a tool for promoting Icelandic foods on the world market. Although the country’s highland-grazed lamb does not yet have dénomination d’origine contrôlée certification, the government is implementing an ecological tracking system to follow lambs from birth to consumer. Throughout the country, native plants and animals are being used innovatively, even as the old methods are preserved.
Ironically, the fact that Icelandic agriculture is so clean has thwarted the nascent organic movement, which finds its message of absolute purity to be a hard sell. But it’s getting easier, as Icelanders gain experience with food-borne illnesses. Last year, for example, due to an increase in commercial chicken and pork production, there was also a marked increase in outbreaks of salmonella.
The environment has always been pure, but it has taken many hundreds of years to develop a truly characteristic Icelandic cuisine. Agricultural conditions were formidable when Norse settlers first arrived on the island, in the late ninth century. They practiced the same slash-and-burn farming they had used in Norway. Except in Iceland the trees didn’t grow back, and without trees to shed leaves or drop their trunks to decompose, soil can’t be coaxed to replenish itself in fewer than 10,000 years.
Yet the settlers persisted with agriculture, turning from garden crops to livestock, and the winter grazing of sheep and horses further damaged the fragile soil. The ocean that surrounded them teemed with edible life, but Icelanders didn’t look to the sea, as did the rest of Scandinavia. Seafood, particularly bottom-feeders like shrimp, were thought to be strange and unwholesome. Instead, Icelanders prized freshwater fish like salmon and trout.
Added to that is Iceland’s volcanic soil, in which what little vegetation there is grows slowly. Apart from dulse (a type of seaweed), the main wild edibles are arctic thyme, lichen (Iceland moss), wild sorrel, and angelica. Unlike the rest of Scandinavia, Iceland has only three native berry varieties: bearberries, bog bilberries, and crowberries, which are made into jam. But you can’t count on spreading that jam on bread. Grain crops, other than barley and rye, aren’t easily supported in this soil either. Traditional agriculture relied on turnips and kale; not even carrots were cultivated until relatively recently. Only through new technology has hothouse gardening enabled Iceland to produce domestic peppers, lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, and strawberries.
Gradually, the watchwords of Icelandic food have evolved from marginality and survival to sustainability. Traditional Icelandic foodways have been enlivened by the growers and cooks who have the passion to work with the difficult climate and use the natural energy that the earth provides. Örn Jónsson, professor of innovation at the University of Iceland and my host, introduced me to Ingolfur Gudnason, who has for 14 years been raising organic hothouse herbs and salad greens and slowly, very slowly, introducing them to the Icelandic market (it took nearly 7 years before Reykjavík supermarkets would agree to stock his produce). Gudnason grows arugula, mizuna, basil, tarragon, cilantro, sage—in all, 35 varieties. Along with his herbs he supplies his customers with printed recipe cards containing information about their medicinal uses and about organic farming. By tapping into the geothermal springs he can heat his greenhouses inexpensively, yet he still has a huge electricity bill for the grow lights he needs during the long winter. Gudnason also heats his fields, to get a jump start on nature. Using heat pipes he can plant cabbages two weeks earlier than most other growers here—and with such a brief growing season, farmers need to take advantage of each and every day they can.
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