Memories of making kraut with my Dad, growing up in Fayetteville, New York, go back as far as I can remember.  My sister and I would help him in his workshop, which was located in the unfinished portion of our basement. In this magical and mysterious spot, lay a treasure trove of wonders: my father’s darkroom, the oak barrel where he made wine, his myriad tools, and all the accoutrement necessary to make pickles and sauerkraut, the way his parents made it in the “old world,” without heat and without vinegar.

We would ball our fat little hands into fists and pound down the grated cabbage into an earthenware crock to release the juices. My eyes would survey the old shelves lining the walls, where Mason jars of green and gold gems stood like a line of soldiers, as they waited for their fermentation period to end.

When they were ready, my father would fetch a jar and, with some effort, unscrew the lid. The pickles and kraut would bubble and hiss before we scooped them out to enjoy with just about any meal my mother prepared. From my father’s perspective pickles and kraut paired with everything!

Dad also delighted in sharing his homemade delicacies. Jars upon jars found their way to the homes of relative and friends. Pickles and kraut were his “signature dishes.” Plus, my father loved to barter. I recall many times when he would use his pickled goods as currency to get a little of this and a little of that.

Even after he suffered a stroke, some 40 years ago, my father continued making pickles and kraut. When we moved him from Florida out to Seattle, and into an assisted living facility, he kept right on making them. In fact, Dave, one of the cooks even scored a few cabbages and spent a couple hours with my father, grating the cabbage and putting it into jars.

Tasting Dad’s wares was also a test of friendship. If you liked his pickles and kraut, he liked you. I think it was all of five minutes into their first meeting, that my father offered Big Papa a sampling of his goodies. I held my breath, hoping it was a “good batch.” Thankfully, it was.

There are a lot of things I will miss about my father. Many of my greatest passions in life come from him: gardening, photography, love of birds and nature. I will most certainly miss his pickles and kraut. Big Papa and I make them, but somehow, ours never seem quite as good as those my Dad made.

Abe’s Kraut

To make sauerkraut at home, you will need:

• large crock, glass, enamel or food-safe container


• Five pounds of firm, fresh green cabbage (about 2 heads)


• Food processor, madoline or cabbage shredder


• kosher salt


• a plate or something to cover kraut in crock/container


• something heavy to weight down the plate


• wooden spoon (do not use aluminum utensils in kraut making!)

Here’s how:

Shred five pounds of firm, fresh green cabbage (about two heads) in a food processor (you can also use a mandolin and I used the large cabbage grater that my Dad made). It will need to be done in batches. Dump each batch into a large bowl (or a crock if this is what you will ultimately use to ferment the cabbage) as you go, sprinkling with a total of three generous tablespoons of kosher salt, and mix it all together well. You can use a little more or a little less cabbage; just be sure to use a scant two teaspoons of kosher salt per pound of cabbage.

Pack the cabbage and any juices it has released into a crock a little at a time, pressing the cabbage down tightly with your fist as you go. If you don’t have a crock, you can use a food-safe plastic bucket; just be sure you have at least five inches of clearance above the cabbage to allow for foaming/bubbling during fermentation.

Place a clean plate over the cabbage that fits fairly snugly within the opening of the crock or bucket. Place a clean container of water (a large Mason jar works well—it should weigh a minimum of five pounds) on the plate to weight down the cabbage, and throw a clean towel over the top of the crock to keep out any dust.

Check back frequently during the first day to be sure the cabbage is releasing enough juices (the salt will pull water from the cabbage to create brine). Press on the plate/weight if necessary, and/or add more weight if the liquid doesn’t start to cover the top of the cabbage. After about six to eight hours, there should be at least an inch of juice/brine above the plate. If there isn’t, you can top off your cabbage with cooled brine composed of one and a half tablespoons of kosher salt per quart of water.

Store the crock in a spot with a temperature around 70 degrees Fahrenheit—not colder than 65 degrees or hotter than 75 degrees (a basement is ideal). Check it every few days, skimming any scum off the top. The fermentation will cause natural bubbles and foam to form and that’s okay. Rinse the plate and weight off well each time before putting them back. Keep an eye on the brine level; you may have to add more if it’s evaporating. Keep a good inch of brine above the plate as the fermentation proceeds…this is important to prevent unwanted bacteria from forming and the sauerkraut from spoiling!

Start tasting the cabbage after about a week, and ferment it to the level of sourness you like, which will take anywhere from one to four weeks. Some people prefer the milder cabbage-y taste of young kraut, while others like a more fermented flavor.

When the cabbage is fermented to your liking, transfer it and its brine to clean jars, again pressing the kraut down tightly in the jar so the juice rises above. Leave about a half inch of head space, and refrigerate. Your sauerkraut should last a few months refrigerated under brine.

Variation: Add a teaspoon or two of caraway seed for a tasty variation on your kraut. My father used to do this on occasion with a batch or two, and I quite liked it.

In memory of my father, Abe: March, 1924-January 22, 2012.

I know you’re up there making kraut like they’ve never tasted before!

Want more old-school flavor? Check out Wanderfood Wednesday.

A couple months ago I was talking with a woman who has helped me through many a cloudy day. I prattled on about my hopes for smoother sailing and brighter days ahead, how I feel envy towards those for whom life seems to come so easy. And this is what she said to me:

There is a certain poignancy to be found in hardship and loss.

Her words ring true. If I allow myself to look more closely at what I think I’ve lost, I can often find so much that I’ve gained,even a bit beauty in the pain. I’ve felt deep happiness on the heels of great sadness and some of my life’s most meaningful discoveries have followed days where I stared straight into the abyss.

Then today, another friend wrote to remind me that in this life we don’t so much get over things as through them. Each experience is woven into the fabric of our lives, more like a tapestry than a scrapbook. Her words are wise.

I met both of these women when I was well into my forties and I am grateful for their presence. I am grateful, too, that I found Big Papa, and grateful that my journey, circuitous and tumultuous though it has been, has led me to people, places and experiences that have enriched my life immeasurably. Yet I acknowledge that without loss or hardship, I might never have sought out Anne, gotten to know Sherri or met Big Papa. Life is ironic.

When we sit back and take stock at the end of the year, when we make our resolutions, the focus is almost always: out with the old, in with the new, goodbye to unpleasant memories from the year that’s passed and hello to the hopes and dreams for the year ahead. Why do we hold tight to the belief that we can will ourselves into a life without imperfection, without hurt, without loss? And why do we want to?

Therein lies the error of our ways, or at least mine. For the past few years, I’ve wished for the same thing: no mishaps, no calamities, no miscommunication, no sickness, no death, no bad news—please let nothing go wrong. And every year, I am sorely disappointed.

That’s why my resolution this year is to take a second look whenever I think the glass is half-full. Just like the sea. When the tide is out, you never know what treasures might still be found in shallow water.

Because I know things will happen to me in 2012 that I’m not going to like. Some days won’t be pretty and I’m guaranteed to experience heartache. Someone I care about might die and chances are, for one reason or another, I’ll be seeing the inside on the emergency room on at least one occasion. I know I  may not find a silver lining in every cloud. But I’d like to see what happens if I try.

So here’s to looking at you, 2011: to all the lessons learned, the hard-won insights, the character lines etched on my face and in my soul. Though I may have dragged myself through some of the past 12 months kicking and screaming, I know I’ve come out on the other side more resilient, with a deeper appreciation for the blessings in my life.

As for 2012? Bring it on, I say. Bring it on!

Take this silver lining
Keep it in your own
Sweet head
And shine it when the night is
Burning red
Shine it in the twilight
Shine it on the cold, cold ground
Shine it till these walls
Come tumbling down

We were born with our eyes wide open
So alive with wild hope now
Can you tell me why
Time after time they drag you down
Down in the darkest deep
Fools and their madness all around
Know that the light don’t sleep

Step into the silence
Take it in your own
Two hands
And sprinkle it like diamonds
All across these lands
Blaze it in the morning
Wear it like an iron skin
Only things worth living for are
Innocence and magic, amen

We were born with our eyes wide open
So alive with wild hope now
Can you tell me why
Time after time they drag you down
Down in the darkest deep
Fools and their madness all around
Know that the light don’t sleep

We were born with our eyes wide open
So alive with wild hope now
Can you tell me why
Time after time they drag you down
Down in the talk so cheap
Fools and their madness all around
Know that the light don’t sleep
Know that the light don’t sleep

Time after time
They drag you down
Down in the darkness deep
Fools in their madness all around
Know that the light don’t sleep
Know that the light don’t sleep

Bonnie Raitt, Silver Lining

The ability to breathe, to walk, to think, to eat, to see, hear and touch is what I am most thankful for this year. I love turkey, the trimmings, and pie. But when it comes right down to it, these truly are the side dishes in life.

This year I count too many loved ones who—in one way or another—face enormous challenges: a sister with cancer, a paralyzed father, a mother-in-law with Alzheimers, a close friend with liver failure, and several friends who have undergone treatment for various cancers. Each has struggled with being able to do some of the things most of us take for granted every day.

So when I sit down for my Thanksgiving meal, I plan to take a moment and breathe deeply, appreciating how it feels when air fills my lungs. I will notice my feet, the way they touch the floor and ground me. Then, as I lift my fork and take a bite, I’ll give silent thanks for being able to feed myself and swallow food, for being well enough to feel hunger and the desire to eat.

As I look around the table at the smiles on the faces of my husband and friends, and listen to the sound of laughter or music playing in the background, I will give thanks for eyes that see and ears that hear. And when I reach out to the person sitting next to me and touch their shoulder, or take their hand, I will notice the warmth between us while I count my blessings for ten fingers that feel.

We, who are fortunate enough to enjoy this holiday, have so much to be thankful for. Our homes, our food, our health, and the loved ones we share our lives with. This year I give thanks for all of this and for the simplest gift life has to offer: breath.