Sauerkraut
Copyright 2003 by Suzy Wurtz
The quart jar of sauerkraut sits next to
the microwave on the counter in
our pantry. It’s been there a few years. Previously, this particular
sauerkraut was hidden away in the cupboard, but discussion about the jar brought
it to its current position. We see it every day, the dusty, home-canned jar of
sauerkraut that has a fading date on it: 10/96.
“Honey, we should throw it out,” I say a few times a year. “I
don’t want to take any chances with food that’s old.”
My husband usually says something like, “Oh, it may still be
good,” or “Not yet.” The next part of the ritual is that we solicit advice
from those who know more about canning. Many say it would be safe to eat.
Others say that if the food has “gone bad,” we’ll know by the smell when we open
it. Some advise us to toss it out.
But sometimes my husband doesn’t even answer out loud when I
suggest we dispose of the sauerkraut. He thinks back silently to October in
1996 when he grated that sauerkraut out at the family farm north of town. Our
relative on the farm, Ellen, regaled us and other family members with stories of
sauerkraut-making parties over the decades. We referred to Ellen as my husband’s
“aunt” because she was of that generation. Technically she was the wife of my
father-in-law’s first cousin. Aunt is easier, right? Her seven children had
moved away from the farm while we city relatives moved out to the rural town.
She treated us as her own. Our small child asked if Ellen could be one of her
grandmothers. Of course, we said yes.
Ellen was a whirlwind of woman, always busy with projects.
That October night’s project was sauerkraut. Ellen made the potentially dreary
task into a great event. The men grated cabbage, along with a few of their
knuckles, while I was in charge of the salt. We laughed, ate snacks, drank
beer, and chatted in the warm kitchen. Our daughter enjoyed being with her
“surrogate grandma.” It was the homey farm experience that we former city
dwellers relished---a fall evening, spent with family and friends while
preserving food for the winter.
In December, Ellen dropped by with a Christmas candle and a
few jars of “our” sauerkraut. Never one to sit still, she followed me out to
the kitchen and started washing my dishes while I was making her a cup of tea.
When I protested, she laughed at me and exclaimed, “Well I can’t just stand here
and watch you without doing something!”
Two weeks later, as we attended a wedding in New Orleans, we
received the phone call about Ellen’s heart attack and untimely death shortly
after Christmas. As one of the eulogists at Ellen’s funeral, my husband fondly
remembered, among other things, that she brought her homemade sauerkraut to our
town’s summer festival for the bratwurst concession. Nobody had asked her to do
it, but she’d noticed the year before that there wasn’t any.
Losing someone is painful on any day of the year. But when
it happens at holiday time, the yearly reminder is keen. It stares at you from
Christmas candles and trees and lights and decorations.
And from a jar of sauerkraut next to the microwave.
Whatever holidays you celebrate in the next few weeks, take a
moment to remember those who are no longer with you. But please, don’t remember
with sadness. Remember the laughter and the fun. Remember the love, the
gatherings, and the good stories. While you’re at it, hug those special people
who are still around you, too.
That jar of sauerkraut on the counter? We still can’t throw
it away, but it’s a happy reminder this season, not a sad one. It’s now
decorated with a red
bow.
It would make Ellen laugh.
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