Non-Exploding Sauerkraut

Instructions

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   Wash and shred cabbage. Measure 9 cups into mixing bowl. Mix with pickling salt. Let stand for 2 hours. Rinse, drain, and rinse again. Pack wet cabbage into sterilized jars. Pack firmly so that liquid rises and covers cabbage. Leave 1 inch space at top of jar. Fit a piece of plastic wrap on to top of cabbage so air does not reach it. Seal jar with lid, but do not tighten—this allows fermentation gases to escape—eliminates need to “keg poke”, and unnecessary explosions! Store at 68–72F to enhance fermentation process. Check occasionally and remove any scum that appears on the surface of the cabbage. (Scum won’t form if plastic wrap is tight enough). Fermentation will stop after 2 to 6 weeks. Sauerkraut is ready when no bubbles appear on the surface and jar does not hiss when opened. If kraut is too salty for your taste, rinse it before serving. Store sauerkraut in refrigerator.

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   See also: SlowCooked Chicken and Cabbage

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   September Fair Once a month on a Saturday from early Spring until late Autumn, we engage in a ritual of going into downtown Clareville to visit the Farmer’s Market that takes place in the Town Square. There, midst the tall oaks and maples, between the bandshell and the fountain, citizens of the area arrive at dawn to exhibit and sell their wares. Tents and tables litter the greenspace in orderly confusion. I like to be first and early at the Market. In the near dark morning, Michael and I sip coffee seated in a window booth at Ivy’s Restaurant while the vendors set up. The dawn chorus of birds vie with a portable radio and good humored neighborly chatter echoes in the still and frosty air. Chickens cackle in their cages and an irritable rooster is barking at the morning. The few early birds come to the Market for the fattest worms: the pick of the best produce—the plumpest peppers, the unblemished tomatoes, bread still warm from the oven to be sniffed and savored and carried home as prizes. We are still hunters and gatherers who return triumphant and satisfied from a good forage. The rest of the flock descends by late morning. By then the Square is full and frantic. Hands dart here and there, quickly picking goods, making change, filling bags. Shoulders jostle to the stalls and tables, and jostle away again. Friends meet and chat, some hug, balancing parcels, blocking the way of others trying to gain access to the vendor’s attention—a pleasant communal irritation. Some swoop in—if they find a lucky parking spot—raid the essential stalls, list in hand, and swoop away again. Some come to roost all day. Making their way systematically from vendor to familiar vendor, chatting, sampling, buying. Stopping to lunch on thick cut peameal bacon on a kaiser as a special not-on-the-diet treat; or on quiche and wine at the trendy Stone House Inn; or on toasted club sandwiches at Ivy’s cafe in the park, a temporary fair weather al fresco extension served from her restaurant across the street. The black-brown and black-blue grackles have landed en masse on the green and are having their own lively disagreement. By late afternoon, the hustle and hurry has slowed to a tired and langorous saunter. Vendors rearrange the last of the unsold wares to show to their best

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   advantage, hoping for the last sales to finish the day. Sparrows glean crumbs near the park benches. Bargains are offered to clear stock that won’t keep fresh until next Market. The late bird may not get the fattest worm, but does get the slimmest prices. Around dinnertime, on a silent and mysterious signal, everyone heads home like the starlings who have begun to wheel in unison around the tall oaks and maples. Trucks pull up to the now-empty curbside to be loaded and the vendor gypsies steal away into early nightfall with sunburned faces and money in their pockets. There is hardly any energy left to talk. Good day, someone asks? A smile and nod in reply. Farewells are just weary waves or nods, and they are gone into the twilight. The green is empty again. The starlings roost noisily in the tall maples and oaks. Streetlights come on. As if the whole flighty community had not even been there today.