Bumper Crop of 'Kraut

My father-in-law's parents owned the only store in Ada, Michigan. Today, Ada is one of many bedroom communities for Grand Rapids, but in the '20s and '30s leaving Ada to shop in the big city was a day-long excursion, so the store did well. They carried a good variety of merchandise, but mostly they sold groceries.

In those days, almost everyone who could lay claim to a bit of yard put in a garden every year. Not only was the country in the grip of the Great Depression, people then were not as far from their agrarian roots as we are now. Even for city-dwellers, a summer's worth of produce, put up in jars and waiting on the pantry shelves was rare security in a time of economic uncertainty.

Art and Olive Vern had a garden as did most of their neighbors. They and their son James tended it along with their other duties. One year, they were rewarded with an enormous bounty of cabbage.

"Would you look at that!" said Art proudly, "Every seed we planted must have come up!" The pale-green globes, their outer leaves opening to the warm air and vibrant sun, stood against the black soil of the lower peninsula in tidy rows like crisp little sentinals.

"We've never had such a good crop of cabbage before!" cried Olive Vern.

The weather had been just right for it that year: ample rain punctuating clear skies and moderate temperatures, and a dearth of caterpillars and grasshoppers, for once. Such abundance had become rare in those dust-bowl days, even for those far from the central plains. People had learned to appreciate a blessing when they saw one.

"What shall we do with them all?" wondered James.

"We should make sauerkraut," his mother announced. "Didn't you tell me you found a big crock in the shed?" she asked her husband.

"Yes," Art confirmed, "it'll probably hold twenty gallons. It should be big enough for this crop."

"Then it's settled," Olive Vern said. "You two carry the crock to the pump in the yard so I can wash it. We'll start first thing in the morning."

The crock was taken care of, and at sunup the next morning the little family went to work.

Making sauerkraut is not particularly difficult. There are only two ingredients: cabbage and pickling salt. You separate and wash the cabbage leaves, then shred them and pack them into a large, deep container that will not react chemically with the brine that results when cabbage leaves and salt combine. The mix must be kept submerged in the brine for three to six weeks. Nowadays, a plastic bag of water is one of the most effective ways of keeping the 'kraut down in the pickling solution and away from the air. Before plastics became ubiquitous in American kitchens, a large platter could be weighted down on the "working" 'kraut with clean stones.

They worked like proper farmers. James and his father picked cabbages and gave them a preliminary dunking in a washtub in the yard. In the kitchen, Olive Vern cut, washed again, leaf by leaf, patted dry, and shredded. When all the cabbages were out of the garden, all three worked in the kitchen and the process moved faster.

They had moved the crock to the cellar, chilly even in midsummer, before they began. As the mixing bowl of shredded cabbage was filled, Olive Vern carried it down the steep steps and spread it in an even layer over the layer of cabbage and the layer of salt she'd put down on her previous trip downstairs.

Shredded cabbage, then salt, then shredded cabbage, then more salt. When it's finished fermenting, it has a sour tang like nothing else. There is no better companion for pork sausage on a chilly autumn night.

It was a big crock. Twenty gallons may have been too conservative a guess of its size. It might have held thirty gallons.

They worked most of that day and filled it to the three-quarter mark. They weighted the 'kraut down under the already-forming brine, stood proudly in a little circle around the crock and admired their day's work.

"Mother," James ventured, "how are we ever going to eat this much sauerkraut? There are only three of us."

"We won't eat it all. After we put it up, we'll figure out how many jars we'll need for the winter. What we can't use, we'll sell in the store."

In those days before the existence of the U.S.D.A., home-canned produce was routinely sold and bought in stores, roadside stands and farmers' markets. They were grocers. Their private garden yielded an unexpected surplus. Their customers and neighbors would have thought it odd if they didn't sell what they couldn't use themselves.

They had a light supper that night, tended to their other chores, and went to bed early, virtuous and exhausted.

The next morning they discovered why the crock had not been used for so long. When Olive Vern descended the basement steps, the smell struck her like a blow. She grabbed the handrail before she missed a step and fell. The naked light bulb revealed a spreading pond of noisome-smelling brine on the floor around the crock. There was a tiny crack across its bottom. The crock leaked. It was a slow leak, but not slow enough. The laboriously-made sauerkraut inside, exposed to the air for hours, was already rotting!