Sauerkraut

This day has been a long time coming.  I’ve fired up the grill a few times this summer, but the 4th of July is a right of passage for barbeque-based partying.

My grandmother started this tradition during World War II, when her husband was away, as were the young loves of all her friends.  In those days, the crew of women needed an outlet, as pleasant, warmer weather returned to the Northeast.  Cabin fever, nervous tension, and lack of socialization, all conspired to generate a robust turnout. 

My memories of those early gatherings are blurry, since they occurred half a century ago, and I was in my first decade on earth.  While the venue has changed several times, swapping from a cramped apartment in the slums, to an ugly cookie-cutter house in the suburbs, to a modern split-level on the riverfront, my presence has remained a constant over the years. 

Our family has made great strides since immigrating from Europe at the beginning of the 20th century.  However, I often find myself wishing for the simple home, and the basic life, of my fresh-off-the-boat ancestors.  This annual summer family reunion is a chance to rekindle those fundamental values.

Despite the many changes in locale, the menu is still the same as that served at the inaugural event.  Sausages, per our Polish roots, with the prerequisite aged sauerkraut, spicy mustard smear, and fresh potato buns. 

While we don’t have any of the original canned kraut from my grandmother’s era, I’m proud to closely replicate the flavor, with a few modern improvements, of course. 

Requiring just cabbage and salt, the basic sauerkraut recipe is incredibly simple.  However, the key is attention to detail in preparation of the vegetable, and patience, allowing multiple weeks to ferment.  This specific batch was made 17 days ago, the addition of juniper berries contributing a layer of subtle complexity beyond the flavors generated from natural lactobacillus fermentation. 

Tangy, tender, tart, and tasty are all adjectives I’m happy to hear as I occupy my post at the grill.  This is discerning group, with many people who knew my grandma, including a few elders from the first party who have outlived her, thereby keeping the legacy alive.  These individuals are very particular about their sauerkraut.  It feels rewarding to be complemented by such a discerning group.

It’s exciting to host this annual gathering, but undoubtably stressful.  

I’ve always been a tactile person, and a backyard BBQ just heightens that sensation.  Aggressively hugging my numerous family members as they appear, in sporadic groups, at sporadic times.  Delicately slicing the soft rolls, making sure the serrated knife misses my tiny fingers.  Shaking up the homemade condiment mix, to ensure an appropriate blend of the spicy mustard seeds, with tart apple cider vinegar.  Most importantly, monitoring the charcoal kettle, open palm tracking the fluctuating heat of the coals, and extended tongs checking the firmness of the tubular meats.

As late-afternoon approaches, my aged back is aching from hunching over in various food preparation tasks all day, first at the counter, then at the oven, now at the grill.  My floral print dress, and fine silver hair, have absorbed copious amounts of aromatic ingredients, and dense smoke.  The exposed skin of my hands and arms are marred with a colorful menagerie of grease and sauce. 

Sitting down for the first time in several hours, I take a swig of water, drinking deeply, then breathing deeply. 

I extract a forkful of homemade sauerkraut, my sauerkraut, from the small paper plate on my lap, with the pointy tines of my plastic fork.  Moving the pale green strands to my wrinkled lips, I savor first the aroma, then the texture, then the flavor.  A perfectly balanced combination.

My grandmother would be proud.  Not just of my resourcefulness, but also my execution.  Her cooking prowess has been passed off to me, thus continuing an important family tradition.

Looking around, I see that every seat in the yard is taken: picnic tables, folding chairs, large coolers, and even the stairs.  Someday, I’ll need to find another productive young Polack lass to take over this operation.  But for now, I can still hold my own.     

Starch

From my raised perch, I take in the lay of the land.  There’s a lot of activity.  At this point, it appears that most of the guests have arrived.  There’s got to be 30 people here.  Not a bad turnout.   

I’ve always been perceptive.  Between my sharp eyesight, and my tendency for perpetual observation, I end up logging a lot of data.  Several of the partygoers are very recognizable. 

The woman in the pink, floral print, dress, with the wavy brown hair, is an easy mark.  She seems sharp and functional, but I know from experience, within a few hours she’ll be dancing around the deck like a crazy person.  If she drops that sparkly, sequin, shawl, I'll be ready to pounce.

The chubby teenage lad, clad in a black Pittsburg Pirates t-shirt, which, despite been washed numerous times, still displays the distinct yellow condiment stains on the front.  This boy is a sausage eating machine; best to get in line in front of him when tube meats come off the grill.

The elderly couple, both with wispy white hair, sitting in their usual spot.  They have always been friendly to me, supportive and accommodating, from both an attention, and food, standpoint.  As such, I make sure to pinpoint their seated location for future engagement.

A flash of light catches my perceptive eyes.  A flock of kids, frolicking in the lush grass of the lawn.  The spring rains here in the Northeast have given way to almost a month straight of sun.  Prefect for growth of both plants, and humans.   

The young’uns have scrounged up an impressive collection of inflatable balls, which are being fired around the makeshift ring of boney knees, tangled hair, and ill-fitting swimsuits.  The sprinklers were turned on half an hour ago, and there’s an accommodating hill in the yard which has been exploited.  Not even the most opportune growing conditions could protect this trodden patch. 

As such, streaks of green, brown, and pink cover the clothes, and skin, of this troop.  It’s pushing 100°°F degrees out, so the crew could care less.  No doubt many of their parents, diligently watching from the shade of the back porch, would happily adopt such minimally clothing in this heat.  However, basic societal rules dictate more appropriate attire. 

My own outfit is fairly standard for summer: a short sleeve top of dark brown, with a fluffy red logo on the front, complemented by a pair of stretchy white shorts.  Style and comfort, in a carefully curated ensemble.

I’m getting hungry.  Focusing on the task at hand, I shift my attention back to the food zone.

The picnic table at the far end of the deck has opened up, a trio of couples having moved off, happily fed, and now trying to determine what damage their children have done during the brief absence from monitoring, and if they have time to enjoy another adult beverage.

This is my time to swoop in for a discrete snack.  I’ve been watching my weight, try to eat as little, and as inconspicuously, as possible.  I’ve always been more preferential to grain-based rolls, but these potato buns are traditional for the meal being served.  The best part is the cracked caraway seeds, which top the freshly baked buns.  These provide a lovely dark visual element to the pale background, while also imparting a distinct nuttiness not present in the bland tuber-based dough.

Delicately picking off small pieces, I savor the soft texture of the bread, combined with the firm crunch of the seeds. 

This potato starch will have to suffice for today.  I’m definitely going to need some liquids to wash down this gooey dough.  Fortunately, a large pitcher of water has been placed on a table next to the garden, to accommodate overheated party guests.  Parched, I flit off towards this open vessel of liquid.

Sun

I lean back, soaking up the bright solar rays.  A lot of participants are here for the meats, but with my vegan tendencies, I’m content to lounge and enjoy the weather, while the hyenas hover in the distance.

Despite forgoing protein, I still feel like I’ve been growing like a weed lately, my meager diet notwithstanding.  As long as I stay hydrated, there’s no limit to my growth potential.

Once summer sets in, I’m always trying to soak up as much sun as possible.  However, this requires a delicate balance between clothing and comfort.  Especially at these family gatherings.  Some of the older ladies can get jealous, and the older men creepy.  Still, I need to keep my tan even.

I’m wearing a bright green, one-piece, swimsuit, with an equally vibrant, yellow hat.  The cut of the outfit is modest enough to be classy in public, but minimal enough to allow parts which don’t usually see the light of day soak up some UV radiation. 

I can feel the sun beating down from above, and instinctively lean towards it.  The Pennsylvania winter was harsh this year, per usual, and the comforting warmth of summer has been a long time coming.  It’s days like this that get us through the seemingly endless months of cold and darkness which personify each Northeast winter.

I’ve positioned myself at the far edge of the yard, a semi-private spot, which allows me to enjoy the sun all afternoon, until it finally sets over the ridge of the house’s tall roof.

Closing my eyes, I breathe deeply in relaxed contentment.  Just as I’m starting to doze off, I’m rudely disturbed, despite my remote site selection.  The intruder is a beach ball, more brightly colored than even my own flamboyant outfit, which hits me square in the head.  The impact jostles my new hat, knocking it sideways, and nearly dislodging the broad-brimmed item completely.

The inflated orb bounces away, just out of my stationary reach.  Lucky for them, I’ve got half a mind to deflate that thing if it comes near me again. 

It seems like kids are the bane of my existence.  Oblivious to their surroundings, their tiny feet trample without regard, and their clingy hands grab without discretion.  Therefore, this interruption was inevitable, considering how many children are running around in the yard today. 

Still, I thought I would be able to get a few more minutes of shut eye.  Settling back in, I repositioning my headgear.  I’ll need to keep one eye out for future intrusions.  With a week of rain in the forecast, I need to absorb as much sun as possible, before the predictable summer showers set in.  

Sausage

That’s the best part about a backyard BBQ.  The smells.  And the snacks.  It seems like there’s a perpetual onslaught of tasty morsels, generously shared by our host.  However, the real prize is the meat on the grill, the pungent combination of applewood smoke, and charred fat, hitting my sensitive nose.

Knowing the significance of this important day, my long, blonde, hair, is freshly brushed, allowing the wavy locks to curl naturally.  In my early 20’s, I’m still finding my path in life.  One never knows what boys might show up at these summer gatherings.   

I’ve definitely worked up an appetite this morning, running around the yard, first getting everything set up, then chasing the increasingly large pack of children amassed.    

My mother has been working on food preparation all day.  I should go check in on how she’s doing.  As I prance over to the grill, the aroma of meat becomes more intense.  What little wind there is on this beautiful summer day is blowing towards me, further piquing my nasal cavity.

Reaching the edge of the deck, where the BBQ device is located, I sit on the stained wood, content to watch my matriarch at work.

Eventually noticing my approach, my mother takes up her utensils, and opens the cover, unleashing a bloom of thick, grey smoke.  Holding one of the darker looking sausages with the tongs in her left hand, she deftly cuts the tip off with the long carving knife in her right.

I can hear the sizzle off the moisture which leaks from the plump casing onto the hot coals.  This mixture disperses another wave of savory aromas onto the air.  

Gently, she blows on this steaming piece of meat, then passes it to me, apparently seeking verification on doneness and flavor.  She doesn’t need to ask twice. 

I chomp down on the juicy morsel, savoring the complex blend of spices: garlic, marjoram, and black pepper, all masked by smokey undertones.  Licking the last remnants of salty fat from my lips, I savor the indulgence.  That’s a perfect Polish sausage.

Looking towards my mother, I shake my head up and down, a silent gesture of content satisfaction.  Affectionately, my mother pats me on the head, no doubt transferring grease from her laboring hands onto my curly locks. 

Rather than emitting a verbal outburst, as I often do, I stay calm and silent this time.  I don’t care about my appearance.  I’m just proud to be part of this family.  Life is good.

Sweets

I look around, making sure my sisters are still close.  We try to stick together at all times.  It’s usually pretty easy to find them, based on noise, sight, and most notably smell.  We’re a dirty bunch, often wandering off on various outdoor excursions.  Bathing is not part of our repertoire, unless it rains.  Fortunately, our parents are free spirits, who don’t micromanage.

My mother doesn’t move too well these days, so I’ve accepted the role of chaperone.  Despite my young age, I often take on a lot of responsibility. 

Today is a special event.  Not only is it my birthday, but also my mom’s.  She is a diva, a worshiped queen in this community.  As a result, someone has generously brought cake; a huge offering, multiple layers of rainbow batter, assembled and adorned with a thick layer of vanilla frosting.  Our guests know us well.

Considering my young age, per usual, I’m singularly focused on sugary snacks.  I can sniff out any candy or treat, with innate, osmosis-like, acuity.  It’s a skill learned as a child, and honed over time.  Marshmallows.  Lolly pops.  Soda.  Chocolate.  All can be identified, and tracked, from seemingly unfathomable distances.  It’s one of my true talents.

It feels like my body literally tingles when I get near these delectable items.  There’s no doubt I eat more sweets than I should, especially at these party events.  Fortunately, I still have all my sharp, sturdy, teeth.  For now.

Unsurprisingly, there is a long line of characters waiting at the dessert table.  My entire extended family has always had a nose for sugary sweets.

Birthdays are a rite of passage, and a key marker of life progress.  Many celebrate this day as an individual event.  However, our clan is all about comradery and teamwork.  I patiently wait my turn in line, eyeing the various remaining options. 

Whoever cut this cake must have used a machete.  Or a hammer.  The original elegant rectangular offering has exploded into a jumbled mess.  How does orthogonal cutting end up with triangular, round, and even organic, shapes?

No worries, my favorite piece still remains.  The corner, which represents the desirable ratio of 80% frosting to 20% cake.  Yummy.  Now I just need to use my developed dexterity to figure out how to carry a slice back to my mother as well.  Fortunately, my young body is flexible, and my appendages adaptively resourceful.

With two heavy portions in tow, I figure it’s better to move away from the crowd to enjoy this delicacy.  As a young lady, I don’t want to be judged as an indulgent pig. 

I finding the worn track put in by my siblings over time, with the help of aromatic guidance from pheromones, which stimulate my heightened olfactory receptors.  Teamwork is key for our crew, and I appreciate my ladies guiding the way home.

It will be great to relax with my brood, and enjoy a celebratory feast.  Considering her health, none of us know how long my influential mother will remain with us.  Considering her failing eyesight, I just hope she will recognize me, treats in tow.

Our family has a long history in this region, with a history of strong fertility in the female ranks, so I’m sure we legacy will outlast most of the other families at this BBQ.

Scenery

I’ve always been antisocial.  Not necessarily introverted, just happier to observe than engage.  That’s why I’m inside, sulking in the back bedroom on the second floor, while the rest of the guests mingle outdoors.

I like this raised, inconspicuous, position, which allows me to take in all the activity below, using all of my sensory prowess.

The first perception triggered is my finely tuned auditory capabilities.  The invasive birds are back.  At least dog poop is discrete, and terrestrial based.  Birds release their waste from the sky, uncontrolled and erratic. 

I spot the source of the invasion.  In the oak tree above the deck, there’s an assemblage of sticks and twigs.  This neutral brown, debatably round, structure, is conspicuously visible, on account of the reflective threads of yarn interspersed with the fort walls. 

Standing atop this wooded perch is a bird, the red breast feathers, and tufts of white fur around the thin legs, providing instant identification.  A robin.

Based on the attentive posture, and the intermittent shuffling to and from the nest, a pack of young beaks is undoubtably located just out of view.  My fixed position has its limitations. 

As I pan far to the right, my acute skills sense subtle motion.  Zooming in, the object of interest turns out to be a sandy pile of dirt.  My high-resolution capability allows me to quickly determine the source of the movement.  A stream of small black dots, creating a direct line across the yard, and up the small hill along the edge of the woods, which defines the property line.  And my obligatory zone of demarcation. 

These critters are easy to spot, since each individual black speck is topped with a bright white mound.

Worker ants, carrying frosted cake.  The colony is going to be well fed tonight.  I save this image into the video database; it will be useful for exterminator guidance later this week.  My important security role requires me to keep this residence safe from all threats, from micro to macro.    

As if the animals weren’t enough to handle, this recent stretch of nice weather has spurred all manner of growth in the yard.  Most invasive are the dandelions, which are now in full bloom.  The yard was mowed less than a week ago, but these bright flowers have already reemerged, presenting their plumage around the perimeter of the lawn.

In a few more weeks, their yellow petals will have transitioned to white fluffy seed pods, which will inevitably be dispersed all over the area, via even the slightest gust of wind.  What a mess.

I check my temperature settings, which displays the current outdoor conditions.  93°F, with 79% humidity.  A steamy afternoon for sure.  I also have local infrared heat sensors; however, these are used for in-house fire monitoring, as opposed to external analytics. 

Understandably, the hottest item in the area currently is the BBQ grill.  A woman is her mid-60s has been holding down this post all day, adding extra charcoal briquettes, and making minute adjustments to the air flow vents, to maintain the desired even temperature distribution.  Based on the incredibly consistent heat profile, she knows her stuff.

Lying on deck next to the host is a golden retriever.  This animal caused me many troubles in her early days, frequently escaping from the invisible perimeter fence.  Fortunately, now at 3 years old, this frisky pup has mellowed significantly.  Still, constant canine chaperoning is necessary, should one of the numerous distractions prevalent in this area emerge from the house below, or the tree line beyond.

Panning back out, I survey the yard in its entirety.  It’s bustling with all manner of activity, plants and animals, flying and grounded, large and small.  I have an impossible job, if I’m supposed to monitor all this chaos in real time. 

Still, it seems like all parties are enjoying themselves.  Considering the hungry humans, bedazzled birds, prospering plants, courageous canines, and aligned ants, all is well at this BBQ. 

Everyone in eating, everyone is cohabitating, everyone is content.  The circle of life personified.

I’m sensing I need to move my security camera gaze to the front of the house.  Who knows what anomaly will show up next?  As long as its not the cops, or rain clouds, no one in the backyard will care.  Bring on summer!