These Kraut Colors Don’t Run
I grew up in a red house. My parents couldn’t comprehend any other way. Diced, sliced, and fermented; for them only one leafy varietal would do. Brassica oleracea var. capitata F. rubra - the nomenclature that decorated my house in an unrelenting way, was about more than just color. When I was 14, my neighborhood organized a Fourth of July block party. I couldn’t wait! Hot dogs and fireworks. The celebration of a society made of global misfits and only the best flavors survived. My father, carrying on the tradition of his father and his father’s father, brought the family made red kraut. He was just as excited as me. He kept to himself for the most part, but kraut was his conduit to the world. Through his unique fermented flavors, his love showed bright. He was famous in among the extended Hammer family for his red kraut. I couldn’t wait for the neighbors to try, and neither could he. I was so proud of him. He worked on the kraut for almost a year. He grew the cabbage himself… he even pilfered manure from the ranch down the street. By September, the stink of shit was replaced by the sweet aroma of macerated goodness. Into the basement it went. Months went by. Summer came, and the tasting began. I could see it in his face right away… this was a winner. He was so proud, he claimed it was his best ever! I wanted to try some but he wouldn’t let me. He said I had to wait until the block party. The days dragged on and the temptation grew inside me like a pro-biotic stew. The pressure was building and I felt as if I would pop! But finally……. the day came. First came the day’s heat, then the smell of the grill, then the feast. I grabbed two dogs and put them onto lightly toasted buns and scuttled my way over to the fixings table. There it was, my father’s masterpiece. Fragrant and warm, ready for consumption. But there was something else. Something I had never seen before. A forbidden fruit so blasphemous its existence had never been recognized in my house. A temptation I wasn’t prepared to resist. Next to my father’s masterpiece was a big pile of something so familiar but entirely different. It was as if someone had bleached my father’s kraut until it was as white as winter’s first snow. The sign in front was more simple than dad’s. Where his said “Red Sauerkraut” this one just said “Sauerkraut.” My mind was spinning. I had to try it. I decided to go with one of each. I was scared, I knew I was being bad, but I had to know. I took a bite… What have my parents been keeping from me?
I ran away that night and haven’t seen my parents since.
- krautHammer
Does a bride wear black on her wedding day? Does a judge wear a pink wig to deliberate on the life of a criminal? Does the home team wear green? You don’t need the likes of Sauerpuss to answer these riddles for you. I’m a kraut man, my father was a kraut man… and my boy, my boy will be a kraut man and kraut is best served bleached. That which is shredded is not shred — that which is sacred, is not red. The good stuff? The good stuff is white, white as SNOWWWW. History’s major lessons are littered with it, all the major events evidence it’s ultimate truth. I could tell you a tale right now of a condiment so underappreciated it wanted to overthrow the government and take over the world - but I won’t. I digress, but to re-digress, let me reiterate, most of you (yes we know who you are) are lucky the hounds haven’t impregnated your sisters and moms. That’s how serious they are. And the colour of their kraut is the least of their caprices. When your flavour and impact are so deep and intense, hue is of no consequence. To kowtow to the ‘color seers’ (most folks are colorblind in fact) is pure decadence. Be the water falling upon the rock, be the kraut falling atop the wiener. Drape your elegant strands in any and all crevices that will have you and state your name not by your appearance but by your essence.
-Sauerpuss
