She wouldn’t
have it; in fact, she demanded it be put on my sandwich, no matter how much I
wrinkled my nose.
I remembered the
last time I’d tried sauerkraut, hair blonder, curls looser, eyes wider, I
trusted the lunch lady without the cynicism that would settle in later
years. One large, unhindered bite was my
first step towards the wisdom of the world.
No amount of carton milk could possibly drive the sour (how many days
old???) taste from my mouth. With as
much determination as an eight year old can muster, I vowed never to eat the
foul substance again.
Yet, I found
myself again faced with, what I could only remember as, the smelly giant. I would try it, but only because she was my
best friend’s mom…only because the family was of German heritage.
It takes hours
to make good sauerkraut, hours and good beer and (if I remember correctly)
bacon. Translucent and rather dull
looking, the eight year old in me could hardly imagine that it would taste
anything other than sour, bitter, and slimy.
 |
| Gluten free bread for me, of course. |
The smell of
buttered bread, melted Swiss, and turkey made my stomach growl and my mouth
water…why ruin it with what is literally translated as “sour cabbage”?
Still, retreat
was not an option. With a polite face at
the ready, I took my first bite.
 |
| Swiss, 'kraut, turkey |
 |
| The Reuben |
What I
discovered that day was that there is a world of difference between cafeteria “sauerkraut”
(if it can be so called) and fresh, homemade sauerkraut. Tart, flavorful, and crisp, this topping made
the sandwich instead of ruining it. Once
again, I am surprised by food; expectations trumped, childhood aversions
upturned, new memories folded in. It’s
more than a meal; it’s family and friends and fellowship, and I am so very
thankful for it.
Thank you, Spitler family, for having me to Oklahoma, and "forcing me" to eat your sauerkraut.
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