The crazy purple exploding mess…

I have a story to tell you.  (Do not raise those eyebrows to the sky.  I caught you!  Of course she’s going to tell a story.)

Worst of all, I’m going to tell you a story without photos.  This is a test to see if the story is interesting enough to capture your attention to the messy end where we add the spiritual philosophy to the mix and stir well.

Today’s story deals with making homemade sauerkraut.

I was pondering the different ways we storytellers can tell stories.  Some storytellers tell thus:  I made homemade sauerkraut.  {Here’s how you make it.}  It was good!

Other storytellers share their sauerkraut stories differently.

Some concentrate on details.  Others share the Larger Picture of health benefits.  Still others won’t even tell sauerkraut stories at all, claiming they’re boring.  Still others will ask, “What is sauerkraut?”

But never you mind.  My storytelling mind always goes to the drama.  Was there any drama involved in the creation of homemade sauerkraut?

YES!  *shouts Memory.  THERE WAS DRAMA!  There was high tension.  I kid you not.

 

Thus, that’s how we tell the story.  We find the moment of excitement, despair, fright and relief.  We highlight that.

We type a headline:  The purple exploding mess.   {Later we add the word “crazy” just because Life is kinda crazy.} Then we go off in a tangent about storytelling.  Finally, we get to our discussion about Dana’s homemade sauerkraut.

How many of you remember Dana?  Show of hands, please.  How many of you read Dana’s post about making sauerkraut?  Good for you.  We must support our fellow bloggers in their fermenting endeavors.

I knew the moment Dana started writing her epic storyteller’s sauerkraut tale that I too wanted to make this.

Her directions are explicit, and funny too.  The perfect kind of directions.  She even quotes Dr. Obvious!  (I have never heard the phrase Dr. Obvious before.  Within two days of reading this I had stumbled upon references to Major Obvious and Mr. Obvious, obviously.  That’s the way the Universe works.)

The recipe calls for purple cabbage and–you’ve never heard of this before, have you?–beets.  It involves chopping and food processing and tossing in caraway seeds (even though you’re not sure you like ’em) and salt and water and pounding the mixture into mason jars before they ferment for nine magical days.  (Or anywhere between four days and four weeks, depending on climate.)

Dana warns:  Do not add to much water.  A half cup, max.  Don’t go overboard.

Dr. Obvious asks Kathy, “Were you reading that sentence?”

Kathy replies, “Yes…but…it seemed like I should add MORE water.  Because when you can tomatoes or anything you want the liquid to mostly fill the jar.”

Dr. Obvious asks again, “Do you think there was a REASON Dana highlighted that sentence?  Do you think there was a POINT in saying so?”

Kathy hangs her head in shame, but secretly grinned, because here’s what happened:

On Day 2 the purple sauerkraut exploded!  OK, it didn’t explode with a BANG!  It leaked.  It fizzled.  The purple goo busted through the lid of the mason jar and created a Purple Mess all over the newspaper that Kathy had cleverly thought to prevent a possible disaster.

You may assume the sauerkraut was ruined, yes ruined!, but no, Dana had suggested such might happen and advised said sauerkraut novices to open the jar and pour out some water and try, try again.

Which Kathy did.

Then she washed her purple hands, washed the purple lids, washed the purple jars and put down clean newspaper.  What a Mess.

Yesterday came the Big Moment!  Dana advised that nine days was a magical moment to test the kraut.  But because Kathy rarely does exactly what someone suggests (or maybe she was busy?) she waited until ten days, even though nine sounds like a more magical number.

She tried to unscrew the fermenting purple kraut.  The lid would not budge.  She tried to use her magic can-opening tool which Daughter gifted at Christmas.  Wouldn’t budge.  She waited for her husband to come home from work.  He showed her how to better place the magic jar opener.

It opened!

Gosh, did that sauerkraut stink.

It smelled like–fermented cabbage.

It’s really, really good for you, eaters, because of that fermentation.  It digests food in your stomach FOR you because it’s so potent. It’s the secret of long life, I swear it.  Kraut rules.

I plugged my nose and took a bite.  Chewed.  Took a second bite.

“We shouldn’t eat any more until we determine if we live,” I advised the husband.

We lived.

Happily ever after.  Or at least until today.

Now, how would you have told the story?  Would you have started with the explosion (of which you needed to exaggerate slightly because it really was a fizzling purple leak) or the recipe?  Would you have started at the beginning or the end?  Would you have added details?

We’re all storytellers, my dears, every single one of us.  Each of us tell stories every single day when Things Happen.  Are you telling the kinds of stories you like, or might you want to try different ways of fermenting your life?

Next time I’m going to try the green cabbage.

P.S.  Aren’t you glad the kraut exploded?  Otherwise what kind of story would it be?  That’s why we create drama in our lives.  Because we’re all very good storytellers…