Who says you can’t take it with you?

November 19, 2012 by Beth Shepherd

Around the time I was 12, I rode my bike into the front steps of the house across the street, the house where my friend Dee lived. I fell from the bike and my knee hit pavement and gravel. After I limped back to our house, I washed my knee and attempted to get as much of the gravel out as I could.

Flash forward several years: I still had a scar on my knee, a constant reminder of my fall. And, from what I could tell, inside the scar was a small rock. Or at least that’s what I thought.

Decades passed and the scar became a small bump on the front of my patella. It would bother me when I shaved my legs and I’d run my fingers back and forth over the top of it. On occasion, someone would ask me about it and I’d tell them the story of the bicycle accident, the fall, and the rock. No one ever seemed to make much of it, and I wondered if they believed me. I started to question the story I’d told myself, and others, for so many years.

Last year, during a visit to my dermatologist, I relayed the story of the accident and the rock. He laughed, “You don’t think there’s really a rock in there after all that time? It’s probably scar tissue. I’ll inject it with some cortisone and it will shrink.”

So he did. But it didn’t. In fact, from what I could tell, the scar and the bump were getting bigger.

Along came my daughter, who instantly expressed a distinct fascination with the “owie” on my knee. She would look it, and point to it, and as soon as she learned the word “ow,” she would touch my knee and say “OW.”

I made another appointment with my dermatologist. “Don’t you think it’s gotten bigger?” I asked anxiously.

“Maybe,” he replied. “It’s probably scar tissue and I can inject it with some cortisone and it will shrink.”But since you seem concerned, I can also take a biopsy just to make sure it’s not a growth of any sort.”

He sent in his nurse, who injected my knee with a numbing anesthetic.

“You’ve got dense scar tissue. I could barely get the needle in.”

Then the doctor came back. He took out his scalpel, made an incision, and took out a small piece of flesh to biopsy. He was just about to put a couple sutures in my knee, when…

“You know what? I think I see a rock. I’m going to try to remove it.”

He fished around in my knee for a few seconds. Out came the rock.

“That’s the first time I’ve ever delivered a rock.”

“Wow! How cool is that,” I yelped.

I looked at the tiny gray rock, maybe a quarter-inch long, probably a piece of New York shale. There was nothing noteworthy about this rock from my home town, except for the fact that it had been in my knee for over forty years.

“I can’t wait to take it home and show my husband.”

“You can’t.”

“What do you mean I can’t?”

“The rock is considered foreign material that is part of the biopsy. If I give you the rock, I have to throw out the biopsy. I can’t send it to the lab without the rock.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m serious.”

“But it’s been in my knee for forty years. I’ve told so many people this story. No one ever seemed to believe me. Now I have proof.”

“Sorry.”

I was really sad. I wanted my rock. But I also wanted to know the results of the biopsy so I left the dermatologists office…and I left my rock behind.

On the drive home the situation continued to irk me, so when I got back to my house, I immediately picked up the phone and called my doctor’s office. Nurse G., his assistant, answered and was sympathetic when I pleaded: Is there anything you can do? She said she’d try.

Sure enough, Nurse G. contacted the lab, and called me back to tell me that my dermatologist could request to have the rock returned to his patient. She assured me she would submit the request and said the rock would be ready for me to take home at my follow-up appointment. As silly as it may sound, I was elated.

Two weeks passed while I waited. I thought a lot about my hometown, my childhood, the house across the street where my friend Dee lived, one of the closest friends I’ve ever had, a friend who left this world too soon.

I thought about the tales we tell, sometimes over and over, and how we weave a bit of ourselves into our stories. I remembered the jokes my father would share, and the stories too, many of them about his time spent in the Merchant Marine as the ship’s purser and medic, or working on the Al-Can highway. Some of his stories were pretty gruesome and many of the jokes were-–to put it mildly–off-color. I could tell he liked those stories the best, because he would repeat them again and again and again. Of course these are the stories I remember best. And now, when I think about the rock, I get it.

On the day of the appointment, just before the doctor came in to see me, Nurse G. handed over a plastic biohazard bag and my lab report, which read: Scar tissue with foreign body. Inside the biohazard bag was a plastic specimen jar, and inside the jar was my rock, my rock, a little piece me.

Putting the ‘Big’ into Big Papa

June 17, 2012 by Beth Shepherd

First time Big Papa saw Baby Bird and she saw him

Big Papa got his nom de plume at work. Though he stands at 6’1”, Big Papa isn’t big as in tall like an NBA player. And, after years of walking to and from work, Big Papa isn’t big in an XXL sort of way either. His name came from the fact that he was one of the…er…more mature guys in his work group (software engineers are a young bunch). I also like to think, after working for than a decade at the same company, he’s earned a modicum of deference from his peers.

When I began my blog and was searching for a pseudonym, Big Papa certainly fit the bill. Of course I never thought it would take nearly four years before he’d fully acquire this title on the home front.

During the years while we waited to adopt, and even before, I saw plenty of signs that Big Papa would knock it out of the park as a Dad. We laugh about it now, but the first indicator was his ability to change a diaper mid-flight. Granted, the diaper was on my paralyzed father, whom we were moving across country. In the midst of a situation I wouldn’t wish on anyone, I knew right then and there Big Papa would rise to even the most harrowing of challenges as a dad.

Big Papa jokes that he mostly uses tools and lumber to build contraptions to house his tools and lumber. But in the years we’ve been together, I’ve seen him assemble even the most convoluted of IKEA furniture. He constructed our four garden beds and bricked the patio in our back yard, dug drainage trenches, and installed crown molding in our 114-year-old house. And, he’s spent countless hours, helping out his less-than-tech-savvy wife with how to do this thing on my computer or that thing with my camera. When his daughter asks, “Daddy, how do you…?” I feel confident he’s the kind of guy who will figure it out.

Some of the other reasons why Big Papa is going to be a great dad are his ability to be patient and persevere. Over the past few years we’ve endured plenty, between our adoption drama, moving parents (two), deaths (my beloved cat, dear friend Dee and my father), illness (my sister’s cancer, his mother’s Alzheimer’s and countless fiascos when my father was alive), along with all the stress and heartache that has visited our home and marriage as a result. Through it all, Big Papa has stuck by me and helped us see it through together.

In my book, Big Papa is big because he has my utmost respect for being the kind of person he is. I know I can count on him—and his daughter will be able to count on him–when the chips are down (and, man, have they been really down at times). I know he is honest and hardworking and tries to do right by others. And I know that he is the kind of man who will encourage our daughter find her way in the world, and help her grow into a woman people will look up to…even if she’s not tall, because she’ll be big in the same ways Big Papa is big.

Happy Father’s Day, Big Papa! I know (as your co-worker A. so aptly said) that accepting a compliment isn’t one of your stellar traits, but you sure deserve kudos on this day. It may appear to be your first Dad’s Day, but you’ve been walking the walk for a long time coming.

Any man can be a father. It takes someone special to be a dad. ~Author Unknown

My Father’s Sauerkraut Recipe

January 25, 2012 by Beth Shepherd

My father passed away early Sunday morning. When I shared the news with family and friends, each person I spoke to, talked about my father’s pickles and sauerkraut. Dad was the king of kraut.

Memories of making kraut with my Dad, growing up in Fayetteville, New York, go back as far as I can remember. My sister and I would help him in his workshop, which was located in the unfinished portion of our basement. In this magical and mysterious spot, lay a treasure trove of wonders: my father’s darkroom, the oak barrel where he made wine, his myriad tools, and all the accoutrement necessary to make pickles and sauerkraut, the way his parents made it in the “old world,” without heat and without vinegar.

We would ball our fat little hands into fists and pound down the grated cabbage into an earthenware crock to release the juices. My eyes would survey the old shelves lining the walls, where Mason jars of green and gold gems stood like a line of soldiers, as they waited for their fermentation period to end.

When they were ready, my father would fetch a jar and, with some effort, unscrew the lid. The pickles and kraut would bubble and hiss before we scooped them out to enjoy with just about any meal my mother prepared. From my father’s perspective pickles and kraut paired with everything!

Dad also delighted in sharing his homemade delicacies. Jars upon jars found their way to the homes of relative and friends. Pickles and kraut were his “signature dishes.” Plus, my father loved to barter. I recall many times when he would use his pickled goods as currency to get a little of this and a little of that.

Even after he suffered a stroke, some 40 years ago, my father continued making pickles and kraut. When we moved him from Florida out to Seattle, and into an assisted living facility, he kept right on making them. In fact, Dave, one of the cooks even scored a few cabbages and spent a couple hours with my father, grating the cabbage and putting it into jars.

Tasting Dad’s wares was also a test of friendship. If you liked his pickles and kraut, he liked you. I think it was all of five minutes into their first meeting, that my father offered Big Papa a sampling of his goodies. I held my breath, hoping it was a “good batch.” Thankfully, it was.

There are a lot of things I will miss about my father. Many of my greatest passions in life come from him: gardening, photography, love of birds and nature. I will most certainly miss his pickles and kraut. Big Papa and I make them, but somehow, ours never seem quite as good as those my Dad made.

Abe’s Kraut

To make sauerkraut at home, you will need:

large crock, glass, enamel or food-safe container
Five pounds of firm, fresh green cabbage (about 2 heads)
Food processor, madoline or cabbage shredder
kosher salt
a plate or something to cover kraut in crock/container
something heavy to weight down the plate
wooden spoon (do not use aluminum utensils in kraut making!)

Here’s how:

Shred five pounds of firm, fresh green cabbage (about two heads) in a food processor (you can also use a mandolin and I used the large cabbage grater that my Dad made). It will need to be done in batches. Dump each batch into a large bowl (or a crock if this is what you will ultimately use to ferment the cabbage) as you go, sprinkling with a total of three generous tablespoons of kosher salt, and mix it all together well. You can use a little more or a little less cabbage; just be sure to use a scant two teaspoons of kosher salt per pound of cabbage.

Pack the cabbage and any juices it has released into a crock a little at a time, pressing the cabbage down tightly with your fist as you go. If you don’t have a crock, you can use a food-safe plastic bucket; just be sure you have at least five inches of clearance above the cabbage to allow for foaming/bubbling during fermentation.

Place a clean plate over the cabbage that fits fairly snugly within the opening of the crock or bucket. Place a clean container of water (a large Mason jar works well—it should weigh a minimum of five pounds) on the plate to weight down the cabbage, and throw a clean towel over the top of the crock to keep out any dust.

Check back frequently during the first day to be sure the cabbage is releasing enough juices (the salt will pull water from the cabbage to create brine). Press on the plate/weight if necessary, and/or add more weight if the liquid doesn’t start to cover the top of the cabbage. After about six to eight hours, there should be at least an inch of juice/brine above the plate. If there isn’t, you can top off your cabbage with cooled brine composed of one and a half tablespoons of kosher salt per quart of water.

Store the crock in a spot with a temperature around 70 degrees Fahrenheit—not colder than 65 degrees or hotter than 75 degrees (a basement is ideal). Check it every few days, skimming any scum off the top. The fermentation will cause natural bubbles and foam to form and that’s okay. Rinse the plate and weight off well each time before putting them back. Keep an eye on the brine level; you may have to add more if it’s evaporating. Keep a good inch of brine above the plate as the fermentation proceeds…this is important to prevent unwanted bacteria from forming and the sauerkraut from spoiling!

Start tasting the cabbage after about a week, and ferment it to the level of sourness you like, which will take anywhere from one to four weeks. Some people prefer the milder cabbage-y taste of young kraut, while others like a more fermented flavor.

When the cabbage is fermented to your liking, transfer it and its brine to clean jars, again pressing the kraut down tightly in the jar so the juice rises above. Leave about a half inch of head space, and refrigerate. Your sauerkraut should last a few months refrigerated under brine.

Variation: Add a teaspoon or two of caraway seed for a tasty variation on your kraut. My father used to do this on occasion with a batch or two, and I quite liked it.

In memory of my father, Abe: March, 1924-January 22, 2012.

I know you’re up there making kraut like they’ve never tasted before!

Want more old-school flavor? Check out Wanderfood Wednesday.

In a pickle with the Papas

January 12, 2011 by Beth Shepherd

When I was growing up, my father made pickles: lots of pickles. He also made sauerkraut, horseradish and a few jars of pickled Habanero peppers, but mostly he made pickles. My Pop is the veritable Pickle Man.

I have so many pickle stories that it’s hard to know where to begin. First, there was the way he bartered with pickles. On more than one occasion, a jar or two of pickles were traded for a doctor’s visit or a favor he wanted.

“Beth, you know those tools I use to get the ship in the bottle?” he’d say. “Well, there was this dentist I went to and…”

Then there was the “hot pepper test.” When Big Papa met my father for the first time, he was offered a pickled Habanero and moments later, a slice of cheese. I breathed a sigh of relief. My Dad must like him, I thought. He offered Big Papa the cheese.

Fortunately I’d already clued Big Papa in to this “family secret.” The milk in the cheese cuts the pain from the pepper. Pepper without cheese and you’re in trouble. A glass of water to try to rinse away the offending fire in your mouth equals BIG trouble (water spreads the “Capsicum” the heat-simulating chemical). But take a bite of pepper and then chase it with a bite of cheese, or a sip of milk or yogurt, and you’re golden.

My Dad’s pickles are noteworthy for another reason. They are made without vinegar. That’s right, no vinegar. And, unlike many pickle recipes, neither the cucumbers nor the water in the jar are boiled. That’s how it is done. It’s how my father made pickles and his father before him in the old country, in Poland.

If you make them, I promise you’ll never taste pickles as good as my Papa’s. These are not floppy, rubbery pickles. You take a bite and are greeted with a hearty crunch. Once you taste the spicy kick of hot dried pepper and suck in the invigorating hit of dill, you’ll swear off any other pickles.

I hope that was convincing. If not, I’ll be disowned. After all, I am my father’s daughter.

My father, now nearly 87, still makes pickles, though not without my help. Forty years ago he had a disabling stroke. Even though it paralyzed his left side, he continued making pickles. But over the past few years, dementia has taken its toll and the arthritis and neuropathy make it difficult for him to do what’s necessary to pickle a peck, so that’s where I come in. And Big Papa. This year was Big Papa’s first as pickling sous chef.

I watched the pickling process for decades, but Dad still –uh — coaches me through the process (read: tells me what to do).

“Make sure to put the cucumbers in with the vine end down. Why? I don’t know. That’s how it’s done. Here, let me show you how to do it.”

“Chop the garlic. You chopped it, right? Do you want me to show you how?”

“You can squeeze a few more in that jar. You and your sister used to have a contest to see who could get the most in one jar. Here let me show you how you can get a few more in there (said while jamming cucumber sideways into an overflowing jar).”

“Don’t forget to put in one tablespoon of salt.” “Don’t forget to put in one teaspoon of salt.” “Don’t forget to….did I tell you the story about the night when your mother invited over…”

And so it goes. These days he’s forgotten the exact amounts and he’ll derail the pickling process to go down at least a dozen rabbit trails of tales from days gone by. But in the end, jars are filled and over the next few weeks our emerald treasures undergo a magical transformation, from mere cukes to glorious dill pickles.

Papa’s Pickle’s

Ingredients

Pile of small pickling cucumbers (select smallish, firm cukes), washed and scrubbed with a soft brush – OR (if you’re really brave) a bunch of Habanero peppers.
Kosher salt (must be Kosher!)
Pickling spices
Dill seed
Fresh dill (nice to have but not essential if you have the dill seed)
Garlic (cloves peeled and coarsely chopped)
Celery stalks (optional)
Dried hot chili peppers (optional)
Wide mouth quart mason jars
Measuring spoons
**no vinegar…that’s right NO vinegar!

Directions

Place cucumbers inside jars (with the end of the cucumber that came off the vine pointed toward the bottom of the jar – you can tell because it has a small indent/brown spot). Leave approximately ½ to 1 inch of headroom at the top of the jar. You can pack them tightly but try not to mash the cukes.

To each quart jar, add:

2 tablespoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon pickling spices
1 teaspoon dill seed
Small stalk of dill folded (if using fresh dill)
1 clove chopped garlic
1 celery stalk (optional)
1 dried hot chili pepper (optional)

Fill each jar with cool tap water and cover the cukes. Use sterilized (or new) lids and seals. Cap tightly (my dad always gave the jars my sister and I capped an extra turn for good measure)! Rotate the jar back and forth a few times to dissolve the salt a bit and disperse the spices and garlic (some will settle at the bottom).

Place pickles in a cool dark place (a basement is ideal). Store for 7days for “half sour;” 10-14 days for “full sour.” Then, place pickles in your refrigerator. They will keep for several months unopened. I recommend placing newspaper underneath the jars, which may leak a little.

When you open the jars, they may fizz, so opening in your sink is a good idea. The water may be cloudy and this is okay. Also, the color of the pickles will have changed from bright green to olive green.

Take out a pickle. Eat with chutzpah! I’m willing to bet you won’t be able to stop at one.

Want to nosh on more deliciousness? Check out Wanderfood Wednesday!