Part One:

Sprayed across the upper kitchen cabinets.
Decorating the blender and the toaster.
Adorning the counter top.
Clinging to my knees, toes, arms, and hair.
Nesting in my cleavage.
Resting on the floor.
Soaking in salt water.
Sauerkraut-making day.

Part Two:

The fragrance of fermentation
Like when my father says,
“Pull my finger,”
Permeates the garage.
I cut short my errands past the crock,
Become a mouth breather.
Six weeks passes like eternity.

My father knew a family of 11
who lived in a one-room cabin
and ate sauerkraut all winter
from a Hogshead barrel.

Still, there’s a reason
My ancestors celebrated
The new year with pork roast,
Potatoes and sauerkraut.

I can taste the salty succulence now.