ferments

It’s my belief that most things in life–health, sexuality, political ideology, spiritual inclination–can be found not within binary but somewhere along a spectrum, even things as seemingly simple as, say, pickles.

Go into any old-timey Jewish deli and you’ll see what I mean. There on the counter near the register you’ll find two, often three great big glass jars of cucumber pickles: half-sours, sours, double-sours all suspended in murky brine. The sour pickle spectrum.

I, personally, like my pickles sour as can be. Blame it on adrenal fatigue (and the subsequent craving for salt), blame it on a vata-imbalance and a constant need for grounding, blame it on my Iraqi heritage (my dad has this endearing habit of linking my love for any vaguely middle-eastern food–olives, pistachios, figs–to this), while you’re at it, blame it on my Polish/Ukrainian heritage or my Jewish heritage for that matter (I love how the boundaries between what is traditionally “Jewish” food and what is traditionally “Slavic” are so beautifully blurry), any way you slice it, there’s no denying that I fall on the extreme end of the spectrum.

And not to make other versions of pickles feel less than, but if I’m being completely honest the classic cucumber pickle is my pickle of choice. It’s one of those foods that has made its way onto the plates of such seemingly disparate cultures: the bowl of sour pickle soup from Poland, the sour pickles served with timman from Iraq, the smoked-meat sandwich w/ a side of sour pickles from Montreal, the triple-cheeseburger with extra pickles from the U.S. of A.

It’s a food that transcends borders. One that feels familiar, conjures up some sense of nostalgia no matter what your cultural heritage (or ayurvedic dosha, for that matter). It’s a food that, for me, signals the start of deep Summer when days are long and spent submerged in grass, or lake, or hammock beneath stretched hours of sun. I find this kind of food-nostalgia, “comfort” food in the truest sense, to be deeply nourishing, chicken soup for the soul.

And, when made traditionally through the process of lacto-fermentation (using just salt, water and time), it’s a food that is brimming with probiotics, or the beneficial bacteria that hang out and help out in our intestines strengthening not only our digestive health, but our immune health, our mental health. As my Ethnobotany professor used to say whenever a medicinal plant also happened to taste delicious, bonus!

Deep Summer means jars of pickles with varying degrees of sourness fermenting in my cupboard for various lengths of time. Waiting to be crunched into alongside BLT or leg of oven-fried chicken or diced into egg-salad.

The two main factors that affect the sourness of cucumber pickles are:

The amount of salt added (more salt = more sour)
The amount of time (more time = more sour)

This week I’m sharing my method for medium-sour pickles. I invite you to experiment this Summer and see where you fall on the spectrum!

Sour Pickles

Ingredients

2 and 1/2 heaping tablespoons sun-dried sea-salt (like Celtic sea-salt)

4 or 5 cucumbers

3 cloves garlic, peeled

couple stems flowering dill

Directions

Sterilize a quart canning jar by filling with boiling water.
Slice cucumbers into wedges. Drain water from jar and let cool. Pack jar with cukes, garlic and dill, until jar is completely full.
Add salt. Fill jar to the top with cold, non-chlorinated water. Seal and shake to distribute salt.
Leave in a cool, dark place for at least 3 days. (I like to ferment medium sours for 5 days). (You can ferment these babies for months and months, BTW).
After opening pickles, store in fridge.

The more you get into pickling, the more you realize you can pickle (or more rightly, ferment) practically anything. Typically cucumbers are the gate-way vegetable, followed by cabbage for ‘kraut, green-beans for New England style dilly-beans, then carrots, turnips, radishes, kohlrabi, hot peppers, lemons, garlic…

At some point (perhaps after kohlrabi), the possibilities begin to seem absolutely endless. I, personally, have pickled all of the above plant-foods and have tasted countless other ones (mangoes, the stalks from Swiss chard, mushrooms, pineapple [!!]). Then, there’s the boundless amount of combinations–cabbage w/ algae and nettle, radishes and turnips mixed w/ thin slices of beet, carrots w/ turmeric and garlic and zucchini and turnips and cauliflower.

Yep, you can pickle cauliflower, too.

The above combination was my first introduction to pickles. Iraqi torshi (the Arabic word for pickles): stained-yellow, all crunchy and salty and sour. This was the jar that was consistently found in my Iraqi grandmother’s fridge and the fridge of, I’d wager, most Iraqi grandmothers. This was the jar I would tuck my fork into and ply pickle after pickle out of, until my mouth would buzz from the brine.

Torshi was a year-round deal in my grandmother’s kitchen, but I’m categorizing my variation as a Winter kind-of deal because, even though there’s cauliflower a-plenty in the Summer, there just aren’t as many other Winter candidates for pickling (raise yr hand if you’re already fed-up w/ ‘kraut) and ’tis the season to celebrate variation in yr local diet when you can find it.

As usual, this isn’t a super-strict recipe, but more a set of guidelines for you to do w/ what you will. I use cauliflower, red carrots, turmeric root and garlic in my version, but if you live in a region where you have other options (like zucchini and summer turnips) then throw those in as well. If you want to stain your pickles yellow, use powdered turmeric instead of the root. The main point is to cut your vegetables into even-sized chunks to get them fermenting at a similar rate (in order for them to be similarly crunchy).

Winter Torshi

Note: For more information on the health benefits of lacto-fermented pickles see here.

#1. Chop cauliflower and carrots (and zucchini and summer turnips, if you have them) into even-sized chunks. Slice turmeric into thin strips, peel garlic and leave whole.

#2. While you’re chopping, put a kettle to boil. Pour boiling water into seal-able glass jar. Let sit for a few moments. Pour water out of jar and let cool (either by pouring cold water into jar, or just leaving it for a few more moments).

#3. Add vegetables and herbs to jar. Stuff until jar is full.

#4. Add celtic sea-salt (or another unrefined, sun-dried sea salt). The amount depends on the size of your jar. For example, I used a 2-litre sized jar so I added 3 tablespoons of salt. If your jar is smaller, add less. If it’s bigger, add more. You need your brine (your salt + water solution) to be salty enough to promote the production of beneficial bacteria, so there’s a minimum amount necessary, but there’s no maximum. Experiment and taste your brine as you’re working.

#5. Fill jar w/ non-chlorinated water. (For those of you who are state-side, to de-chlorinate your water simply fill a jar w/ tap water and let stand for at least 30 minutes. Good practice to get into even when not making pickles, methinks.)

#6. Make sure your vegetables are submerged under your brine. To do this, you may need to use a tool–like a sterilized (boiled) stone, or the root-end of the cauliflower–to press down on your vegetables and seal them in. If you packed them super tightly, you won’t need this tool. You just need to make sure none of your vegetables are exposed to air.

#7. Seal tightly and store in a cool, dark place for at least 3 days. I fermented my Winter torshi for 5 days because I wanted it to be crunchy. After opening, store in the refrigerator.

The Soaked Bean

Seeking Nourishment, Finding Traditions

Sour Pickle Spectrum

Winter Torshi