WRITER’S BLOCK
W
The Comfort of Cabbage hen your version of decadence is defined by spoon-feeding yourself Velveeta Shells and Cheese straight from the hot pot you filled 15 minutes earlier with bathroom tap water, you know it’s time to step up your game.
I was no novice to cooking; my mom and I often cozied up under blankets and clipped recipes out of magazines. My dad and I honed our skills by watching “The Frugal Gourmet” and Jacques Pépin. But anyone who’s ever lived in a college dorm room knows that no matter how savvy you are in the kitchen, your roommate’s desk is never enough space to make any kind of meal for yourself unless it involves bringing something to boil with the touch of a button. So as I entered my last semester of dorm life, pots and pans already clanged together with noisy anticipation inside of my head. I made a silent vow to myself: Once I got my own kitchen, I was going to perfect Grandma’s Cabbage and Dumplings. Growing up, there was only one thing more sacred to my brother and I than a snow day in winter: A Cabbage and Dumplings Day. The long-awaited season of our favorite dish would typically kick off on a day when bare branches shivered under the first true chill of winter; where their leaves had all turned crispy and brown on the ground, and the sky sulked with gray. When the phone rang, we’d instinctively know that Grandma’s already had the kettle simmering for hours, and we’d all be heading over for the ultimate comfort food.
Pasture Raised
PORK, CHICKEN & EGG (20forlb)
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bundle $100!
SEVEN | Issue #9 | March, 2016
Liz 608-738-2940 / flyinlynch@hotmail.com / Facebook: Lynch Farms
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By: Briana Rupel
Spring Fling!
It’s been 13 years since my grandma gave me my lesson over a winter break in college. Recently, I declared a dreary Tuesday a Cabbage and Dumplings Day and invited my boyfriend over for dinner. I used all my grandma’s essential tips: to sauté the onions in bacon fat and thicken with flour before adding them to the pot; to use stale bread instead of fresh. I neglected the measuring cups and worked my biceps and shoulders stirring the tough batter until it just felt right. Still I was nervous. It’s one thing to cook for people you care about. But this wasn’t just food. I was sharing a part of my heritage; a part of my personal history. This is the meal we all requested before leaving for college. This is the meal that feeds hordes of hunters before they wander off into the woods year after year. This is a big deal. I pulled a little test bite out of the kettle. The pork nearly disintegrated at the touch of a spoon, but the true test was in the dumpling. The surface was moist and sweet from being nestled in the cabbage. As I bit in, I hit that perfect amount of chew—not mushy, not dry—followed by the sweetness of real cream butter with a hint of salt and nutty caraway. A huge grin spread across my face and I jumped up and down on alternating legs clutching the spoon in my hand. “Ahhh,” I cried out loud, giggling. “It’s perfect!” I called Grandma the next day to fill her in on my victory. I told her it was the first time I had made the dish for Eric. “Oh,” she acknowledged, with a semi-serious tone. “And... did he like it?” I recalled sneaking a peek at him while he took his first bite so I could gauge his natural reaction. I could feel myself biting my lip in anticipation. Then his eyes got wide as he nodded his head and raised his hand to offer up a high-five. “Yeah,” I smiled, “he loved it!” “Oh, good,” she exasperated, only half-jokingly, “tell him Grandma’s proud!”
Briana Rupel is a born and bred Wisconsinite. She is continually inspired by the Seven Rivers Region’s natural beauty, the talent of its local musicians and the stories of everyday people.
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If there’s any badge of my Bohemian heritage besides my prominent facial features, it is this dish—perfect in its simplicity—of slow-simmered pork, sweet cabbage and buttery bread dumplings the size of mini Nerf Footballs. My grandma remembers first cooking this when she married my grandpa 59 years ago. She got it from her grandma, who was taught the recipe by her mother-in-law. This isn’t the stuff of Pinterest. This is oral tradition at its finest, originating half a world away. I needed to carry on this tradition. I also needed dumplings in my belly at any time I wanted.
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