Creamy Cucumber Salad — The Side Dish That Always Sat Next to the Bratwurst

Mamma called Tuesday morning at 10 AM, as she always does, as she has done since she had a phone of her own in 1953. She wanted to know what I was making for dinner. The question matters to her in a way that I now understand at sixty-eight in a way I did not understand at thirty. The asking is the love. The answering is the love. The conversation is the bridge across the days. We talked for nineteen minutes. Mamma is ninety. The phone calls are precious and finite. I do not waste them. Anna sent photos from Minneapolis — the kids in their school uniforms, David's new bookshelf, the dog (their dog, not mine; their dog is named Cooper, and Cooper is a Bernese mountain dog who weighs more than Anna and who is, by all accounts, the most relaxed dog in the upper Midwest). I printed three of the photos and put them on the fridge. The fridge holds the family that is not currently in the kitchen. Elsa called from Voyageurs. She had a sighting of a wolf — a single gray adult crossing a frozen bay at dawn, fifty yards from her cabin. She had a sighting of a moose two days later. She is happy in the woods. I am glad someone in this family is happy in the woods. I have always loved Lake Superior, but the deeper woods are not for me. Elsa is for the deeper woods. The match is right. I cooked Bratwurst with sauerkraut this week. Memorial Day. Independence Day. Erik's grill. Bratwurst from the German butcher in Hermantown. Sauerkraut warmed with caraway. Mustard. Rye buns. Damiano Thursday: a young father came in with two small children. He had not eaten in a day. The children had crackers from a bus station. I gave them three bowls each. They ate without speaking. The father wept silently while he ate. I pretended not to notice. Scandinavian decorum, applied with care. After he left, Gerald and I stood at the pot for a long minute. We did not speak. We knew what we had seen. The pot stayed warm. I miss Erik. I have been missing Erik more than I anticipated. I knew I would miss him, but I had not realized how often the missing would surface — in small specific moments, like noticing the wood pile is low and remembering that he used to chop it for me, or looking at the calendar and seeing the Sunday and knowing he is not coming for dinner. Erik was the closest person to me in space and time. The space and time are now not closed by anyone in particular. The kids fill the gap as they can. The gap is still a gap. It is enough. It has to be. And on a morning like this, with the lake doing what the lake does and the dog at my feet and the bread on the counter and the kitchen warm enough to live in, it is. The Kenwood neighborhood has aged with me. The Bergmans next door (who were a young couple with three kids when Paul and I moved in) are now grandparents themselves; the Larsons across the street have moved to a smaller place; the Andersons three doors down passed away in 2017 and 2019 respectively. The block has filled in with younger families that I am too tired to fully meet. I wave from the porch. They wave back. The wave is the relationship. It is enough.

The bratwurst always had a companion at our table — something cool and sharp to cut through the richness, something Erik would reach for first before the mustard. This creamy cucumber salad was that companion. It is not complicated, which is exactly right; on the days I made it, I was not looking for complexity. I was looking for the thing that completes the plate and, in completing it, completes the afternoon. I make it still.

Creamy Cucumber Salad

Prep Time: 15 min | Chill Time: 30 min | Total Time: 45 min | Servings: 6

Ingredients

• 2 large cucumbers (about 1 1/2 lbs), thinly sliced
• 1/2 small red onion, very thinly sliced
• 1 1/4 tsp kosher salt, divided
• 3/4 cup sour cream
• 2 tbsp white wine vinegar
• 1 tbsp granulated sugar
• 3 tbsp fresh dill, chopped (or 1 tsp dried dill)
• 1/4 tsp freshly ground black pepper
• 1/4 tsp garlic powder

Instructions

1. Draw out the water. Place the sliced cucumbers in a colander set over a bowl. Sprinkle with 1 tsp of the salt, toss to coat, and let stand for 20 minutes. Pat dry thoroughly with paper towels or a clean kitchen cloth. This step keeps the dressing from going watery.
2. Slice the onion. While the cucumbers drain, slice the red onion as thinly as possible. If the onion is very sharp, soak the slices in cold water for 10 minutes and pat dry.
3. Make the dressing. In a medium bowl, whisk together the sour cream, white wine vinegar, sugar, fresh dill, black pepper, garlic powder, and remaining 1/4 tsp salt. Taste and adjust — it should be tangy with a quiet sweetness.
4. Combine. Add the dried cucumber slices and red onion to the dressing. Fold gently until every slice is coated.
5. Chill. Cover and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes before serving. The salad is best the day it’s made, though it holds well for up to 24 hours. Stir once more before serving and garnish with a few extra dill fronds if you have them.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 85 | Protein: 2g | Fat: 5g | Carbs: 8g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 310mg