Sweet Pickles — The Patience of Curing, the Comfort of Keeping

The Damiano Center on Thursday: wild rice soup, fifty gallons, the same recipe I have been making for twenty-some years now. The constancy is the point. People come into the basement of that building hungry and uncertain and what they find is a fifty-gallon pot of wild rice soup that has been there every Thursday of every year, and they find Linda Johansson, who has been there too, and the constancy is the message: you can come back. You can come back. You can come back. Lena (Anna's youngest, college freshman) is in college now. She calls me sometimes. The calls are about boys, mostly. I listen. I do not give advice. I am eighteen-year-old's grandmother. My credibility on boys is suspect at best. I tell her the kinds of things a grandmother is supposed to tell her: be careful, be brave, trust your gut, do not date the one who reminds you of someone you do not like. She thinks I am wise. I am, in fact, just old. The two get confused sometimes in the right direction. Jakob (Anna's middle, recently graduated) has a job. He hates the job. He is figuring it out. He called me Tuesday for advice. I told him: that is what your twenties are for. The first job is supposed to be unsatisfying. The first job teaches you what you do not want. He said, "Grandma, that is not super helpful." I said, "It is the truth. Helpful is not always the same as comforting." He laughed. He hung up. He kept the job for now. He will figure it out. I cooked Gravlax with mustard sauce this week. Salmon cured for two days in salt, sugar, and dill. Sliced thin. Served with a mustard-dill sauce and brown bread. The Swedish standard. Damiano Center, Thursday. New volunteer this week — a young woman named Sara, just out of college, looking lost and brave. I showed her how to ladle. She caught on quickly. She asked me how long I had been doing this. I said: "Long enough that I do not count." She laughed. She will be back. The good ones come back. Paul's chair is at the head of the table. His glasses are on the shelf. The arrangement is permanent. The arrangement is the love. The arrangement has been remarked on, gently, by various people over the years — Anna, mostly, and well-meaning friends. The arrangement persists. I do not require justification for it. The chair is the chair. It is enough. Paul is not here. Mamma is not here. Pappa is not here. Erik is not here. They are all here in the kitchen, in the smell, in the taste, in the wooden spoon and the bread pans and the marble slab. The dead are not where the body went. The dead are in the kitchen. I have started, in the last few years, to think about what I will leave behind. Not in a morbid way. In a practical way. The recipes are written down. The notebook is on the counter. The kitchen is in good order. The house is in Anna's name (we did the legal work in 2032; the kids agreed; it was the practical thing). The grandchildren and great-grandchildren each have a few small specific things — a wooden spoon, a bread pan, a particular cast iron skillet — that I have already labeled with their names on small pieces of masking tape. Nobody knows about the masking tape labels. They will find them when they find them. It is enough.

The gravlax this week reminded me, as it always does, that the best things ask you to wait — two days in salt and sugar and dill before they are ready, and all you can do is trust the process and leave it alone. I have been making sweet pickles by the same logic for years now: you pack the jars, you seal them, and you let time do what time does. They keep for months. They are still there when you need them. That, as much as the taste, is the point.

Sweet Pickles

Prep Time: 20 minutes | Cook Time: 10 minutes | Total Time: 30 minutes plus 24–48 hours curing | Servings: 24 (makes approximately 2 pints)

Ingredients

• 1 1/2 lbs small cucumbers (Kirby or Persian), sliced into 1/4-inch rounds
• 1 medium white onion, thinly sliced
• 1 tablespoon kosher salt
• 1 cup white wine vinegar
• 3/4 cup granulated sugar
• 1/2 teaspoon mustard seeds
• 1/2 teaspoon celery seed
• 1/4 teaspoon ground turmeric
• 1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes (optional)

Instructions

1. Salt the cucumbers. Toss sliced cucumbers and onion with kosher salt in a large bowl. Let sit for 1 hour at room temperature to draw out excess moisture. Drain, rinse well under cold water, and pat dry.
2. Make the brine. Combine vinegar, sugar, mustard seeds, celery seed, turmeric, and red pepper flakes (if using) in a small saucepan. Bring to a simmer over medium heat, stirring until sugar is fully dissolved, about 5 minutes. Remove from heat and let cool for 10 minutes.
3. Pack the jars. Pack the drained cucumber and onion slices tightly into two clean 1-pint glass jars. Pour the warm brine over the cucumbers, pressing them down gently to submerge. Leave 1/4-inch headspace at the top.
4. Cool and cure. Let jars cool to room temperature with lids loosely set. Once cool, seal tightly and refrigerate for at least 24 hours before serving — 48 hours is better. The flavor deepens and sweetens as they rest.
5. Serve. Serve cold alongside cured fish, brown bread, cheese, or any simple supper that calls for something sharp and bright. Refrigerator pickles will keep for up to 6 weeks sealed.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 28 | Protein: 0g | Fat: 0g | Carbs: 7g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 85mg