This same time, years previous: outside eating, calf wrangling, what writing a book is like, retreating, the good things that happen, ketchup, two ways, blasted cake, grilled salmon with lemon butter, hot chocolate.

The other night my husband walked into the bathroom and bellowed, WHO JUST GOT A SHOWER? BECAUSE THERE IS WATER ALL OVER THE FLOOR.

The rest of us didn’t hardly even bother to register the temper-tantruming adult in the other room—-we’ve long ago learned to take his fits in stride—-until he stormed into the kitchen, an empty washbasket in one hand and a towel in the other, smacked the basket down on the floor, stepped into it, and then turned to face us.

When he saw he had our attention, he announced, “There is no reason there should be water on the bathroom floor. EVER.”

And then he proceeded to demonstrate how to properly towel dry your body.

First, reach for your bath towel which you have conveniently placed on the floor by the tub and, while still standing in the tub, towel off your head.

Then do a thorough drying of your legs and then first one foot—-and step out—-and then the other foot.

Now you are standing on the bathroom mat with dry feet. Amazing, no?

See? No water on the floor! No wet socks! No angry Papa!

Calmly and happily go about the business of toweling off the rest of your body.

Drying off, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, drying off.

Have I made myself clear? There will be no more water on the floor, right?

Sure, Dad. Whatever.

And that, my friends, is the proper procedure for toweling off after a shower, according to my husband.

The end.

This same time, years previous: in my kitchen, the quotidian (9.7.15), how to clean a room, fruit-on-the-bottom baked oatmeal, fairy rings.

A couple months ago, my sister-in-law lobbed a couple cabbages at me. Or maybe it was just one enormous one? I can’t remember. Anyways, I got me some cabbage(s).

Which instantly created problems. Because while I like cabbage, and my family eats it well enough (when leveled with a series of my most hairy eyeballs), I don’t have any great preservation methods. So we eat it fresh or braised or in soups or whatever. It always ends up feeling like cabbage feast or famine.

But then I discovered curtido. Come to think of it, I may have discovered curtido before my sister-in-law chucked her cabbage(s) at me? Did I buy a cabbage from somewhere?

Hm, can’t remember. My brain’s a muddle. 

ANYWAY. Point is, I made curtido and loved it. And then I made it again. (And then, I think, again? Whatevs.) I found the recipe on the New York Times Cooking email that pops into my inbox every several days, but then when I went to write about it, I discovered I was blocked. They had a new policy and in order to see the actual recipe I’d need to pay five dollars a month.

Briefly, I fumed. The audacity! The inconvenience! But then, sigh, I signed up. That’s how badly I wanted the recipe! Even though there are hundreds of other curtido recipes splattered across the Internets, I wanted that one, so humph. (I haven’t gone completely off the deep end; after this month, I’ll cancel the subscription, don’t worry.)

There’s nothing fancy about the recipe (and after all that trouble, too, I bet you thought it was all sorts of exotic, ha): Just shredded cabbage and onion, packed in a jar and then covered with a heavily-salted and lightly-seasoned brine. Prepared like so, the cabbage just sits in the fridge for weeks on end, much like refrigerator pickles. The finished product isn’t even all that exciting.

Except—EXCEPT—for when it’s paired with beans. A scoop of curtido alongside a pile of rice and beans is an oo-la-la game changer. The salty cabbage adds crunch, salt, and tangy-zip. It makes my husband, the not-a-bean-fan grouch, actually smile and—get this—rave. So yeah, this curtido is nothing short of revolutionary. Mark my words.

My mother’s hopped aboard the curtido bandwagon. She’s cut down on the salt and is experimenting with different additions. She’s serious about the stuff. (Hey Mom, you there? If you have a sec, would you mind noting your methods/changes in the comments? xo!)

Also, Dad planted fall cabbages and just passed on a couple starts to me, so there should be plenty of curtido in our collective futures, hip-hip!

Five-Dollar Curtido
Adapted from the New York Times Cooking website.

With 2 tablespoons of salt, it’s quite salty. You could easily cut back to 1 tablespoon and be just fine. It might even be better that way.

1 pound cabbage, shredded
½ medium onion, sliced thin
½ cup white vinegar
1-2 tablespoons salt
½ teaspoon dried oregano
1-2 pinches ground cumin
¼ teaspoon black pepper

Combine all ingredients in a large bowl. Add 1-2 cups of cold water. Mix well. Pack into a half-gallon jar, pressing the veggies down so they are covered with the brine. Let sit at room temp for a day (or three) before transferring to the refrigerator. Serve with beans and rice, tacos, pulled pork, pupusas, etc.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (9.5.16), rainy day writing, pear tarts, a quick rundown, say cheese!.