I bought a set of 2 one-liter fermentation jars last time I was at the mill shop.
They look more or less like Mason jars, slightly cheaper-looking, with 2 sets of lids – 1 normal, 1 with little rubber valves. I guess they are fermentation jars due to the valve lids and the glass weights you get to keep everything underwater.
Gamma likes the fermented Korean specialty known as 김치. Those partial to the Latin alphabet spell it kimchi, kimchee or gimchi, so to avoid confusion we will use the Korean spelling 김치.
I had been wanting to try fermentation and pickling (2 different processes, I gather) for a long time, since old-timey pre-lockdown times.
I did an Internet search, picked the easiest-looking recipe that still came from an Asian person and we went to work on our 김치.
Chopped up what is known here in Austria as Chinese cabbage, soaked it in a salt brine for a while, added chopped spring peppers and matchstick sized daikon only we didn’t have any daikon so we used Bierrettich which looks the same but is said to be spicier, but this wasn’t very spicy so we’re ok. Made a sauce out of Korean chili pepper flakes, soy sauce, ginger, miso paste, soy paste (I assume the same thing, just marketing? slightly different taste), I might be forgetting something, not sure. Garlic. Maybe something else. Didn’t use carrots due to some people in our target audience being allergic, mixed it all up (after draining the cabbage), put it in the (sterilized) jars, topped it off with brine, put the weights on top, and stashed it downstairs in the basement.
I am not a huge 김치 eater, and a novice fermenter, so it was not clear to me what my cellar would smell like when my project got going.
Nothing happened during the first two days, but when I went down there this morning the jars were standing in a puddle of brine that had leaked out the valves. And my basement smells like a 김치 factory.
Anyway, tonight I switch out the lids, to limit leakage, hopefully, and stick the jars into the downstairs utility fridge, which is used for beer, sourdough starter, photographic film, vegetable overflow, etc. And, now, 김치.
Category Archives: Das Gehirn
I bought a set of 2 one-liter fermentation jars last time I was at the mill shop.
Thank you for visiting the 2021 metamorphosism.com International St. Valentine’s Day Limerick Contest. Entries are now closed! I am leaving comments open for a while for congratulations and well-wishes to the contestants.
Not for the first time, the winner this year is dark-horse entrant Perry Iles. Congratulations, Perry!
It was a close decision, this year, between Perry Iles and runner-up KayO. I wanted to give it to KayO because she not only squeezed a sea shanty into limerick form, she also did it to Mary Oliver, which I had assumed to be impossible. HOWEVER, Perry’s entries are simply overwhelming once again this year, and the prize is sourdough starter, and Perry lives closer, so there’s a chance it might still be alive when he gets it. I did you a favor, KayO! (Perry, if you don’t want the prize let me know…)
Thanks to everyone who entered, and everyone who visited.
See you next year!
Welcome to the 2021 metamorphosism.com International St. Valentine’s Day Limerick Contest.
Remember when we used to look forward to 2021? And now it already feels strangely like 2016-2020 in a trenchcoat?
As every year, please leave your entries in the comments to this post.
Enter as often as you like.
You may notice that I have no image for the contest this time up there at the top. That is because I am in home office and unable to make one on my little laptop, also I am baking and knitting all the time. If anyone else wants to make one, hey knock yourself out.
This year’s themes:
(Also check further down the rules for newer and/or more specific prompts/themes)
Virology and epidemiology
plus bonus themes to be added as the contest progresses
All participants are required to consult the combined FAQ/rules below BECAUSE THEY CHANGE WHILE THE CONTEST IS GOING ON.
Like every year.
- Does it have to be a limerick? YES. This is strictly enforced, and non-limericks will not be accepted. Google correct limerick form if you are not sure.
- How do I enter? POST YOUR ENTRY OR ENTRIES in the comments to this post. Click on comment, or whatever is down there, and add a new comment.
- When is the deadline? THE DEADLINE is 14 February 2021
- Do you mean 12 midnight on the night of the 13th or midnight on the night of the 14th? And which time zone shall have seisin of jurisdiction? We have had considerably confusion in the past! NINE AM (CENTRAL EUROPEAN TIME) 14 February 2021.
- Is there a prize? Maybe. I don’t know yet.
- Is there a limit to how often I can enter? NO. Enter as often as you like. The more often you enter, the better your chances.
- HOWEVER ONLY ORIGINAL ENTRIES ARE ACCEPTED. PLAGIARISM RESULTS IN DISQUALIFICATION. No exceptions.
- Can entries be bawdy? YES, absolutely. These are limericks, they can be bawdy, gross, you name it. It’s not required, but it is in the nature of the genre. ALSO: this is for St. Valentine’s Day so points awarded for love/romance/sex-related poetry. However, entries offensive to the contest operator will be deleted at his discretion, for offenses including but not limited to racism, and misogyny, and politics to which I object.
- Complaints and other negative trolling will be deleted. There is no avenue of appeal. Decisions of the judges are final. Be nice, and have fun, and don’t take this too seriously.
- Is there anything else I can do to be deleted? Yes. Besides complaints, anything else that is not a limerick will also be deleted, especially anything remotely similar to trolling, nastiness or disagreeing with me. That will get you deleted, and whatever else our technicians here can think up. This is meant to be a fun and light-hearted.
Let’s see, what else? Oh yes.
- Bonus points are awarded for any of the following (No limit to how many themes you may include, the more the better):
Feel free to write me and suggest some!
Limericks that are sea shanties (with or without the word “wellerman”).
Conversion of Mary Oliver poems into limerick form.
More will be added as the month progresses
(More themes to come, watch this space.)
By entering you grant metamorphosism.com permission to publish your entry electronically on metamorphosism.com, in social media (including but not limited to twitter.com, facebook.com and anything else) as well as in book form, although the latter is REALLY unlikely, and has never happened yet, without compensation (this is a non-profit venture, and any possible, although unlikely, book would be, you know, for charity most likely). I have never published them anywhere but here, but who knows?
AS ALWAYS, RULES ARE SUBJECT TO CONSTANT CHANGE DURING THE CONTEST, SO CHECK BACK OFTEN.
Man (walks in, squints, looks around, sits on a stool next to a shaggy dog, sighs): This free?
Dog (sets glass on bar, slowly looks over shoulder at man): You just sat on a stool.
Man (jumps to feet): Jesus! What?
Dog: Hurhurhur. (sips drink)
Man (sighs again, sits back down): Don’t, dude. It’s been a rough time, stool-wise.
Dog: Burst pipe?
Man (nods, signals to bartender “I’ll have what he’s having and bring another one for him, too”): That was just the start of the iceberg.
(Drinks arrive, dog nods, raises glass to man)
Man: I was sick all week. 38 degrees C, terrible stomach cramps. Felt like appendicitis, but right, if I know what appendicitis feels like, it can’t be appendicitis again, right. So, I’m not sure. Ate something bad, or a stomach bug, dunno. Maybe diverticulitis. Luckily I already have an initial appointment with my colonoscopy doctor, because my urologist recommended I see her after I told him the water in the toilet bowl was very often bright red, if you know what I mean.
Dog (shrugs): Huh.
Man: So, I asked my urologist, probably hemmorhoids right and he said, maybe, or it could be malignant too, maybe go have them take a look under the hood.
Man: So I called and made an appointment. Then, like, next day I notice the water in the toilet bowl is purple now.
Man: Only then did I notice that my wife had hung a purple toilet bowl freshener thing from the rim.
Dog: Hur hur.
Man: So I asked her, honey, were you using a red one last time and she said yeah.
Dog (smirks, sips drink): Red toilet bowl fresheners are sponsored by the colonoscopy industry, I betcha.
Man: Never got around to canceling. But after my thing this week now I’m glad I didn’t.
Exterior: Modest house. Camera zooms through wall into the
Interior: Combination living room/scientist’s lair. A two-headed man is seated on the sofa. Across the room, a door opens onto a kitchen, where something bubbles. Theremin music emits from an open laptop.
Right Head: I have an idea for a toilet story.
Left Head (glances up sharply from a psychology book): No.
Right Head: A funny toilet story.
Left Head: There are no funny toilet stories.
Right Head (chuckles): This one is.
Left Head: No.
Right Head: The punch line is…
Left Head: I don’t wanna hear it. Nobody does.
Right Head: Colonoscopy…
Left Head: I’m serious. How does your mind work?
Right Head: Colored toilet bowl freshener balls…
Left Head (Holding hands over ears) Lalalalala.
Right Head: What is your problem?
Left Head: You mean your problem. Toilet stories are never funny. They are cringy at best, and usually merely gross. No one is funny on the toilet. Not the Marx Brothers, not Mr. Bean, not Monty Python. And what do you think people visualize when you tell one? We are 61 years old. No one wants to imagine us on a toilet.
Right Head: Hm. Good point.
Left Head: And plus, your last blog post involved a burst sewer pipe.
Right Head: Hm.
(Silence. Left Head reopens book.)
Right Head: I’m still going in for the colonoscopy tho.
Left Head (Sighs. Recloses book, gazes up at ceiling)
(Lights come up)
(Living room, a woman is decorating a Christmas tree, radio plays Christmas songs. Cat sleeps on sofa)
Man (seated at table, repairing ornament): Fuck, I glued the bird to my finger.
(Fade to black)
Mopping raw sewage in his cellar, the wolf regretted ever leaving the forest.
From where had it come? Had the sewer line leading out of the house clogged, causing in-house sewage to somehow overflow into the furnace room, or had some external problem caused outside sewage to flow back into the house and overflow?
And why did it have to happen on a Saturday night, maximizing the time he would have to wait before a plumber could come?
He imagined scenes from plague horror movies where a janitor mops contaminated water and you see a single drop, in slow motion, splash up and get him in the lip, or the eyeball, and then in even more extreme closeup, how the bacteria, or viruses, enter his bloodstream, etc.
Everything is a question of perspective, he told himself.
Accepting his fate to the extent that he mopped up everything and resolved, once it had dried, to mop the room again with some sort of harsh disinfecting liquid, the wolf nevertheless washed his paws for a long time, then clipped his claws and washed his paws again. And then again.
Good thing about a pandemic, thought the wolf, is at least you have lots of disinfectant on hand.
Then he poured a glass of whiskey, closed his eyes, and thought of tundra, and forests, and prairie.
As I mentioned already on Facebook, we cancelled Thanksgiving due to the pandemic and will instead eat club sandwiches via skype with the children on Saturday. The turkey we had ordered from the organic farmer down the road got a last minute reprieve and, cynical and disillusioned after having said goodbye to life, is presently hitchhiking somewhere with a beach to smoke French cigarettes and write existentialist poetry. Don’t worry, we ordered another one for Christmas, assuming the lockdown is over by then, and in preparation will all self-quarantine 10 days before getting together bc you can’t be too careful.
Anyway the turkey mailed me his first poem this morning, excerpt attached below.
I saw the best fowl of my generation destroyed by farmers, gorged hysterical cackle,
dragging themselves through the angry yard at dawn looking for a trough of corn
angelfeathered hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and gobbling sat up clucking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water barns floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven on order before the holidays and saw the poultry angels staggering on barnyard roofs illuminated,
who passed through plucking sheds with now dead eyes hallucinating nothing, no more Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of carnivorism,
or those like me expelled from the slaughterhouse by some trick of pandemic and quarantine, left to wander
to cower unplucked in rooms in unfamiliar underwear, burning their poetry in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall…
What sphinx of cement and metal ax bashed off their heads and ate them up with sauce of cranberry and mashed yams?
Thanksgiving! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Turkeys screaming under the stairways! Turkeys gobblesobbing in flocks! Old poet turkeys pardoned and weeping in the parks!
Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving! Nightmare of Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving the loveless! Mental Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving the heavy judger of turkeys!
Thanksgiving the incomprehensible prison! Thanksgiving the crossbone soulless jailhouse and kitchen of sorrows! Thanksgiving whose heaping platters are judgment! Thanksgiving the vast stone of war! Thanksgiving the stunned governments!
Thanksgiving whose mind is pure machinery! Thanksgiving whose blood is running money! Thanksgiving whose fingers are ten armies! Thanksgiving whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Thanksgiving….