A harvest for All Souls’ Day.

Green. Crisp. Cold as November can be, even with fall sunlight offering otherwise. False sun promises more than it can deliver. Still the last of my garden waits to be harvested. Brussels sprouts sweetened by frost. And firm cabbages already splitting.

I hate cabbage. It reminds me of my mother. She’d grow dozens of cabbages in her country gardens. Okay, hate is too strong a word. And it isn’t the cabbage but the sorrow of remembering. So of course I grow them; because I love the misery.

Late winter and the same cycle of gardening rituals always began again. Still begins. Seedlings nurtured indoors. Cabbages; green, purple, savoy. Kohlrabi. Tomatoes. Peppers. More. So much more. My parents had two acres of gardens to till and fill.

That was my childhood summers. Verdant fertile lush growth. Weeds by the bushel. Manure by the wheelbarrow. Sunshine, laughter, and beauty. Sweat, bug bites, and sore muscles.

I ate well. Slept better. Woke to the song of birds and roosters. I’d sneak out my window in the dawn light. Scoot across the porch roof to the drainpipe and down. Barefoot in the dew. I loved the freedom in those early moments. No chores. No commands. No fear of a quick slap for my insolence. And I was joyfully insolent.

Peter Rabbit, I’d raid the garden. My breakfast changing as I progressed through seasons; spring spinach and radishes to red juicy tomatoes. Strawberries to raspberries to early pears. My tongue happy with whatever was on the garden menu. Cold water from the well.

Then rush inside to the kitchen with a basket of goodies for mum. My bare feet muddy and my face smeared with feasting. My father would shake his head. Sit me on the kitchen counter so I could rinse my feet. He mopped up my footprints. Then tell me to go wake up my older siblings.

Then it was the usual large family chaos of too many voices, and hormonal anger. Wearing rubber boots I’d head outside to escape the escalating kitchen drama. Finding quiet by weeding the cabbages.

Cabbages. This ramble started because of resurrecting sixty-year-old cabbages. Here we are back to the sorrow. Knife in hand I harvest my two cabbages. Pale green crunch. Solid enough but small. One just enough for a slaw with the last of my carrots. The other to become soup.

My mother would make sauerkraut by the firkin. I loved the big shredder that sat over the massive ceramic crock. She’d halve the cabbages with a cleaver, remove the hard core. Then we’d shred the cabbage. I despise that smell of fresh cut cabbage. My parents are long dead. The smell persists.

I make the slaw as always with crushed caraway seeds, and finely chopped onion. The way mum liked. The onion always makes me cry.