Fermentation, memory and ecology of life
Fermentation in our regions has never been a magazine trend; it has always been primarily a vital response to the climate and the pressing need to store food for the months of scarcity. But beyond logistics, it has become something else: a way of transforming plants to make them more digestible, more complex and infinitely more useful over time. I am not writing these lines to teach a cold technique, but to remind you that these living products, taken from the start of the meal, radically change the way the body manages fats and proteins. It’s a silent alchemy that plays out in the darkness of the jars.
The characteristic pschitt when opening the jar. A sweet and sour smell that awakens the instinct.
From a practical point of view, introducing a small portion of fermented vegetables changes the entire taste and physiological dynamics of the meal. Salivation increases instantly, the stomach prepares, the enzymes are activated. It is a gentle but firm signal that allows the meal to settle in without the mind immediately looking for a sugar to 'finish' or to compensate for a lack. In a low-carb approach, it is a precious ally: we reduce the desire for sweets and we facilitate the assimilation of fatty elements which, in turn, will give this much sought-after prolonged satiety. Fermentation is the bridge between taste and function.
I remember my mother's shelves, crumbling under the weight of pickled cucumbers. Each jar was a promise of health for the winter.
Culture, intestinal well-being and slow pace
The relationship we have with fermentation is also a matter of culture and territory. Each house, each village has its own jars, its secret waiting times, its combinations of vegetables and spices. This heritage directly influences our collective microbiota and, when we respect it, it stabilizes digestion in a spectacular way. People who regularly eat fermented foods report less discomfort after rich dishes; their energy unfolds throughout the day with clockwork regularity, rather than suddenly collapsing after an artificial blood sugar peak.
Cooking while respecting these ancient gestures means making yourself accessible to a form of balance that is not ideological, but purely empirical. We observe the effects on ourselves, we adapt the recipes, we pass on the knowledge. There's no insurmountable technical mystery here, just a humbling acknowledgment that fermentation helps the body get the most out of low-carb foods. It is a collaboration with the invisible.
For me, fermentation is a discreet, almost shy ally. It does not seek to impose a dominant taste, but to build tolerance and peaceful digestion. In the cold, having living jars means having stability — on the table as in the blood. It’s metabolic life insurance.
The crunchy texture of fermented cabbage. A simple, raw, honest pleasure.
There is no need to transform your kitchen into a complex laboratory. A few simple jars, sea salt, pure water, time and darkness. This is what I have seen all my life in Polish houses: the women poured the cut vegetables, added the salt, closed it and let nature take its course. A few weeks later, these vegetables were served every day, in small portions, as a sacred accompaniment. It was both food for the body and medicine for the soul.
What I recommend to those new to this path is to start small, without pressure. A jar of cucumbers, a jar of red cabbage. Experience is built through repetition and observation. We quickly see that the addition of fermented foods changes the very dynamics of appetite. Proteins become more digestible, fats better tolerated, and the desire for sugar fades as if by magic. The microbiota gradually regains its lost harmony under the onslaught of industrial products.
On the low-carb level, the effectiveness is formidable. Fermented foods add very few carbohydrates (the bacteria have consumed a large part of them) but contribute enormously in terms of bioavailability of surrounding nutrients. They also create a necessary sensory break, a ritual that slows down the meal and allows for better chewing. All this contributes to a more conscious diet, more respectful of the limits and real needs of the human body.
Fermentation, in short, is not a luxury for those in the know. It is a deep metabolic health tool, accessible to everyone. Let's relearn these gestures, let's rediscover these flavors of earth and salt, and allow our digestive system to work with allies who support it, rather than against sugars and flours which exhaust it. It’s a return to basics that prepares for the future. One jar at a time.
I close the lid. Silence takes its place. The invisible work continues.
Tomorrow the cabbage will be ready. And my energy will also be there.
