Erdäpfelknödel mit Sauerkraut

In my grandmother Eva's kitchen in Kent, the word for potato was always Erdäpfel. Earth apple. Not Kartoffel, which is what the Germans say, and certainly not potato. Gretel would correct me gently if I forgot, the way she corrected anything that drifted too far from Vienna.

Erdäpfelknödel are the quietest kind of cooking. You boil potatoes, rice them while they're still hot, work in a little flour and egg, and shape the dough into round dumplings the size of a tennis ball. Then you poach them in salted water until they float. That's it. The whole dish depends on feel. Too much flour and the Knödel are dense and gummy. Too little and they dissolve in the pot. Gretel always said the dough should feel like a baby's cheek, soft but holding together, and you had to trust your hands more than any measurement.

Served with warm Sauerkraut and a good pour of browned butter, this is a complete meal. No meat needed. It's the kind of food that Austrian farmhouse kitchens have been making since before anyone thought to write recipes down, because the ingredients were always there: potatoes from the root cellar, Kraut from the barrel, butter from the dairy. I serve a version of this at my restaurant in Salzburg when the weather turns cold, and it outsells fancier dishes three to one. People know what they want when the temperature drops, and what they want is a warm bowl of dumplings.