Death by Cabbage

I kind of feel like making a giant barrel of sauerkraut - the recipe calls for 1lb salt:40 lbs cabbage - and storing it in my Mom's basement to ferment for 4 weeks, just to see how she'd react.
If I wagered a guess, she'd kill me, but not right away. You see, I wouldn't ask - I'd just sneak it in while she's at yoga one day. She wouldn't know a thing until the smell kicks in. At that point, she'd panic, but not enough to change the locks on the doors. She'd check up on it every few days, as if it were orphaned and about to grow legs and crawl across the room. Whenever she'd ask about it (and she would. Frequently.), I'd make her a cocktail and tell her not to worry. At the 3-week point she'd get antsy, and I'd make a big show of being too busy to come by anytime soon. I'd show up on the last day of week 4, and tell her my kitchen isn't big enough to deal with 40 lbs of cabbage. That's when the real anxiety would start kicking in. I'd ask to use her kitchen (and she'd let me out of guilt - I'm the only daughter), which historically triggers this instinct in her that makes her follow me around the room, hover and micromanage, sometimes while holding sharp utensils. When I finished processing and packaging the sauerkraut, I'd give her the entire batch and tell her I don't like cabbage.
That's when she'd kill me.