"Oh wonderful! So, you smell just like a pickle?!"
I have a passion for pickles. I just can't get enough!! And I hope, by the end of this, you will give those green wonders a bit more of a try. My dear Poppy sent me a jar of pickles all the way from Canada. Homemade. There are only 2 jars left from last summer and I have one of them! There is officially one pickle left
...after one week.
Now-to fully appreciate my love for pickles, specifically my Poppy's pickles, read this essay I wrote in my freshman year for creative writing. And picture me as a little girl, skipping down the street, most likely looking a lot like my little fairy self pictured below! ...and bringing bags and bags of my treasures in my shopping cart to Grandmas.
I believe in the joy of pickles. Not just any pickles like the strange tasting ones bought at the local market, or even the oversized ones in the large Fair barrel. I believe the pickles I’m talking about are the best in the world. Perfectly juicy, satisfyingly crunchy and deliciously dilled-my Grandpa’s famous garden pickles are what I look forward to each year.
After each snowflake turned into dew, we’d plant pale white cucumber seeds. As days passed, furry-green leaves sprouted with tiny cucumbers tucked delicately and secretly beneath.
The process began with each perfectly sized cucumber about the length of my index finger. From the freshly watered soil, my bare feet quickly turned black as I carried the cucumbers into my Grandpa’s warm kitchen. It amazed me how these little cucumbers could change into something wonderful.
After Grandpa worked his magic he’d carry each jar down the stairs into the storage room. It was kept cool for the canning and my feet became numb as I stood on the tips of my toes peering into the green jars. I could hardly wait! Jar after jar, as far as my eyes could see were Grandpa’s delicious dill pickles.
One particular day, as summer was once more coming to a close, I ran down the warm street-barefooted, of course. I had received a phone call telling me that one jar of the long-awaited pickles were finally ready.
I chose my jar wisely, closely observing the color and size of each pickle. My eyes reflected in the shimmering glass of each jar as they had for several summer months. The winning jar was large for my hands as I begin the trek down the street home. Happily, I felt myself begin to skip. I was smiling and the sun on my freckled face felt glorious. Suddenly, this scene dramatically changed.
My legs came to a sudden halt as I stared at the ground in disbelief. There, on the sandy summer road were my perfect pickles. Each pickle was covered in glistening glass. The green juice made a small puddle. The dill stem laid limp in the sunshine. All was still.
To this day, I can’t say I remember exactly what happened after this devastating event. Possibly, I ran home crying, or walked home silently, head-hung in shame. But what I do remember is what I found in the fridge after the incident. In a familiar yellow Tupperware container from my Grandpa’s warm kitchen, each perfectly sized, prepared, canned pickle was found. Each and every pickle cleansed of glass, sand and a little girl’s disappointment.
Each time I bite into a pickle, no matter where I am I remember what I discovered through these changed cucumbers. Most people will go through their whole lives never thinking of a pickle with such respect! Possibly they won’t even like these green, crunchy wonders and avoid them completely! Luckily, for these people all hope is not lost. As I’ve grown older, I’ve realized maybe the joy I have from pickles really isn’t the pickle at all. My joy was found through a garden, a humid kitchen, a shattered jar and finally a yellow Tupperware container. But above all, my joy was found in the quiet service of my Grandpa. And I believe this is why I really love pickles-crunchy, green and delicious as they might be.
