In a fine pickle

Just spent the last three hours putting up a couple dozen jars of dill pickles. Egad, I hope they all seal.

Every year I ask myself why I make pickles when they are a buck and a half a jar at the grocery store? Does anyone even notice? Yes, they do. Two or three people actually request the pickles. Plus, the kitchen smells awesome before, during and after the pickle making session. I brought home two bunches of dill that take up as much room as my four year old nephew. (He’s tall and skinny). They have been lounging in the sink and across the counter since yesterday and the whole house smells of dill. Then the garlic chimes in and of course, now the whole place reeks of vinegar. It also makes me feel damn noble to ‘put food by.’ If we have to live in the basement, at least we will be living with pickles.
And then there are the memories of all the folks I’ve pickled with. My dad, my grandmother, my mother in law, and my husband. And Bob and Ruth Ann who make pickled asparagus. And Bets, who made pickled green beans and green tomato relish.

All right. Good to go for another year.