A Tale of Two Pickles
I’m haunted by a pickle.
The kitchen shelves glimmer with jars of homemade preserves after a summer’s worth of gardening, harvesting, and putting up. Clove-scented beets glow deep garnet, and the cauliflower sparkles crystalline, bejeweled with tiny bright-red–and lethally hot–Thai peppers. Zucchini pickles stack up right next to the oven-roasted tomato sauce. Strawberry and wild-blueberry preserves glisten in their glass cases like gemstones, awaiting syrupy slides down midwinter bowls of vanilla ice cream or late-night waffles.
Freshly jarred applesauce, spiked with a bit of vanilla and just a splash of brandy, cools off from its recent dip in the hot-water canner bath. Honey dills, bread-’n'-butters, sweet-and-sours, gherkins, mustard pickles, and relishes: Everything is here.
Everything except the tiny pickles my grandmother used to put up in glass jars with glass lids and rubber seals, the ones she’d set on the wobbly wooden cellar stairs in expectation of family dinners around the old oak table, its wooden length stretched by innumerable leaves and warmed by the wood-fired cookstove.
I’ve spent the summer canning and preserving. Each evening, after a day’s worth of picking, peeling, boiling, and packing, I listen attentively for that satisfying pop as each lid expels the last of the air trapped in the jar, creating a safe, long-lasting vacuum, one that ensures that garden-picked taste deep into winter. But there’s no satisfaction when it comes to the itty-bitty sour pickles I’m craving.
Those sure and dependable pickles, small but steadfast, were passed around the table at every gathering. Cheek-suckingly sour and smaller than my childhood fingers, they were a required element of the New England boiled dinners that so often appeared at the table along with sons and daughters, aunts and uncles and cousins. Part of their taste was the challenge of fishing the little things out of the jar; you might think you had a good hold on one, but then, like a shimmering fish, it would slip through your fingers and splash back into the briny depths. But, oh, once caught and brought to your lips …
I still recall the shock of sour at first bite, how the vinegar squirted over my tongue, and the exquisite tingling, making my mouth water with abandon. But, try as I might, I cannot duplicate the bracing flavor of my grandmother’s pickles. The recipe is lost.
If I’d known, as a child, that I’d spend an entire summer trying to find that mysterious combination of snap, sour, and surprise, I would have asked her for the recipe and carefully copied it down in my best third-grade penmanship. But I never thought there might come a day when there would be no pickles lined up on the cellar stairs, or that grandmothers, mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles and cousins would disappear one by one from the table.
Still, the tongue remembers: a bite of the past, a spoonful of memory, a taste of home. Once the pickles even showed up out in the woods at my uncle’s sugar shack when the grownups made a traditional sugar-on-snow party for the kids. Like my young cousins, at the time I found the concept of balancing sweet with sour an absurd idea, but I was mesmerized by the unexpected appearance of that familiar jar.