A dill pickle came as a side with my meal this evening. Mel didn’t sundance this year, but we went to support all of our friends who did. “So, Sherman, what does any of this blather have to do with a pickle?”
“Chill out, I’m getting there…”
Anyway, after three or four hours, we were beat and hungry, so we ate out. As I lifted the pickle to my mouth (read: “It was a dark and stormy night when…”) a post-traumatic stress disorder flashback interrupted what should have been a positive and crunchy moment.
Two years ago, we bought what many deem to be the perfect pickle. There they sat, three rows of jars in the chiller with her picture on each one: Bubbie’s Pickles – cucumberous perfection afloat in a sea of pickling spice in such perfect harmony…ah, I almost started to drool like the weasel in that cartoon when he is near the hen house. Living in northern Cali, we had to control ourselves for the near two-hour drive home – yes, the pickles are that good.
Once in the door, however, we became vicious pickle poachers – well, not poaching actually, we had paid for them…dearly. We each downed one pickle in a second flat – Kobayashi had nothing on us that night. Moving on to pickle number deux, I noticed something unusual…white spots on one of the pickles, then two…then…”OH MY GOD! MEL! DON’T BITE IT!”
The poor man almost stroked out, dropping the poisonous pickle to the floor.
“What the hell is your problem?” he inquired with absolutely no amusement whatsoever.
“Look,” I whispered, “there, on the pickles…see it?”
He, too, noticed the barnacles. “Where’s your food sanitation book?” I shrieked as I tore apart the kitchen while muttering, “S**t, we ate them already, we ate them…what a time to be righteous about not being bulimic.” I found the book. Word of advice, girls, never marry or boyfriend a culinary arts student because they have big, shiny books exclusively-dedicated to identifying foods of doom.
I flipped through it desperately seeking poisons and toxins while Mel studied what might have just become our demise in a 16-oz. bottle. “Dammit, I should’ve bought Claussen’s. Why ???? Why me, why us…or the horra…” I found the section and after riffling through salmonella, e-coli, hepatitis I landed on…BOTULISM. Yes, folks, pickles can, in fact, become pickles of doom even if you spit it out.
Thus began the Bubbies death watch. Mel was content to watch House on t.v. while I clock-watched, timing down the onset of symptoms. I think I have watched too many Woody Allen films because I was convinced this was it – death by Bubbies. What would our friends think? I mean, seriously, who the hell dies by the pickle?
In between fits of pique, dialogue about botulism in general, and why hissing cans are bad - after all this was much more subtle, more dignified I suppose – I would race to the refrigerator and peek at the culprits, er, picklits.
Mel suggested I call the Co-op in Eureka and let them know. What came out of my mouth when I got the manager on the phone surprises me to this day: “Look, miss x, I’m an attorney. I have never sued anybody but I think we ate some bad Bubbies we just bought from your store; and if I don’t die, I am going to sue everyone in the universe. Bubbies will pay.” Naturally, all I wanted from the Co-Op was, like, free coffee and organic dark chocolate for year…and some good olives…and I would be happy…oh hell, IF I lived. Several profuse apologies and, “Really? White barnacles?” later, I had her convinced the world was going to end and Bubbies Inc. was going to hell in a handcart courtesy of my legal skills that are more akin to Forrest Gump than Clarence Darrow. So she cracks under pressure and confesses that…the REEFER truck broke down just outside San Fran and the pickles had to be transferred before the transport to the Co-Op. I felt faint. After she swore up and down all jars would be summarily removed from the shelves and destroyed, I thanked her for saving countless lives and resumed feeling sorry for myself. I even called my parents and got them all fired up, and told them where I wanted to be buried.
Mel had gone to bed. He went to sleep. Our lives ticking away, only hours to go before the bomb hit and…nothing. Nothing? Nothing,,,happened. Two more days passed and nothing happened. Eventually, we tossed the smoking gun evidence kept on ice: the death pickle itself complete with my DNA on it. The evidence in a ziplock...so this is what my life has come to: pickle trauma. Needless to say, that was one story I never shared...until now. And as I bit into the pickle, I smiled, then laughed until I choked. Life is good. And the white spots, by the way: calcium carbonate. Something caused it to precipitate out into the brine. At least I was right about the barnacle part. I think I’ll buy some Bubbies tomorrow and live life on the edge again.
