June 21, 2017
I like pickles. Jars of them. At a time.
My aunt's homemade pickles are the stuff of my dreams. I hoard them like a miser, then eat a jar at once, standing blissfully over the sink.
I will take a jar of dill pickles, add an obscene amount of Splenda, marinate them, and then devour them. A bowl of olives is an extravagance that I will pound like tater chips. I love to sear my mouth with pepperoncinis or roast it completely with jalapeños.
Even pickled okra makes an occasional appearance on my weird buffet of condiments. Banana peppers, bread and butter pickles, sweet gherkins...my mania knows no bounds.
I'm also freakishly addicted to the outdoors. I'm not too handy with a tent, a campfire, or a steep hill, but I will mow, weed, dig, run, walk, toil as nauseum in 100% humidity and 100 degree temps. I really just want to live outside. Except when I want my hair to look legit. Then I would appreciate some electricity and a dehumidifier, thank you very much.
I also am strangely addicted to Bravo. That's the cable channel that showcases the Real Housewives of _________. I can't help it. I cannot avert my eyes. It's the train wreck of reality tv and it begs my attention. (I want on record that I still READ, too. All brain cells are not lost. Just a few. But I still have me some literacy!)
Tonight I find myself with a rare moment of solitude. Three of my favorite vices have joined up in perfect concert: I'm watching Bravo, from the patio, eating pickled items with abandon. I know, I know. You're jealous. It's almost too much to bear, my friends.
It's the little things.
But the crazy thing is that this isn't little. I can watch ridiculous reality tv from outside my house, eat pickles by the pound, and apologize to no one. All I felt compelled to do was put it in writing. That's a big deal to a girl for whom such freedom once seemed truly ridiculous.
It all seems so silly now.
Some things, I discover, are worthy of note. Especially pickled, real, and from the porch.
