By Lea Shores
I have a confession to make. I love pickles. I put pickles on sandwiches and hamburgers and get extra on the side. I like them plain or fried. And I especially like whole dill pickles– those “Big Papa” pickles you buy in individual pouches at the grocery store. Sweet pickles will not satisfy this need I have.
They have to be sour and tangy and they have to be nice and crunchy.
My love affair with pickles is spontaneous. Weeks and even months will go by and I won’t give pickles a second thought, but then one day- BAM! I’m at the refrigerator pulling pickles out of the jar and shamelessly devouring them. I could easily eat a jar by myself. The crisp sound a pickle makes when I take that first bite melts away any will power I had to stop at just one.
However, this on and off romance with is met with a little resistance.
Anyone who knows me very well knows that I am mostly incapable of opening jars, especially if they are still sealed. My roommates are used to me approaching them with bottles of Gatorade and jars of salsa because my hands can just not seem to grip tight enough to loosen the lid.
One day this summer I was minding my own business, watching tv when I heard the pickles call out to me from the refrigerator. I answered the call and happily took the jar into my hands. As I gripped the lid and began to twist, a sharp pain shot through my hand and up my arm.
Under normal circumstances I would have just asked someone at home to open the jar for me but this time I was alone and left to my own devices.
For my next attempt at opening the jar, I turned on the faucet and waited for the water to heat up. An old classic used by my mother. Run the jar under some hot water and the lid pops off just like that.
Or not. I grabbed a towel to help me grip the wet lid and gave it another twist. Nothing.
I set the jar down on the counter and stared at it, planning my next attack.
I grabbed a metal spoon out of a drawer and picked the jar back up, carefully positioning it so the spoon would not make contact with the glass, only the lid.
My frustrations released and I beat the lid with the spoon hoping that it would loosen enough so that I could open it but the lid didn’t budge. The pickles, it seemed, had grown tired of this love affair and simply wanted to tease me.
The pain in my hand and wrist wouldn’t allow me to give it one more good try and I tried to come up with alternatives.
I could have ventured outside with the hope that I would run into a neighbor and I could ask them to help me open the jar. However, this seemed too embarrassing. I had just moved to the area and didn’t really want to be known as the pickle girl.
It also may have been possible to just break the jar and catch the pickles in a bowl but the risk of eating glass was not even worth satisfying my craving.
Defeated, I put the pickles back in the refrigerator and returned to the living room empty handed. It was a few days before I felt like asking someone to open the jar for me, being rejected by a jar of pickles is just too humiliating.
Lea Shores is a senior majoring in English. You may e-mail her at email@example.com.