Bridgette and I have returned from our family’s Christmas celebration with a bundle of lovely gifts and a sick baby in tow. Everything proceded splendidly with the exception of our child’s untimely illness and the injury I sustained from eating the Christmas cookie with a needle in it I got from a profanity-spouting homeless man. (A word of explaination – the man was wearing a Santa suit and thrusting his pelvis toward me in a friendly manner so I gave him the benefit of the doubt.)
While at my parents place, I had a strange moment when my mother pulled out her old pickle strainer from the back of the lazy Susan.
(Incidentally the term “lazy Susan” begs the question of who was this lazy Susan and what ingenius fellow was she with who enabled her laziness? Thomas Jefferson perhaps?)
I hadn’t seen this pickle strainer in perhaps fifteen years, and my reaction upon seeing it was oddly emotional. Suddenly I was transported back to my past and the memories of all the pickles I ate as a youngster. Some were crisp, others flaccid, but all equally wonderous. Pickles were, and shall always remain, the reason I rise in the morning.
Here my brother Patrick demonstrated the proper usage and treatment of the Pickle Strainer of Legend.
One of the beautiful things about this pickle strainer is the way it removes the pickles from the murky brine without moistening the fingers. On a day when my baby was screaming and my stools were loose, this pickle strainer brought me nostalgic satisfaction and meaning. If necessary, I would have traded it for my wedding ring.
I wish the pickle strainer could hold me.