DPP: Day 22

Jonathan has finally been inaugurated into the family: he had his first taste of a pickle.

I don't know why my father's family has an obsession with pickles (or stuffed celery, for that matter), but they do.  For what seems like ages, youngsters in the family have cut their teeth on Kosher Dills.  It's tradition. 

During my formative years, my mother placed a firm limit on our pickle consumption: she would only buy two 46 oz. jars a week....yes, a week, for my sister, my dad, and me.  Some kids were served cookies and milk when they got home from school.  Not us; it was a chunk of cheese and a pickle.  A neighbor boy would come over and drink the juice.

Strangely, my mother never consumed any. 

Part of her plan to curtail our self-pickling was to stop at the Mt. Olive Pickle Company factory (located at the corner of Cucumber and Vine, no less) on the way to the beach one year.  We had the awesome privilege of seeing (and smelling) first hand (first nose) the barrels of brine that transform a lowly cucumber into a pickle.

Contact wearers that we are, she and I were the only ones who remained dry-eyed in the Relish Room.  As a token of their generosity, the proprietors sent us each off with our own jar of pickles. 

Next stop was the local churchyard & cemetery where we stopped to eat a picnic lunch.  My dad immediately popped open a jar to accompany the sandwich, but I think it was a good two years before I could eat a pickle.

I've since recovered quite nicely, and judging from the way Matthew and Stephen lit into a fresh jar today, I may have to start setting my own limits.