Today, I am so excited to introduce you to my childhood friend’s mom, Barb, who has stolen my heart with her homemade pickles since I was a little child!
Again and again and again. I could eat those pickles all day long, every day, all year round.
Those pickles, there when I was a child. On the island when we would come in from swimming in our kiddie pool. Pickles with tuna salad sandwiches. Pickles in the basement after a birthday party game of pin the tail on the donkey, all cut up in a little bowl with sloppy joes. Pickles at graduation parties and Christmas parties and family nights all gathered around on couches in innocence. Pickles after swimming in the sun, pickles after we stuffed our mouths full of Skittles, pickles all around.
Those pickles, there in the early years of our adulthood. That night we came to visit, childhood friends all gathered, now me with baby in hand. Pickles were there, yes indeed.
Those pickles, there at the wedding table. Sunflowers and tents and faces from the past. Childhood friends now women all grown up, at a distance. Girlish memories undeniably strong at that childhood home, yet faint in the presence of husbands and fiancees and teachers all retired. We’re adults now. Lives have moved forward, but the pickles? They remain the same. On the wedding table, ever present, ever drawing me in to take more and more, just as delicious as always.
Those pickles, on the table at an unforgettable baby shower. The guest of honor not present, my heart torn and conflicted and unsure and worn down, and desperate for answers and understanding. The familiarity of that pickle, the familiarity of that house and those faces, all at odd ease to embrace a little hope child in the midst of much uncertainty.
Those pickles, often on my mind. A basket of pickles at a silent auction reminds me of Barb. I wish I knew how to make pickles like that, like Barb. Thoughts of my ideal self surface. The mom that cans pickles, the mom that brings her children and her childrens’ friends delight in such simple goodness.
Those pickles, a surprise. At Christmas, an unexpected gift. To: Amy. From: Barb. Barb gave mom a can and sent a can for me. A smile, a real smile. What more could I ask for but a can of the best pickles ever?
Those pickles, I finished the last one last week. Treasured each bite again and again. Stood still in my kitchen and soaked it in. The awesomeness of that last pickle.
In all the change, the pickle remains the same. It has always remained the same. Always predictable, always delectable, always just right, always satisfying, always a delight.
Honor her for all that her hands have done, and let her works bring her praise at the city gate. Proverbs 31:31
It’s Friday, which means it’s time for another Meet Me At This Moment for Five Minute Friday post! I spend the last hour of Thursday chatting it up with a group of authentic and inspiring Five Minute Friday bloggers on Twitter (#FiveMinuteFriday #fmfparty). One minute past midnight EST Friday, Lisa-Jo Baker gives us a single word prompt and we all write a blog post centered around that word. We write for five minutes, and five minutes only! In the wjords of Lisa, this is “unscripted. unedited. real.” You meet me at this moment in time…my thoughts and opinions, my joys and sorrows, my dilemmas and dreams. And I receive one of the greatest gifts ever…a regular outlet for processing and expressing my thoughts without constantly editing myself. This is my life, my perspective, unfiltered.
The word of the week is AGAIN. (OK, I admit, I went more like 10 minutes today instead of 5! Forgive me, I had a lot to say about those pickles!)