A Pickling Pickle

In my ongoing quest to move to the country and take on the lifestyle of ancestors before remote control televisions and world wide web, I need to take lessons on how to do this. Today my lesson was in pickling.

That's right, no trip down the grocery store aisle for me, I'm ignoring the Vlasic -- either whole dill or relish -- and venturing into doing it on my own! So I enlisted the help of my cousin who does this pickling thing on a regular basis. A regular basis! While I'm struggling to move one load of laundry from the washer to, gasp, a foot away where the electric dryer stands, she is strapping her six-month-old baby to her chest and heaving a bucket of wet clothes outside to the clothesline! And I complain about my one foot of movement -- I even gasp and wheeze in an effort to pull sympathy from my hubby and child. (No, it doesn't work.)
I thought for sure that this pickling thing was easy. I thought I  would make a pictorial study of the process, record every step, glisten occasionally with effort, and emerge at the end with a sweet batch of quart after quart of hearty pickles to enjoy this evening! Ha!! Ignorance IS bliss!

We had four children between us, scattered throughout the house, all upset and needing attention, an enormous farm dog named Daisy who was literally constantly sticking her nose into our business, and three burners of the stove going on a ninety-plus degree day.

First lesson: there are special cucumbers called "pickling cucumbers." Several varieties in fact. Had no idea.
Second lesson: every aspect of the process involves hot things -- hot water, hot steam, hot jars, hot jar lids, hot people doing the canning. I might have reconsidered if I'd known I would be sweating. (It's ugly. I'm a woman who goes from frozen to sweating-like-a-racehorse quicker than a racehorse can break into a sweat.)
Third lesson: patience and humility.

I escaped with one quart of pickles, an exhausted child, a couple of steam burns, no pictures, swollen eyes from an allergy to the farm dog, and an hour-and-a-half drive to get home. Once I got home I took a picture of the pickles, nothing artistic like I had planned, just a frickin' picture to show that I actually did the thing. It's a minimalistic journalistic approach that I prefer when I am exhausted and need only a shower and a long, long nap.

Oh, and the most beautiful part: I can't eat the pickles for three months. They have to pickle or something.

I think I'll get pickled myself. Anybody have any vodka? Beer? Where's the rest of that pickling brine, that'll work...