Look at yourself. Back there on the bottom shelf. Dusted with crumbs, sticky with god-knows-what like a high schooler at a prom afterparty.
You know what, get out. Seriously, no, I’m done. Time to unplug your vinegar life support. One, two, three. There we go. All better now. And as I lay you to rest in your trash can grave with last night’s floss and this morning’s coffee grounds, I think about the high hopes I had for you.
I was going to put you on burgers. I was going to stand in the spotlight of the fridge and eat you straight from the jar. I was going to slice you into little pieces and put you in an ornate bowl next to a bold but approachable brie at my dinner party.
But when it came to game time, you shrivelled. Pun intended. I sent you into battle and you came back with your dill between your legs.
My friends ignored you in favour of rosemary almonds and cashews. An American hero, passed over…for nuts. What about the burger, I asked, put the pickles on the burger! Holster your pickle propaganda, my friends screamed at me as they backed away, quivering, hands blindly grasping for the door handle.
You once sat regal on the fridge door but soon were overwhelmed by the vicissitudes of taste, shunted to the lowest and darkest corners to make room for that organic mango chutney purchased from Dan and Helen at the farmer’s market in Vermont and those blood orange and tahini non-cookie cookies featured in the latest Bon Appétit. Another pickle jar falls victim to fridge gentrification.
At one point I wanted you. I must’ve. In an aisle full of bread and butter, bold and spicy, sweet, sliced, speared, chipped, gherkin-ed, I saw you, branded with your consumer-approved stork like a prized steer at a county fair and thought, yeah, this time I’ll go for it.
Now, as I commence the final act, the ceremonial tipping the brine down the sink, I ask myself, did I ever really like you? As your dill slips into the drain as easily as the sands of time I wonder, will this do long-term damage to my plumbing?