Pickles

This is one of those great photos (not a great photo, but bear with me, here) where the subject is straightforward but the setting is a little odd.

My mom took this photo. I’m on the left. Middle of three kids.

My mother didn’t do anything in half-measures, although the other Catholic families in the neighbourhood certainly had more children than she did. She was one of 5, and she had three kids. The Cruickshanks had 9 kids, I think, and the Mahonys had 9 as well. My mom used to comment that Laura Cruickshank was three times the mother she was, mathematically speaking.

But no half measures. Look at the shelf behind us lovely children.

What the heck? Enough pickles to feed a baseball stadium on a busy Sunday afternoon.

One year, my mom decided to make dill pickles, so she made about a dozen 2-gallon jars. We had a lot of pickles.

Thankfully, they were rather good, but I would be lying if I relished (ha! that’s a pun, that is) the prospect of eating even my own share of dozens of Kosher Dills.

In the ensuing years I have learned to love pickles again. But we only buy them one small jar at a time.

As for not doing things in half-measures, that mindset has, unfortunately, rubbed off on me. I have 150lbs of roma tomatoes ordered for sauce at the end of the month.