The riverfront row house, where I rented a room my senior year of high school. Verna leaning against the kitchen sink, teacup in hand. Paul Harvey on the transistor radio atop an ancient Maytag. Verna: she might have been smoking a Pall Mall and if she wasn’t, the tiny kitchen reeked of it, seventy-some years of chain-smoking embedded in its walls. The peeling yellowed wallpaper. How Verna’s hand shook as she raised the teacup of blackberry brandy to her puckered lips. How my head throbbed from the party. On the counter, an old crock. The pickles tangy on my tongue.
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I would love to have a cookbook with one of your micro-stories for every recipe. I loves this so much!
Gorgeous, Amie, and so beautifully timed! I love the scent of pickling - your post has taken me right back to pickling season when I was a child. I don't make traditional pickle because I don't get on with sugar - but early this week I threw four thickly-sliced homegrown cucumbers into the liquor left over once I'd strained my latest batch of sauerkraut, and the crunchy, ferment-rich and tangy results are absolutely stunning!
I need to stop raiding that jar every time I walk past, because manners.... 😉