As a child, one of my favorite treats was the pickles my grandparents made. We would usually visit my grandparents at least once a week. Before we left our house, my mother would make sure to feed us so that her parents weren't burdened with feeding a bunch of hungry kids. (We were also admonished not to ask for anything to eat.) However, when we arrived, it didn't matter whether she told them we had just eaten or even if we had brought food with us, they didn't feel the visit was complete unless they fed us. Sometimes they shared a big meal with us, more often it was a buffet of snacks. What we all looked forward to most was their homemade pickles.
Grandma and Grandpa's pickles were so delicious, they would give each of their grandchildren a $5 bill and a jar of pickles for Christmas and we all would jump for joy. Their pickles were super-sour, extra-dilly, and very spicy. (They would "sizzle" when the jar was first opened.) We loved them. Since I was known for eating my jar in one sitting, my extremely thoughtful grandparents would sneak an extra jar or two to my mom on the side. I never got a stomach ache from those pickles (despite numerous warnings from the adults around me) nor have I found any that are as delicious. Even though we have Grandma's recipe, no one in my family has been able to replicate those pickles. I suppose the missing ingredient is my grandparent's love. I don't recall Grandma or Grandpa ever eating very many of their own pickles. I'm pretty sure they made them mostly for us.
Pickles weren't the only things they made. Grandpa used us as laborers when we visited them. He would send us out to pick raspberries with the admonishment to put more in the bucket than we put into ourselves. I'm positive we tried to obey, but I can't vouch for how much success we had in restraining ourselves. According to my mother, they made the best raspberry jam on the face of the earth. They also put up jars of pickled watermelon and sweet pickles, both of which were an abomination to me as a child. Watermelon was supposed to be sweet and pickles were supposed to be sour. Occasionally they would find the time to make dilly beans which were a very close second in my eyes to their pickles.
I cherish those memories of sitting at my grandparent's table playing cards and snacking on their homemade treats. They didn't have much, but what they did have they wanted to share with us. Every time I taste a pickle or bite into a dilly bean, I think of them and their kindness, love and generosity. Taking the time to preserve the best of the harvest and share it with others is how sweet memories are made. It is an art that has not been lost. It continues to grow and expand as more people recognize its value. The delicious tradition continues.
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