I arrive to my Weight Watchers meeting, and a new friend hands me a jar of pickled asparagus. It’s because I happened to mention last week my love of pickled things and my bizarre dream of having a Pickle Closet filled with pickles: pickled okra, pickled beets, pickled everything.
I realize that now, I have a new friend—the One Who Brought Me Pickles—that I only met last week.
I think of pickled things and how they persevere, preserved in that solution that makes them last, that aids against harmful bacteria, and that changes the flavor into something so delicious.
I want to pickle my whole life.