Ode to a Pickled Green Bean

I love sour foods.  It drives Phil crazy, most of the time. I think he is sorry for the day that my former assistant Paul gave me the recipe for pickle soup, because for months after I had Andra, on the nights I wasn’t making sauerkraut, I was making pickle soup.  Now, I mostly make it when he is out of town so I don’t have to share with him, or listen to him remark on how it isn’t food.  It IS food.  The best kind, I think.

Phil’s Javelina buddies respect my love of things pickled, and each January when they come, they have slowly determined just the thing that makes me happy – Jack brings Chardonnay Cherries and Victoria’s Secret gift certificates, Tony brings the world’s BEST sausage that you can only get in Wisconsin (trust me, I have tried to get his butcher to give up the recipe – no luck), Bill brings me Starbucks and chocolate, and this year, Jonathan brought me my very, very own jar of pickled green beans.  No sharing.  

It is June, and I just ate the last pickled green bean.

I think I ate the last little bit of sausage last month, and now I am left wondering how, oh just how far away is January?

If you think I am obsessive – I counter that I am just enjoying all the little things about life.  Heck, Pablo Neruda wrote a poem about his socks.

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