When I was in college, my roommate and I lived on Jell-O, fatback she brought from the farm, eggs, and pickles my Grandpa made and sent with us every weekend or two. Pickles were our snacks, and they became our vegetables. He made them in quarts and gallons from the cucumbers my Grandmother grew in her garden.
I had my own small garden when I was a young mother. I canned beans, tomatoes, froze corn and okra, and made jars of jelly. I also learned to make those dill pickles of my Grandpa, but they never tasted quite as good as the ones he made. Maybe it was the water, my dill, weak garlic, or maybe it just needed his loving touch to make the best pickles in the world.
Recently, Good Ole Days magazine accepted an essay I wrote on my Grandpa’s dill pickles. The writing and submitting made my mouth water for that briny taste of summer pickling. When I saw some dill at the farmer’s market, I decided to give it a try again. Today I made a few jars and they look delicious. Now is the hard part, waiting a while until I reopen them again. Until then I will stand in my kitchen and reminisce as the whole kitchen smells like vinegar, dill and garlic. Ah, a fragrance of comfort and love!