.The Pickles.

I've mentioned that I spend many hours under the spell of the talent of the Not-Me's, bewitched by stories and epic tales from the magical Unknowns residing on the internet.  My internal thoughts (remember, I still picture them as annoying, mewing felines) have finally persuaded me that I, too, can be clever! I, too, can post my thinkings to the vast internet community, spanning all 87 billion corners of cyberspace and beyond! The world can now access, appreciate, and become addicted to my ramblings about how I see the world, clinging to my words and repeating them once or even twice before bedtime! ...Or, at the very least, if I write these things down I may clear up some space on the hard drive that is my brain and be able to store useful collegiate information, and with it the hope of avoiding another failed physiology exam (one can only hope). With this in mind, I'd like to take the opportunity to share with you (you, the figments of my imagination that pose as the audience in raptures over my very words!) this, a piece over a real subject, a piece that expresses all the love, hope, dreams, and passion from the very depths of my soul: I'd like to talk to you all about pickles.

Pickles. Tragically misunderstood vegetables, lonely and depressed leftover condiments (or at least, the pungent green phallic objects with wart-like bumps possessing the potential to haunt the nightmares of little children). I cannot remember the first pickle I ever ate, nor the hour I professed my undying love for them, nor the day I sold my soul to the Gherkins Gods. Me and pickles, Pickles and I...it just happened. And it's a special thing. To this day I've never had a significant other, but I have lived the majority of my life in one all-consuming, intensely passionate, physical-mental-emotional relationship...with pickles.

When I was a wee thing, I remember ever so vaguely a trip to the ER described to me by my parents. Surprisingly, this was not a story about any of the 7 or 8 trips about having been rushed there myself to get stitches. No, this magical journey to emergency land was made by a completely different character: my older brother. There are some things you should know about Ethan: two years my senior, Ethan is a truly gifted student, intellectual and personable, professional and passionate about whatever he does. To this day I cannot for the life of me figure out how we came from the same gene pool (although if I asked, this biology/philosophy double-majoring brother of mine would be more than happy to inform me of the genetic process). Anyway, when this golden boy was around 3 or 4, he was rushed to the ER to remove a certain food object that had become lodged and stuck in his nostril. Ladies and gentlemen, Ethan had joyfully shoved a pickle in his nose.

Now, I'm not suggesting any disgusting psychological connection between this story and my becoming a pickle fanatic. I am 100% sure that I would have loved the brine-soaked little devils anyway. However, there is something about picturing my dear brother -- the future doctor, who I respect immensely and love with all my heart -- with an unassuming little cucumber sticking out of his nose that gives me more joy than most anything.

Fine, I'll admit it: during my grade school days and through high school, I attempted to hide and/or disguise my delight for pickles. Let's face it, they are kind of offensive little brutes: they smell funky, they've been stripped of most of their nutritional content, and they're aren't exactly the prettiest things to look at, either. Not to mention they can be detected from three cafeteria tables down, though safely stowed inside your Power Rangers lunchbox. Eating a single pickle at lunch could earn you a 6 foot bubble of isolation for a good 3 hours. Nevertheless, the love affair between pickles and I continued, even if it meant disguising them in my Braunschweiger sandwich (another misunderstood food item that I'm sure will resurface in stories to come). So what exactly is it about pickles that has me so absolutely enraptured?

I only have one cheesy theory.

Like coffee and beer, pickles are kind of an acquired taste. When I grew up, most kids my age didn't care for them (many still don't in my college years). In the cafeteria they were often met with a chorus of "Ewwww!" and "Gross!". Truly, many of the sneers and insults came from those who had never even tried one. Pickles, it saddens me to say, were the unaccepted, awkward kids standing alone on the elementary playground or high school parking lot. At some point in life, we've all had moments where we felt like Pickles, myself included. But there is a ray of hope to this story.

One week after I had made it to college, I trudged on over to the dining hall to procure sustenance. As I approached the condiment bar, I scanned my immediate surroundings before picking up a small paper cup to fill with dill pickle slices to munch before class (as if I hadn't already established myself as a weirdo in college, let's just add PICKLES). At first I thought I had overlooked them, but then I saw it: a large, empty container whose confines had formerly been occupied by the crunchy, briny objects of my affection. As I let my shoulders slump in overwhelming sadness, one of the dining hall workers came to check the condiment status. Just before she bustled out of earshot, I heard her say "Pickles gone already...that's the third time today!" If I were a puppy, my ears would have perked and my tail would be knocking over the mustard. There were people, real people, here at college, that appreciated pickles! Like me!

We're a rare breed, us Pickles. Scorned by many, we quietly but proudly persist until we are picked up and loved by those with courage and defiance for conformity, those that can appreciate our quirks and turn to us for gratification or happiness or support no matter what. Perhaps someday the joy we provide can touch the hearts and taste buds of all the world...

...but for now, we're just a comfort for one to relish.