A Culinary Experience

When I was a child, my cousins and I would wander down to my grandma’s basement. We’d transform the cold, damp room into a haven for hide and seek, freeze tag, and lost kids. Hiding behind broken armchairs and between the washer and dryer, we’d spend Thanksgivings and Christmases fighting over who would be “it.” That basement was our Neverland.

In the dusty corner of this far away place, there sat a mysterious little creature on top of my grandfather’s bar. In our eyes, the olive green water that filled the small jar lit up the basement like Pan’s tinker bell. We’d grab hold of the counter tightly, standing on tiptoes with curiosity, to peer at the strange thing inside, always asking the same question. “How did he get it in there?”

This thing was a pickle—a big, green, monstrous pickle that engulfed the jar from bottom to brim. The answer to how that pickle fit inside was a debate that went on between the getting in trouble and the getting dirty. Each of us had our own theories I think. But no matter how many times we’d talk about it, we’d always end up in the same place, wide-eyed and scratching our heads.

The answer to our question is not the amazing part of the story. According to my father, my great-grandfather slid a jar over what started out as a pickling cucumber. After snapping the cucumber from the stem, he added vinegar and water to preserve it, before tightly sealing it shut with a lid. My dad’s dad, my papa, kept it in his basement, which later became a playground for cousins, brothers and sisters.

The pickle is gone now. So is my grandfather. My papa passed away when all of us were either very young or not yet born. And the pickle was just one of the many items that were lost after my grandma’s basement flooded. But for the younger generation of our family, growing up with the story of that pickle created a very special relationship between us and our papa. The pickle was the catalyst for storytelling, making our aunts, uncles, moms, dads and my grandma the beautiful narrators of his life.

And it is something that brings our small and varied group of cousins—from ages 14-26, filled with musicians, artists, athletes, and even a lawyer—back to the Neverland of my grandma’s basement.