Pickle

I was a little kid, and I was at an event that involved people in traditional Native American dress. It’s likely that the rest of my family was somewhere in the vicinity, but they weren’t present during the situation that I’m describing here. I was in the parking lot with the Johnsons, or possibly with Marty’s family (was their name Lopez?). We’ll say it was the Johnsons. Mrs. Johnson was getting everyone snacks from a cooler in the back of their van. She asked me, “Jeff, do you want a pickle?”

For some reason I felt it would be rude to tell her that I didn’t like pickles, so I came up with what I thought was a more polite excuse, “I’m allergic to pickles.” That was a lie.

She caught me off guard when she asked, “What kind of pickles are you allergic to?”

I panicked. You mean there are different kinds of pickles? Truth told, I don’t think I’d ever actually tasted a pickle. I’d just always known that I didn’t like them. I felt cornered. I would be exposed as a liar and a pickle-bigot. But I saw an out. “I’m allergic to every kind of pickle.”

As I was writing this, I was thinking about an exchange I’d had with Samantha. For some reason, she mentioned that she used to drink pickle juice straight from the jar when she was a kid. At the time I vaguely recalled that she had told that story before. But now I realize that she hadn’t mentioned it before, I was remembering something else. An ex-girlfriend – my girlfriend at the time – also once told me that she used to drink pickle juice.

So I ask you, what’s the deal with girls and pickle juice? Or maybe I should ask, what’s the deal with me and girls who drink pickle juice?