The word of the day: Pickle

To preserve in brine or vinegar; any vegetable so preserved; a troublesome situation

To pickle is to embalm a vegetable in the holy waters of new life. Some priests trust the sterile clarity of vinegar to silence microscopic dissent. Others crave cacophony. They call forth a billion-billion anaerobic bacteria — or yeast — and set fire to our food. Closer to alchemy than baptism, it gives our vegetable second life.

The result of pickling is a pickle. A flame preserved in amber. Both biomass and glacier, a pickle lives in borrowed time. Only engorged in cloudy brine might a pickle have his first lucid thought: I was but a cucumber before this day.

Lid liberated, paradise lost. For plight of a pickle, is itself another kind of pickle. A pickle is a problem. It’s larger than a “jam” and smaller than a “kettle of fish.” A torpid dill cucumber expecting eternity is mistaken. His destiny waits on the other side of a mouth cinched shut from tartness. Past gnashing teeth dripping with saliva, down a vestibule of flesh to damnation. Where all pickles are lost.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.