Relationship advice

What to do when you're in a pickle.

Few things shatter the positive vibes and musical harmony in the Stormon household quite like my penchant for pickles. 

For the most part, our island house on top of the hill plays home to wistful evenings chitting about this and chatting about that. Sure, there are long days when our darling near-three-year-old pummels our collective nervous system and we retire at night, eyes wide at the ceiling, haggard and depleted. 

But for the most part, blissful, family-friendly fun runs the gamut. 

My wife and I are a good team in that way. We’re in rhythm like Torvill and Dean on ice. That largely boils down to compromise. You take a little, you give a little, or ideally, you give a lot. Things always work out better that way. 

But when it comes to pickles, we’re at odds. 

It’s not that I buy too many pickles or that I eat them too often—there’s surely nothing wrong with a pickle after dessert each night, right? 

I kid. I usually wait until after I brush my teeth. 

No, it has nothing to do with the pickles’ consumption and everything to do with how I store them. 

See, the pickle jar has a special place in my heart, and in my fridge. It’s usually stowed in the bowels of the fridge, stashed behind an unwanted can of craft IPA and a jar half-full—never half-empty—of kalamata olives. 

It sits there in anticipation. Waiting for the nosey looks of a hungry soul to wince open its lid and dip three fingers and a thumb inside for some brined loot. 

Non-picklers may not know this but everyone stores pickles in about the same way. And by that I mean we don’t really store them at all, they’re just discarded to faraway and long-forgotten nooks inside the fridge like ancient jewels stowed deep in an Egyptian tomb. 

There’s a reason for this. A pickle jar should never be too easy to reach. 

Half the fun and three-quarters of the thrill of pickle snacking stems from the journey one embarks on to find the jar. Dodging sad leftovers, rummaging through bottles of horseradish and brown mustard, checking the cheese drawer, the butter compartment, and whisking through the dysfunctional family of condiments sitting in the door three times over makes for a frustrating but comforting experience. 

The problem with said strategy is that it creates conflict. Non-picklers don’t see the art in the lost-then-found jar. They see a mangy receptacle filled with sour brine protecting a few sad, phallic vegetables. 

They rue the jar’s very existence. 

They yearn for order. For cleanliness. For fridges free of frivolity and phantom finds. 

Enter: My Wife. 

Thankfully, I can count on only one hand the number of times my wife and I bared teeth and snarled at each other in genuine conflict. The first was when I thought it a good idea to go to Burning Man and dance with strangers on the cusp of the third trimester of her pregnancy. I’ll have grey hairs and more than a few sunspots before I can live that one down. 

Fights two through five all stemmed from the discovery of opened pickle jars, each sheltering a single, lonely pickle. 

To me, the pickle enthusiast, such discoveries sprout feelings of relief and unbridled happiness. To my wife, it’s nothing but a sheer nuisance. A shrunken cucumber living rent-free in an oversized jar that’s doing nothing but take up prime real estate. 

Each time she finds a new pickle—which is often because I feel uneasy if my fridge is devoid of them—I can feel the disdain in her voice. It fills the room like an awkward joke. 

I, on the other hand, can barely contain my excitement. 

You found it! I rejoice. 

Eyes roll, shoulders cool, and the sermon rages on. A prophetic chorus detailing all the reasons why that pickle shouldn’t be there. How absurd it is that there’s always just one bloody pickle left. 

Look at how much space it’s taking up. 

Ridiculous. 

A back and forth ensues. Arms flail high in the air gesturing to the preposterousness of it all. I can’t imagine someone having such contempt for an innocent pickle. She can’t comprehend how we have the same recurring issue—like a relapsing hoarder feverishly stashing teaspoons. 

Just eat the f*cking thing, usually goes the final line. 

And I do. 

I do it not because I want to, but because I have to. It’s my duty as a husband, as a father, as a man. As a pickler. 

I do it, my friends, because of a little thing called compromise. 

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One thing I’ll never compromise on is my incessant nagging for validation. Some writers play it cool when asking for vacuous displays of acceptance.

Not me. I’m shameless.

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Until next time, keep picklin’.

*Chef’s kiss*

Allan