I just wanted a pickle. The cool, crisp, salty-vinegary taste of a delightful dill pickle.
I opened the jar and plucked a baby kosher and dropped it into my mouth. I felt my cheeks pucker up as soon as the taste of the brine hit my tongue. A smile of satisfaction crossed my lips until I swallowed.
Immediately I started to choke, the tart vinegar squirted down the wrong pipe and I couldn’t breathe. My son asked me if I was okay. I was almost to the point of throwing up pickle juice, which, even as a pickle lover, that idea sounds horrible.
Finally, I caught my breath. Disturbed by this whole ordeal and not satisfied by my pickle experience, I decided to grab another.
I licked my lips in anticipation of the crisp vinegar hitting my mouth, more successfully this time. I took a bite and felt the cold crunch, and then the pain jolted through my face. I felt the vinegar mix with the blood of my lip. The iron mixed with vinegar was disgusting and totally unsatisfying.
I decided to give up. Apparently, the world was against me. I just wanted a pickle.