Pickles Make for Good Reading Material- Episode 4
Something strange happens when a guy realizes he has married a wonderful cook: the desire to eat at restaurants starts going away. I began noticing that I was having trouble deciding what to order from the menu when we went out. Not necessarily because the items weren’t presented well or because there were too many things to choose from, but simply because what I would want to order was something my wife made perfectly a few days before, and it just didn’t make sense to overpay for too much of something I can get at home anyway.
In the likeness of Brewster’s Millions and Super Size Me, I had a thought. What would happen if I was made this offer by a magical Eastern European man: For the rest of my life, I would have completely free access to any restaurant in the world, but that was the only way I could get food for the rest of my life.
It would be pretty awesome, no longer having to pay for groceries. No more cooking, no more doing dishes, no more trips to the grocery store. Whatever I was in the mood for, I would simply go to that restaurant and order it. Every meal. Free. At my command. And I wouldn’t have to tip. In fact, the restaurants wouldn’t let me if I tried.
All that money saved on food.
But most restaurants aren’t open 24 hours. So for holidays I would have to order food to-go to plan for future meals. And part of the stipulation is this: If the restaurant doesn’t sell it, I can’t eat it or drink it. No more trail mix. No more Cliff Bars. No more homemade cookies.
If I wanted 4 pickles at once, I would have to go to a place that gave me a pickle spear on the side of the sandwich like McAllister’s Deli does, then specially ask for 3 more. But those pickles are the bland kind. I like my pickles so spicy that it clears my sinuses.
Or I’d have to order fried pickles from a German restaurant. But I don’t always feel like eating fried pickles. There’s something unmatchable about the sensory involvement of reaching down into the cold yellow vinegar water of a pickle jar.
I would kindly tell the magical Eastern European man “thanks, but no thanks”. Then he would disappear instantly. But I would immediately feel a brief, cold breeze rush past my shoulder. That was the magical Eastern European man, symbolizing both the rejection he felt and the depravity that a “restaurant only” lifestyle would have brought me. No more “covered dish dinners” at family reunions in the basement of my grandmother’s house at Thanksgiving means no more deviled eggs. Bogus.
Missed Episode 3? It’s right here…