The Pantry

I grew up in Mississippi and some summers, not every summer, we would be lucky enough to make our own pickles. We'd make quarts and quarts of them and leave them to sit on the high shelves of our "pantry". It wasn't a well stocked pantry of staples (unless you count Kraft mac and cheese as a staple) but more of a closet of antiques and pure junk. And therefore, it was the most fascinating room in the house.

We bought our house from a Russian Jewish family, The Bergmans, who had built the place just after the Civil War. The mother died (Mrs. Bergman was said to haunt the house) while her 2 sons were off at school at West Point and so they never came back. Everything of the family's was left behind...and most of the ephemera was in the "pantry". Old 78 records, bottles of Jewish wine, pairs of tiny handmade leather shoes of Mrs. Bergman's and mixed in with all of that you could also find our stuff-old xmas decorations, rows of National Geographic magazines from the '40's, piano sheet music, and of course, the pickles. It was almost impossible to keep me out of there.

We would let the pickles, well, pickle, for at least 2 months... It sure seemed like much longer. In fact, in my mind we put the pickles up in August and it seemed like it was next SPRING before we were allowed to open them...I bet I asked my mother "are they ready yet?" at least 5 times a day, the waiting was agonizing. Christmas came MUCH faster.

Last summer my mother came across a handwritten copy of my grandmother's pickle recipe and decided to make a few jars with her granddaughters (my nieces, born pickle freaks). It had been years since she last made them but all the ingredients were easily available fresh from the area farms and in one afternoon they had put away several jars in the good 'ol pantry. I was jealous that I couldn't have been there that afternoon and already anticipating the envy of my nieces getting to eat them. Some weeks later I got a one line text from my sister: "They taste just like I remember Mammy's"...

All over again I was 8 years old dying to get into the pantry. Lucky for me, my mother mailed me 2 jars. She had to hide the jars from my nieces, yes, really HIDE them from them, which makes me beam with pride, they are such beautiful little pickle freaks!