c. 2024 Rod Ice
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(9-24)
One advantage of living alone is that I don’t have to spend much time listening to bogus opinions. Tuning out socially is easy. All I have to do is shut my front door. But, moments during a productive workday do arrive, when I opt to move out of the home office, and away from my computer keyboard. Enjoying cold refreshment on the front porch helps to clear my head, and allow creative batteries to recharge.
If I discipline myself, these brief interludes serve to help and not hinder projects that are underway.
Unintended consequences do appear from so frequently employing this strategy, however. I find my attention span flagging a bit, with the numb respite of alcohol always offering temptation. Regular meals are something that have all but vanished in my household. In their stead, I prefer to snack while emptying 12-ounce containers of Yuengling or Miller High Life. This means needing to keep stores of Slim Jims, pork rinds, Doritos, and cheese crackers on hand. Plus, quick entrees like frozen burritos or Stouffer’s pizza in the freezer.
Yet one tasty treat has eclipsed all of these items on my menu. Namely, refrigerated or small-batch pickles such as Claussen, Nathan’s, or those offered by other regional producers.
Seasoned citizens like my first father-in-law used to speak about tavern culture as it was, before the advent of modernist cuisine. When pickled eggs, sausages, and such were staple items for drinkers who developed hunger pangs while emptying their mugs. These tales often brightened my spirits, and offered insight into what had gone before. But more than that, they planted a seed that would germinate over time. Eventually, I developed a yearning to revisit these old habits. And a personal tradition was born.
Like hillbilly ancestors who dined on frankfurters, bologna and pepperoni rolls, I became obsessed with quick bites of pickled cucumber, swimming in a garlic brine.
Being of middle age and disabled now, my routine has taken on a velocity more eventual than speedy. I have found that a daily ritual of invading the refrigerator, sitting on my bench, gnawing on cured smokies or salty snacks, and then interacting with neighbors, is best suited to existing in a rural, trailer community. The spatial geography of rented lots, long and narrow, keeps order well. It is impossible to languish in isolation for too long. Yet at least a measure of individuality and privilege remains.
In an apartment, I would be squeezed into a restrictive cubicle of living space. In my oasis of mobile homes, however, I can at least enjoy having my own driveway and laundry room. A slight compensation perhaps, for the social stigma associated with living in such a development. But damned useful, when thinking of life without those conveniences.
A jar of pickles in the fridge, and a case of brew, fits this paradigm.
My ex-wife used to urge caution when choosing foodstuffs for our daily diet. She was a proponent of low-fat, low-sodium, low-carb, gluten-free products. I often felt like a jailhouse inmate, with water and slices of stale bread for sustenance. Flavor and variety were not primary concerns. Instead, I typically received lectures about heart attacks, strokes, cancer, and diminishing capacities. All of which aroused a grumbling in my belly for meat-and-potatoes, down-home eats. The sort of satisfying feasts that I remembered from my childhood.
Fried chicken, pot roast, and hamburger spaghetti!
When filtered through the minimalist prism of dwelling in a boxcar shack, this tilt toward simple nourishment takes on a wrinkle of its own. I have found myself spending less time on preparing dishes, and more on enjoying the moment of fulfillment. In a sense, I have returned to living as a student intern. Gorging myself on Ramen, macaroni & cheese, or taco variations. Something that fits a limited budget, and offers plenty of satisfaction in a short amount of time.
Pickle spears, halves, or wholes always meet my needs and expectations.
Recently, while alternating between rations of amber lager from Pennsylvania, and brined vegetables, I remembered that my father became fond of a particular pickle variety sold at our local Kmart depot, in the Pittsburgh area. The label as I recall, was red. Crossed flags served as a masthead, those of America and Poland. A description in the middle boasted “Polski Wyrob’ which I thought sounded authentic. When opened, these jars released an aroma of old-world deliciousness. Each bite snapped crisply, offering a zesty reward of flavor.
While pondering this lost delight, I decided to pause my porch libation, and conduct an internet search for clues. Somewhere in the wealth of cyberspace, I reckoned that there had to be references to the item, and its purveyor. Yet after hours of scrolling and reading, little appeared to indicate that what I had seen ever really existed.
Disappointment drove me back to the refrigerator. And a jar of Famous Dave’s Sweet & Spicy Dill Chips, which I had found by surprise, on the shelf at a local Dollar General.
Feeling the need to be edified, I reached out to a contact who had retired in the ‘Burgh. I guessed that he might have some useful information about this forgotten comestible. But my query left him puzzled.
“Polski Wyrob? Sure, I see Polish pickles around, they are fairly common. But not exactly what you remember. They were sold in the middle 1970’s? I had left the area in those days, temporarily. Maybe someone who uses Reddit will know, or perhaps, a participant in one of the Steel City forums that I visit. I’ll keep looking! You never know what will turn up, unexpectedly!”
Eventually, I downed enough suds and snacks that it didn’t matter anymore. My belly was full. And my brain had been soothed into numb submission.
Passing cars, trucks, and motorcycles tooted their horns as I sat outside. The summer season was winding down, like a clock spring yielding its stored, mechanical energy. I felt grateful for the pleasant evening, and sparse company, while drinking.
But after retiring to my bedroom, slumber came with a soft curse echoing from oblivion.
“What about those Polskie pickles?”
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