A few weeks ago, I felt like muscle memory took hold as I took each not-too-scrawny, and often-times overly fat, cucumber in hand to scrub off any and all grime.
As a youngster growing up on the eastern Colorado prairie spending many summer days in a hot, sweltering kitchen dodging Mom’s scurrying body from sink to stove to countertop, repeating the cycle over and over endlessly throughout each of those days, unsuccessfully trying to get out of the way, was a rite of the season.
I shucked corn. I washed beans. And, I cleaned up the cucumbers. It was pretty boring work for a kid but as far as I was concerned, in the end there was never enough of the pièce de resistance, the family heritage, better known as GG’s (Great-Grandmother’s) dill pickles. Even though it took time before they’d be ready to consume, it was exciting just to see those round green spires packed in glass receptables prominently stamped “BALL.”
In all due time, left to our own resources on nights when Mother and Dad were enjoying adult company at friends’ homes, my older sister and I would watch the tail lights on the latest Chevy disappear down the driveway before skedaddling to the garage storage area, one of us climbing the ladder to reach the cupboard and pull one quart jar off the shelf.
Then we settled on the couch, napkins in hand ready to catch any wayward juice. Salivary glands anticipating what was to come, we would reach inside that jar, savoring every bite of the delectable, tart, but slightly spicy, room temperature, finger-length green cuke. Well, make that a plural. Because we made sure to finish off the entire jar so we could clean up the evidence before the adults arrived home.
It wasn’t a prerequisite that my new husband love this traditional family treat. But it sure was fun that he did. As newlyweds we sought out the best pick-your-own cucumber spots in Weld County. It turned out that traipsing through sometimes muddy fields became romantic dates. Our pickling cucumber hunts tradition followed us through the years we lived in Southern Illinois suburbia.
We kept meticulous notes about how many cucumbers were purchased, how many gallons of vinegar we needed, along with the number garlic bulbs and red peppers. Our friends enjoyed the taste treats we provided every December holiday.
And then the mountains came calling. Neither of us imagined we could continue this farm-oriented activity. The first person who left our garage sale left with all the canning equipment we’d accumulated over nearly a decade.
The years, as they do, flew by. At family reunions, the siblings reminisced about always having GG’s pickles at all the traditional family dinners – Easter, July 4, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the spur-of-the-moment gatherings.
Then, after a 30-some year hiatus, the cucumbers came calling once again. On our anniversary a few years ago, we got up the nerve to re-enact the autumn tradition. After studying our notes from the Illinois days and borrowing a good friend’s canning supplies, we made a trek to the Brighton area. We were old enough now we had no desire to do the picking part. So, buying on the day the cucumbers were picked seemed to be a great idea.
Oops! Why did we not realize we couldn’t buy cukes by the peck any longer? Have culinary traditions progressed beyond my rudimentary understanding (and memory) of what the recipe really meant by vinegar? Is that white vinegar? Cider vinegar? Is that table salt, or do I need to get fancy and buy pickling salt? Oh, and don’t get me started with descriptions of which small red pepper I’m supposed to drop in the bottom of the quart jar. All this is way beyond the knowledge I demonstrated when I won the Betty Crocker Homemaker of the Year award as a high school senior.
The word spread through the family that we had revived the pickling tradition. And one day, about a year or so ago, I got the call.
“Hey Cuz,” he said. “I hear you’re making Grandmother’s pickles! I didn’t know anyone had the recipe! Would you share?” Being ever-helpful I made providing the recipe task #1. Knowing he’s the accomplished mathematician-engineering perfectionist in the family, I had no trouble letting him know, in advance, some conversions would be needed, not the least figuring out the number of pounds in today’s world as compared to the number of pecks Grandmother had in mind in the 1930s.
For us? We’ll just wait a few more weeks to see if we got it right this year.
Journeys is a column of reflections and commentary written by Estes Valley Voice Senior Editor Suzy Blackhurst. To reach Suzy with news tips, story ideas, or pickle recipes, you can email her at suzyb@estesvalleyvoice.com