Don, my best friend’s dad, spent a summer canning. He got fixated on gardening, reaping and bottling. It sounds like a sensible hobby to obsess over if you have to choose a neurosis, but he involved the entire family in his burgeoning project. The harvest yielded thousands of verietal cucumbers, which grew up to be pickles. Bottles and bottles of pickles: sweets, dills and salt & peppers. Baby pickles, hamburger pickles and mustard pickles. Every day they pickled, pickled, pickled—until the last day, when Nicole threw rooster feed in the vat of swimming sweets.
And soured Don’s summer.
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