While he was at Rudy's, Scott picked up a couple of dill pickles on a whim. They were huge; I hope to heaven he didn't pay by the pound for them. When we all sat down to lunch together, I took a big bite of pickle. Lord. Have. Mercy. I thought my face was going to turn inside out. It was the sourest pickle in the history of pickles. My children--empathetic as always--were near hysterics as I tried to get this bite of pickle down without killing too many taste buds.
Finally--mercifully--it was gone. As I wiped away a couple of tears (I'm not even kidding. This pickle actually made my eyes water.) and tried to regain my composure, I glanced at my husband and saw that he was looking at me with a mixture of amusement and disapproval. I knew he thought I was being a drama queen and exaggerating the sourness. As if the sourness of something that falls on the Richter scale could be exaggerated.
Instead of saying anything, though, I just waited until he took his first bite of pickle. He immediately started with the facial contortions and table-pounding you would expect when part of your lunch essentially assaults you. When he caught his breath, he said thoughtfully, "You know, she did seem surprised when I ordered two."
Personally, I think he should have had to sign a waiver.