Tuesday, October 12, 2010


My dear, sweet husband was off work for Columbus Day on Monday and very kindly brought lunch in for me and the children, who didn't have the day off. Will specifically requested Rudy's BBQ, which surprised me and delighted Scott, who, throughout our marriage, has been a much bigger fan of Rudy's than I have been. I like the BBQ fine, but only, only, only if we get it as takeout. Something about eating it there just spoils the whole meal for me and puts me in a foul mood. (And it's more than the fact that they serve Pepsi instead of Coke, although that does put them at a serious disadvantage when we're deciding where we want to go for dinner.)

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.

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