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Hey, so I comissioned crowshaped on tumblr to do an art piece for this series! Check it out Here!
Mel is really, really sick of pickles.
Viscerally, soul-deep, nausea-on-sight sick of pickles.
It’s not that she doesn’t like pickles, she does. In fact, prior to the past month she’d go as far as saying they were one of her favorite foods. But now she’s pretty sure she’ll barf if she so much catches a whiff of pickling spice.
It started innocently enough. She’d picked up Becca from day program, and one of the staff had beamed, “We made pickles today!” Not a complicated recipe, just one of those beginner kits, a vinegar packet, some water, a couple of cucumbers tossed in a jar to sit in the fridge overnight. Becca was so proud, and Mel had dutifully eaten them the next morning with breakfast.
And they were good! Genuinely tasty. She told Becca so. Enthusiastically. That was her first mistake.
Then the next day, it was jars. Six of them, sweating condensation through thin plastic bags that swung off her forearms like she’d been on some demented grocery run. “They had extras!” she said, delighted. “And Miss Tamara said I could bring home as many as I wanted!”
Mel, unfortunately, had said “wow!” instead of “no.”
A fatal mistake.
Because the next day, Becca came home with more pickles.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
And when Mel heard, in passing, that the program was planning to switch to a different activity next week, Becca had been so crushed that she almost cried. So Mel, thinking she was being helpful, bought a canning kit online. It was ne of those “starter sets” with the funnel and the tongs and the weird magnetic stick for lifting lids. “We can make our own together!” she’d said, smiling like a fool.
She did not anticipate this would open the floodgates to a full-blown pickle factory operating out of her kitchen.
Every shelf in the fridge became stacked with cucumbers in various stages of fermentation. Sweet pickles. Garlic pickles. Spicy jalapeño pickles. Neon pink ones dyed with food coloring. One glittery monstrosity that looks like it came from a Lisa Frank lunchbox and smells like it could strip paint.
Mel had tried reasoning with Becca, because at they rate she was going they were going to run out of room in the fridge.
“You know we can’t live on pickles.”
“I’m not living on pickles,” Becca had replied sweetly. “I’m thriving on them.”
So, Mel had pivoted. “Let’s just make them on my days off, okay? With the canner we can boil the jars. Then we can store them for up to a year in the pantry.”
Another mistake.
Because now, on her way to work, she’s hauling a tote bag loaded with fifteen jars of homemade, shelf-stable pickles Becca cranked out the night before. The bag is so heavy it bangs against her knees with every step, and Mel’s sure she’s going to have bruises by the end of the day.
She gets to the hospital, swings into the locker room to change, and immediately spots Trinity, who eyes the tote with suspicion.
“Hey, Trinity-,” Mel starts.
“No,” Trinity says, gagging a little and going back to tying her shoes.
“But- ,”
“Absolutely not. I can’t. I’ve had eight jars in the last week.”
Mel sighs, shifting the weight of the overstuffed tote bag on her shoulder. “Come on. Just one more. Becca added edible glitter to these.”
“That makes it worse.” Trinity stands up, eyeing the bag like it might explode. “Seriously, Mel. My stomach is ninety percent vinegar. I’m just a man. I can’t handle any more salt, I’ll explode.”
“Awh, man,” Mel mutters, defeated. What the hell is she supposed to do with fifteen jars of pickles in her bag and five more sitting on the counter at home?
She turns, putting on her best smile. “Samira!”
The other doctor glances over, mid-stride, already shaking her head. “I can only take two, Mel. My mom liked them, but she said if I bring home one more mason jar, she’s putting me up for adoption. I can only risk two.”
Mel hands over two jars. Samira holds one up, squinting through the brine. “No red pepper flakes this time?”
“They’re sweet pickles,” Mel says quickly.
Samira recoils and looks like she’s going to drop the jars. “Oh, ew. I think Victoria likes those, maybe…”
“Please?” Mel pleads. “It would make Becca so happy.”
Samira groans. “Oh, you bitch,” she says without heat, then tucks the jars into her locker like contraband.
They both start changing.
“She’s still into the pickling thing, huh?” Samira asks, pulling her hair into a ponytail.
“Obsessed. It’s a whole operation now. She’s got spreadsheets and everything. Ten years of her avoiding computers and all it took was her finding a hobby.”
“Jesus.”
Mel nods grimly. “She started naming them. One’s called ‘Fairy Garden Zing.’ It sparkles.”
“I’m scared of your kitchen.”
“You should be.”
“If you eat the, do you poop glitter?’ Trinity asks.
“Yes.” Mel deadpans.
“Oh wow,” Samira says, voice a little hushed. “You’re screwed.”
Her next stop is the staff lounge. The counter still has half a dozen jars lined up under a battered handwritten sign: “Free! Take one!” Mel’s drawn little smiley faces on the pickle jars with Sharpie to try and sweeten the deal.
Whittaker’s at the coffee machine, mashing buttons like he’s playing a slot machine. Mel sets down the rest of the jars with a tired sigh, just as Collins walks in, coffee mug in hand.
“Whoa,” Collins says, eyeing the jars. “Your sister’s still on the pickle train?”
“Yes.” Mel is aware she sounds like she’s reporting a tragic accident. “She made twenty jars last night. I’ve had to reorganize the pantry three times.”
Collins laughs as she rinses her mug. “Why don’t you get her into a farmer’s market or something?”
“I looked into it. There’s food safety certifications and permit stuff. Plus, she’s not in it to sell. She just wants to pickle.”
Collins smirks. “Can’t relate.”
“I miss when she was into finger puppets,” Mel mutters. “At least I could shove those in a Ziplock and forget about them in a drawer.”
And she feels bad saying it, because she gets how hyper-fixations work. She’s had her own. Like that semester she became convinced she’d become fluent in Spanish (she did not), or that summer she took up basket weaving (three baskets, all crooked).
But pickling made Becca happy. And Mel loved her sister. Seeing her happy made her happy. Thus, she was doomed to suffer.
“Why don’t you get her to try something else?” Collins suggests, setting her mug down with a soft clink. “Like sculpting. Or knitting. Something less… vinegary?”
She shoos Dennis away from the coffee maker and presses a button. It gurgles to life, beeping cheerfully as coffee begins to brew. The smell, actual coffee and not pickling spice, hits Mel like a gift from heaven.
“I’ve tried,” Mel groans. “She just really likes pickling cucumbers. She’s got a whole setup now. A water-bath canner, labels, those kinds of things.”
Dennis, banished from the coffee machine, makes grabby hands toward Mel’s thermos. She hands it over. He pops the lid and hands it back to her to rinse in the sink.
“Why don’t you get her to pickle something else?” he suggests, moving to the fridge. He pulls out the dairy-free creamer Mel likes and adds to thermos.
“What do you mean?” Mel asks, watching as the machine finishes dripping coffee.
“Well, if it’s about the process, maybe she’d like pickling other stuff. You don’t have to stick with cucumbers.”
“You can do that?” Mel asks and immediately feels ridiculous. Of course you can. She’s seen other pickled food at grocery stores.
“Yeah,” Dennis says without judgment of her faux paus. “You can pickle red tomatoes, green ones, okra, asparagus, even eggs.”
“I like pickled onions,” Collins offers from near the sink. “Those are pretty good.”
Mel isn’t so sure. “I don’t know if I can handle anything else pickled. Maybe I can just convince her to can stuff plain?”
“You can do that with a water bath if you’re keeping them in the fridge,” Dennis says, pouring coffee into Mel’s thermos and handing it back. “But not for shelf-stable stuff. For that, you need a pressure canner.”
Collins raises an eyebrow. “What’s the difference?”
“Water bath canning only gets up to 212°F,” Dennis explains. “But a pressure canner can hit 240°F. Some foods like onions aren’t acidic enough. So if you try to can them in a water bath, you seal the jar but don’t kill all the bacteria. That’s how people get really sick.”
Mel blinks. “How on earth do you know that?”
“Someone back home got sick trying to can plain onions in a water bath. She wouldn't shut up about it for months. Literally every time I saw her, she was talking about it.” He shrugs. “Onions are low-acid, so unless you’re pickling them, you gotta pressure-can them.”
Mel winces. She can barely handle the thought of more glitter pickles, let alone branching out to a wider pickle universe.
“If you get a pressure canner, she could do stuff plain,” Dennis offers, noticing her face. “No vinegar. Just vegetables.”
“That’s… something,” Mel says weakly. Then perks up a little. “You want a jar?”
“They’re not the sweet ones, right?” Dennis narrows his eyes. “Trinity just texted and said you brought sweet ones today.”
Mel gestures to the counter. “These aren’t sweet. I swear.”
“Okay,” Dennis says, picking one up. “I’ll stash it in my locker for later.”
He pauses, then adds, “You know, if it helps, you could check out the National Center for Home Food Preservation. They’ve got legit safety guidelines and recipes. Maybe print recipes a few and let Becca pick some to try. Maybe if she gets a choice, it’ll be easier”
“That’s actually a great idea. Thanks, Dennis.”
“No problem,” he says, shrugging as Collins hands him the coffee pot. He finally pours his own cup, filling his battered travel mug.
“Wait, what do you mean actually? I have good ideas all the time!”