Taste

I got home from the gym tonight and my Mom got excited as she remembered something and declared, "Oh I got you a surprise!" She then handed me a tube of Screamin' Dill Pickle Pringles. I got equally excited, popped them open, and we each tried one and were both quite satisfied.

I took one downstairs to Dad, a lover of both salty chips and dill pickles, assuming he too would love the chip. I put it in his mouth, not telling him what it was but assuring him he would like it. He, trusting me, accepted it. And then, like a small child, he spit it out onto the plate in front of him. "What the Hell was that?!" he squawked.

A similar reaction came from my brother Patrick in 2001. Patrick and I had been playing softball with our church youth group, and we stopped at McDonald's on the way home. As our Previa barrelled down the interstate, Patrick took a bite of his burger and promptly made distressed "Ack!" sounds, out of which I somehow translated the word "Pickle!" He rolled down the window to spit the entire bite onto our nation's highway, attempting not to swerve off the same highway. After a minute of recovery he exhaled heavily, as if we had just come face to face with a bear and escaped, and said, "Whoo! We almost got into an accident!"

Like father, like son. Personally, I love pickles. Particularly in large amounts heaped upon one single sandwich.