In(to) a Pickle

/ Diane Dean-Epps / Leave a comment

I’m a deep thinker. Most of the time. Okay, half the time.

(All right. You got me. I’m spotting myself a quarter of the time.)

This means I experience my fair share of existential angst as I ponder philosophical questions like, “Just because I’m older, does that mean I’m old?” and “Does expecting the unexpected render the unexpected the expected?”

I’m telling you this because it’s important I establish there’s some smart in me. Why? Because though I ponder high falutin’ topics, more frequently, I ruminate on subjects, concepts, and products in a very superficial way.

Did I say products? I sure did. Like pickles. Because in our family pickles are a big dill.  

(Please hold your groans until the end of the column when all to-be-expected puns should be accounted for.)

Frequently, our tribe holds long, spirited conversations about integral foodstuffs like ketchup, olives, potato chips, and the aforementioned pickles. The comprehensive list grows daily, what with all manner of meals being a gateway to these discussions.

Recently, pickles came to the forefront when I was making egg salad sandwiches, a family favorite. That’s when I pondered the beauty of the gherkin in all its glory which brings us to this briny tale.

Lest you think I’ve gone way over the line of weird here, it’s important to note the pickle is surprisingly thought-provoking to famous folks well-known for their erudite offerings.

Two historically impactful favs are Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin who illustrate what good company I’m in when I talk about the importance of the pickle in our daily lives.

It was Ben Franklin who pithily stated, “Hunger is the best pickle.” That says it all, doesn’t it?

Providing us with further food for pickle thoughts is Thomas Jefferson’s enlightening rumination.

“On a hot day in Virginia, I know nothing more comforting than a fine spiced pickle, brought up trout-like from the sparkling depths of the aromatic jar below the stairs of Aunt Sally’s cellar.”

True that, Mr. Jefferson. I’ve certainly experienced that scenario more times than I can count.

These pickle-inspired quotes are so profound they still surface in pop culture, being as comforting, inspiring, and elucidating as they are. And fun facts abound as I found out when I went online to execute a very technical search. I tapped in, “types of pickles.”

Yegads! The sheer volume of numbered lists that came up was jarring. They addressed not just how many types of cucumber pickles there are, but what you can pickle.

Those who aren’t in the know might simply say there are three types of pickles: cured, fresh-pack, and refrigerated. We know better, though, don’t we fellow pickle connoisseurs?

While knowing about pickles isn’t my bread and butter, I do like learning things. And learn I did. I relish this newfound knowledge and I know you will too.  

Here is your refrigerator-worthy short list that—briefly—tells you what makesthese upleveled cucumbers unique.

  1. Dill Pickles. Dill pickles are a crowd-pleaser and arguably the best-known pickle type. What makes them so special? They’re made in a vinegar- or salt-based brine rendering them delightfully tangy.
  2. Bread and Butter Pickles. These are my all-time fav. Having the manners of a rabid opossum, I eat them right out of the jar as I stand in front of the fridge. Though I’m long past the age of birthing eligibility, I crave these as though my body has forgotten that it’s long past the age of birthing eligibility. Sweet onions are the special ingredient that instills their distinguishing flavor.
  3. Sour Pickles. Sour pickles are lacto-fermented without vinegar for up to four weeks which accounts for their rich tartness. This process sets them apart from the rest of the pickle pack that relies upon vinegar for their pickling process. Who knew?!
  4. Gherkins. You can’t help but notice our gherkin friend is bumpy, appearing as though it’s more toad than food. This can be off-putting, but press on, my friends, because these sweet treats offer up an amazing amount of luscious crunch.
  5. Cornichons. I didn’t know what the heck these were before launching myself into cyberspace. As it turns out, cornichons are smaller gherkins that are fermented or marinated in a mixture of herbs like dill, tarragon, or pepper in what’s known as the French style. Ooh la la!
  6. Hot Pickles. Fans of all things spicy enjoy these tastebud testers. Spicy ingredients like cherry peppers, jalapeĂąos, or habanero peppers give them the kick fans love.

It may not be an overstatement to say I’ve devoted my life to finding just the right snap, crunch, yum factor in pickles.

One would hope I’ve devoted my life to more high-level pursuits.

One would be wrong that I have.

One might say this is because I like to keep my aspirations attainable.

You know. Lest I get myself in a pickle, all bottled up with unrealized dreams.

We Met at a Bar…an American Love Story

/ Diane Dean-Epps / 1 Comment

Nothing shows how far I’ve gone down the ‘ole timeline than reflecting upon my experiences as a fresh-faced, light-hearted, pre-hyphenated version of myself, landing me firmly in the Decade of Decadence.

Ahhhhh, yes, the 80’s — a time when my confidence was bolstered by youthful exuberance, sturdy shoulder pads, and Aqua Net-stabilized BIG hair.

My gal pals and I were out and about on a weeknight because we needed to cheer up my friend who was smarting from a fresh break-up. I wasn’t too keen on the outing because not only was my stomach hurting from rapid-fire consumption of my beloved peanut M&M’s, but I’d sworn off relationships. Again. I mean, why go to the pond if you don’t even want to fish? However, I wanted to be supportive.

That’s how I found myself cruising on into a bar named C Street North, which was neither on C Street nor was it situated in a northerly direction. What it was, was well-known for its kamikaze cocktails and its weekend warrior, locally grown, rock ’n’ roll Hair Bands. (Not to be confused with hairbands, those strips of cloth or plastic worn in the hair that fit closely over the top of the head and behind the ears.)

Right when I entered the club, I locked eyes with him. The most stunning man I’d seen since I was a tween and now-80-year-old Bobby Sherman had graced multiple Tiger Beat magazine covers.

My excited hazel-hued peepers met his beautiful baby blues. Then he was gone. Poof! Paging one gorgeous hunk. Where’d ya go?

And I thought that was that.

About half an hour went by when the DJ played the most romantic of songs: Do You Come From the Land Down Under? by Men at Work. And there the gorgeous hunk was again, only now he was standing right next to me, asking me to dance. I nodded affirmatively.

Ironically enough, though I was minoring in Dance at the time, I remember my dance moves as being pretty lackluster. I was too busy staring at him and then acting as though I wasn’t staring at him, trying desperately to figure out how to stay on the dance floor for multiple tracks. Time didn’t stand still, but I wanted it to.

However, as songs are prone to do, this one ended, and off went my potential life partner. Truth be told, he ran off. Again. Vanished. Dematerialized. Disappeared. This was one magic man in so many ways.

It wasn’t long after when my besties and I decided to call it a night. We were all feeling our own kind of miserable having to do with missed and unwanted connections.

As I exited, I took one last look around the room, flipped my hair, and walked out in what I thought was a rather fetching way. I needn’t have bothered. Why? Because that fine-looking man wasn’t there. How do I know? Because he was outside, leaning against the side of the building.

Did I mention it was a time of wild abandon when very little critical thinking was going on? My version of wanton behavior meant I sashayed on over to my mystery man, striking up a brief conversation that would fill in all the important blanks, specifically, name, school/work, investment plans, religious beliefs, political leanings, and then we smooched.

Rewind.

We covered number one and two, smooched, and then I had to go.

My friends were more than a little concerned about my uncharacteristic “making out with a complete stranger” move which triggered our pre-determined code words for just these sorts of occasions. They yelled loudly and simultaneously, “Let’s go!”

I told the future father of my children we were headed to a popular late-night coffee shop, inviting him to meet us there, if he wanted to.

He wanted to.

My continued Bad Girl activities that night included playing footsies with him under the table, staring at him as though he was a flask of water available at the end of my desert hike, and then getting his phone number.

I wasn’t going to call him.

But I did.

We’ve been together ever since. (It’s year number 41 and counting.)

One night. One seemingly small decision. One BIG, surprise love story.

#love #valentinesvibes #valentinesday #lovestory #loveatfirstsight

P.S. Happy Valentine’s Day, y’all!!! xoxo 🏹💘💋

I’ve Got Some Nerve

/ Diane Dean-Epps / Leave a comment

When I think of distinguishing walks the one that really stands out for me is Marilyn Monroe’s. As Jack Lemmon put it so aptly in the movie classic Some Like It Hot, she walked “like Jello on springs.”   

 I don’t know that I’ve ever been known for my uniquely come-hither walk, but it sure wasn’t the case this past year when I was launched involuntarily into “limper” status by virtue of a mysterious injury.

 My walk was less an aspirational Marilyn Monroe gelatinous glide and more of a Martin Crane—the Dad on Frasier—shuffle-hop-ball-change.  

It all started with a knee twinge that quickly became a chorus of pain, joined loudly by a crabby sciatic nerve, fused lower back, and throbbing hip. This meant I wasn’t high-kicking like a Rockette when I worked out, but rather low-legging like an injured show pony as I struggled to modify my moves.

(Fun fact: The Rockettes have been around for about a century. Non-fun fact: I was walking and moving as though I’d been around for about a century.) 

Because I lean more toward a “If I can feel it, then I can heal it” way of thinking, I’m loathe to seek out medical advice absent an emergency, but even I knew I needed to get myself into the ballpark of a diagnosis.

Off I went to visit my very nice MD, who arranged for an x-ray confirming something I’ve suspected for quite some time. I’m ageing. This was apparent when he noted quite a bit of arthritis had found its way into my body. The kicker? This finding had zero bearing on why I was having trouble weight bearing without pain.

Fresh from my non-diagnosis, I set forth to solve The Mystery of the Body That Became Its Own Island of Pain by taking the path never traveled. Because I worked out frequently and rigorously doing the same things every week, I would incorporate more variety and workout even more. After all, if you’re in pain from what you’re doing, doing more of it is the way to go with a side of variety.

Off I went to implement my easy-peasy treatment plan that included CrossFit, yoga, dance, boxing, and weightlifting followed by rolling around on a contraption that is, essentially, a rubber bed of nails. This ticked off all the “wide variety of fitness pursuits” boxes that would lead to my body healing. Wrong on the last part. Not only did this regimen result in even more aggravation of my points and parts, but it ticked off my sciatic nerve even more.

Now I was full-out Zombie limping. Look out, everyone! I’ve got a lit torch and I’m coming to your town next! Time was of the essence, lest I mirror neuron my way to permanent limper status.

[CUE SOUND: 60 Minutes stopwatch – tick, tick, tick, tick.]

 I crab walked over to my computer, entered my symptoms—the whole kit and caboodle—into the search engine that, coincidentally, also rhymes with kit and caboodle. It was there I learned oodles about body inflammation and how fascia works.

 It was clear I needed corrective bodywork stat, so I made an appointment with a practitioner of a practice that shall remain unnamed. We began with a crucial consultation. Translation: I handed her $200.00 and agreed to do that repeatedly for the foreseeable future.  

During one of our sessions she poured warm oil over my head as she gently reassured me she’d see me on the other side. (I hadn’t doubted it, until she said that.) Though the treatments were calming, my sciatic nerve didn’t get the memo because what waited for me on the other side was the extreme stinging sensation I limped in with. Plus, now I had an irrational fear of cooking oil that has made frying chicken very unpleasant.

 I soldiered on, looking for the holy grail of healing through all manner of treatments. This included numerous rounds of physical therapy, several stretching and strengthening classes, a multitude of many-flavored massage therapies, and some, “Did you light those needles on fire before inserting them?” acupuncture sessions.

 I was at my lowest, literally, because I was now hunched over Quasimodo style, looking for a bell to ring. I swear my face broke out too.

Just when this situation was on my last nerve, I had an epiphany. All I was doing was self-diagnosing myself into another circle of hell. (Dante anyone?)

 If I was rocking a physique that was now a big ‘ole Temple of Inflammation, wouldn’t it stand to reason all this poking, prodding, and manipulating was now part of the problem? Maybe I needed to—oh, what’s that word? It’s on the tip of my tongue. Rest! 

Perhaps the ticking clock I imagined hearing was telling me to slow the eff down.

So, I took a beat to relax. I forest bathed. I read. I meditated. I signed up for another three streaming services. I took time to recuperate. That’s when it happened. I got better. 

I now walk amongst the fully ambulatory, stable and fully recovered, which is more than I can say for my bank account. I do have one big takeaway from this experience that I’d like to share with you.

Acting as your own doctor can cost you almost as much as acting as your own lawyer. No joke.

The Dance

/ Diane Dean-Epps / Leave a comment

My grandparents’ love story started where it could have ended. A missed connection. While it’s not uncommon for family legacies to include “meet cute” stories, this one has at least one unique twist and “no kidding?!” turn.

Somewhere around 1926, my grandmother was dating a dapper dude named Kent who was destined to claim her heart and hand. Or so they both thought.

One of the reasons she felt this hometown heartthrob was destined to be “the one” is that her aforementioned (literal) hand was distinguished by a vein in the shape of a “K.” Therefore, it seemed like kismet they had a future together because that’s another “K” word that means destiny.

Then came the pivotal moment in the plot that would change the entire narrative of her life story, if not the seemingly prophetic vein. 

My teenage grandmother attended a dance where she met my grandfather. He was new in town, she was shy, and there wasn’t an immediate spark. Oh, sure, he was a tall, charming, snappy dresser who could really cut a rug, but he was much older, an unknown, as it were, and he wasn’t Kent.

Though she initially rebuffed his expression of interest, she hadn’t realized fate attended the soirée with her. There was something undeniable at play, beginning with their names. Her name was Igerna and his name was Guerney. I kid you not.

(If you enjoy etymology, Igerna was King Arthur’s mother—old English Igraine—and Guerney goes back to William the Conqueror times. Yes, I’m done with that unrequested history lesson.)

While she remained dubious, he advanced to besotted, which is when another type of dance ensued. Courting.

That’s when things got real challenging for my grandfather, and not just in the love department either, but in the culinary resources department as well. 

You see, he was so sad the object of his affection wasn’t in a “requiting love” frame of mind that he couldn’t eat. Morning after morning his frugal, not-known-for-her-culinary-chops mother served and re-served the same two-egg breakfast that her son would consume–she was convinced–when he came to his senses.

Neither of those things happened.

He wasn’t having breakfast, nor was he having my grandmother’s rejection. He just needed a stronger wooing campaign. That’s when he came up with a plan that would feature his fancy footwork.  

He redoubled his efforts to convince his future lady love he was â€œthe one” by cha-cha-cha-ing, jitterbugging, and foxtrotting his way into her heart by making sure he was her dance partner at every dance.

Being more of a “show” than a “tell” kind of guy anyway, this put him at a distinct advantage over poor ‘ole Kent who didn’t dance. Kent never stood a chance, but he did do a whole lot of standing on the sidelines as my grandparents twirled on by.

Igerna and Guerney were a natural fit as dance partners, becoming the featured couple at many a dance. Granted, there was a lot more dancing than talking, but that suited them both just fine. They moved together beautifully, gliding across the dance floor effortlessly, and they had fun together. Their love grew from there.

Because they danced in nightclubs—and restaurants that converted into nightclubs after hours—I only remember having one small peek at them tripping the light fantastic.

You know that feeling of being where you’re not supposed to be, but knowing you’re in the exact right place you’re supposed to be? It doesn’t happen often, but this was one of those times.

I’m maybe five years old, and I’m standing in front of a set of swinging doors. I’d heard music and wandered away from my mother to see where it was coming from. As I held the doors open, my grandparents glided by, ever so briefly, as I watched in awe. They were so tall, so glamorous, so happy. I craned my neck to see where they went, but that was it. Mere seconds that I’ve remembered for multiple decades. It was a brief glimpse at my grandparents in their element.

In taking the lead on the dance floor my grandfather, uncharacteristically, also took the lead in crafting their love story. Theirs would be a 50-year-plus authentic marriage that was a tango through time interspersed with marital quick steps testing their love and their bond.

Throughout it all, dance remained the cornerstone of their marriage, allowing them to speak in a language they both understood. Before we were all talking about what our love languages are they already knew what that meant. She needed words and him, not so much. That would lead them into a different kind of spin, but they would turn it into a dance that gave them a way to turn it all around.

 Isn’t that what a marriage—what a relationship, what a partnership—based on unconditional love truly is? Sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow, but most of the time you intuitively move together with synchronized choreography that only the two of you can do. Together. 

The Honey Maybe List

/ Diane Dean-Epps / Leave a comment

[Warning! There are a number of numerical references throughout this column which may bring about ugly math class flashbacks. Use caution when reading.]

Fortunately, after 14,610 days, 6 hours, and… 38…39 minutes of marriage, my starter husband—who looks to be a finisher—and I still like each other. 

This is the case even after the life-changing event that occurred, slamming us together in unrelenting physical togetherness 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. (And, no, I’m not talking about the large worldwide event that rhymes with systemic.) 

The event to which I’m referring is…duhn, duhn, duhn…his retirement.

Yea, it has been approximately 755 days, 14 hours, and…12…13 minutes since my husband superannuated. While our union has not been without expectation, his retirement has taken it to a whole new “honey do” level.  

You see, initially, my significant other’s post-working-full-time plan consisted of focusing 100% on his music career rather than the previous 50/50 musician/social worker ratio he rocked—and, yes, rolled—for a few decades. 

While the man now has more gigs than you can shake a tambourine at, I feel his plan needs to include my honey do’s. Why? Because that 100% gigging seems to take up 25% of his time. 

I know this because I work full-time from home, so when I jog by his man cave on the way to my 3-second bio break he’s in the middle of a nap, watching golf or a combination thereof. Therefore, he has plenty of bandwidth for my daily specials. (That statement is actually excerpted from our conversation.) 

After our spirited discussion about “Honey Maybes” versus “Honey Do’s” we came to an understanding. But even I can admit my lists are daunting. There’s something else I can admit. They’re weird. 

While regular Honey Do Lists consist of household repairs or chores, mine are more—oh, what’s the word?—eclectic.

We begin every weekday—after all, I’m not a monster, my groom does need weekends off—with me creating a normal list. Even though I start with the most innocuous tasks, it spirals from there. I’ll show you what I mean. 

This is an actual list with actual instructions and commentary. I only provide the latter when needed, but you’ll notice “when needed” represents about 80% of my requests, give or take.  

1. Bury lizard. (You’ll find him laid out respectfully next to the bowlful of water on the indoor-outdoor turf where I found him submerged and non-responsive. Sidebar: We need more menthol-infused tissue.)

2. Change batteries in my magnifying mirror. (Note: It’s the 10x magnifying mirror on my dressing table, not the 5x magnifying wall mirror over the sink, nor the 25x magnifying pull-out mirror on the closet door.)

3. Artfully arrange new solar lights in the Yoga Hill garden area.

4. Untangle necklaces. (Remember: You’re in it to win it!)

5. Purchase lavender mint goat soap (Please…no substitutions.)

6. Cut the wrong-sized gel foot pad insert, so it fits into my purple trainers.

7. Water all sunflowers in the sunflower nursery. (Please sprinkle them with water as opposed to pressure washing them with the hose as though you’re removing paint from the side of a barn.) 

8. Check behind the greenhouse to see if there’s a snake. 

Update: It wasn’t a snake, but rather a very snaky-looking and stressed out lizard. Perhaps it was the brother of the RIP lizard for which we provided a beautiful species-friendly service. We can’t know for certain.

9. Locate stripy petunias like the ones I planted in the yellow and blue pots near the brick patio. (Please…no substitutions.)

10. Retrieve the purple plastic pitcher from the second branch of the peach tree. (Don’t ask.)

11. Find and purchase the melon drink I said I liked the other night when we were at that restaurant.

12. Remove wads of pine tree pitch from the bottom of my favorite flip flops. (Before you ask: I don’t know.)

13. Get my favorite shabby chic green vase off the kitchen shelf that faces the fridge. (I’m just asking: Might we stop placing this freaking thing on the highest shelf which makes me feel like I’m scaling Mt. Kilimanjaro when I try to retrieve it, both having the same potentially disastrous consequences for me? Signed, Your Sugar Mama.)

And in a stunningly thematic twist…

14. Buy local honey for allergy relief (Please…no substitutions.)

So, in conclusion…oh, no. Wait a minute. Is that a lizard the cat just brought into the house? Hold on, dear reader. 

I’m going to need to add this to my late-breaking, afternoon Honey Do List. 

“Determine the last known whereabouts of the lizard Mr. Snoodles brought into the house…”