On Pickles and Pregnant People

A dear pregnant friend mentioned on Facebook today her experience of not eating enough breakfast only to find herself woozy from hunger. As per the usual in crises like these, she did what she had to do. She bought a rotisserie chicken at the grocery store and proceeded to dismantle and devour the bird in the parking lot. Who doesn't love stories of pregnant women and the desperate measures they take to satisfy their cravings and sustain their blossoming babies?

Now everybody knows the jokes about pregnant women and pickles. Whether cravings for pickles are truly more common among the pregnant among us, I don't know (but I can find out), but for the third of my four pregnancies I developed a hankering.

This hankering wasn't just for any old pickles but for a specific flavor of Vlasic pickles. Something along the lines of Super Zesty. I think this line even came with numbers rating the spiciness, with a 4 being the kind to keep your kid dancing the samba in utero for hours on end.

Somewhere along the way I hit upon these particular pickles at our local Wal-Mart. Thrilled to the bone that my taste buds would finally have a party, I bought two huge jars and trotted them home.

At that time we had 3 concrete steps that led up to our back door. I was tired and hugely pregnant (I was ALWAYS hugely pregnant, it seemed). My young daughters (then 4 and 2) were cranky and in need of the elusive nap. But I had pickles, glorious pickles. Two huge jars of pickles in plastic bags... I walked up the steps, the bags broke in unison (or maybe both jars were in one bag, I can't remember... I've blotted that part out), and the jars smashed to smithereens on the steps. I don't remember much else. What I do remember is sitting there. On the steps. Sobbing. Sobbing away as my daughters looked on, wide-eyed, while their mother imploded over pickles. Good pickles. Good, crunchy, ZESTY pickles.

The thought occurred to me to try and salvage the pickles, rinse them off, and enjoy them anyway. But the thought of slicing my insides with shards of pickle jar failed to appeal so I scooped up my ruined treasure and vowed to start over.

Alas, when I went back to Wal-Mart the next day the pickles were gone. No more. Nada. My dear friend Kris, who lived across the state in Greenville, heard my sob story and took pity of me. A few days later the UPS man showed up with a package and inside, bubble wrapped, were 2 jars of my beloved Vlasic Zesty Pickles. Apparently the UPS man in Greenville had a pregnant wife and fully understood the need for pickles to be sent across state as quickly as possible.

I don't think Vlasic makes those pickles any more. But if they do, I'm gonna buy me a case of them, regardless of my reproductive state.

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