Southern Belle Magazine Digital #02 August 2013 | Page 13

PICKLES
Have y’all ever met someone, a perfect stranger, who just clicked with you?
Sometimes it’s the guy at the store with a warm inviting laugh, or the new neighbor with a smile in her eyes (and a cake in her hands). Or perhaps it’s the woman on the street who looks a little like your granny, just with bigger hair. You don’t know their names, their stories, or their intentions, but you feel an undeniable connection. Call it a “sixth sense” if you want to get spooky, but their mysterious familiarity puts you at ease and somewhere in the back of your heart you wonder, haven’t we met before? I love these kinds of people. And last summer, the first time I ever bought a bushel of picklin’ cukes at my town farmer’s market here in Glenwood Springs, CO, I met one. I now call her my Pickle Queen. Tall and robust, copper hair blazing, she mans the best produce stand at the market, slinging sumptuous Gold Bar squash and fat heirloom tomatoes and plumpest-of-the-plump Starfire peaches ‘til the sun goes down or the goods run out, whichever’s first. She can twist up a five-pound bag of beans with one hand and calculate the price with the other, and you’d better not step in her way while she’s fussing with her elderly daddy, who runs the cash register. She is a wild woman through and through. Last summer I thought I’d try making homemade pickles for the first time, but I needed a little guidance. Most of you probably know it’s not such a simple task to make crisp, perfect pickles. So when I overheard her speaking with another customer about vinegar acidity, I knew she was the lady to talk to.

by Caitlin Causey

Caitlin Causey grew up in small-town Georgia. After brief stints in the big cities of Atlanta and New York, she now resides in small-town Colorado with her husband, Hunter, and their two dogs. The Causeys love nothing more than a home-cooked meal, and believe the most important ingredient in any dish is a teaspoon or two of love.

“Excuse me?” I asked, a little sheepishly. “Whatcha need honey?” she replied, popping up from behind a stack of papery-skinned onions. Her red perm bounced in the breeze. “I was just wondering, since I’m going to make some pickles this year, how do you keep them crisp? Like, not soggy and limp?” “Oh you’re gonna make your own pickles! That’s great. You wanna buy a bushel? We got ‘em in the truck. Come here, I’ma show you something,” she said as she scooped up a hefty bouquet of fresh dill, flowers and seeds and all. And from there, she shared so many pickling secrets that I can hardly remember them all. Turns out, she was more than just a fan of pickles…she was a connoisseur, an expert, a queen. A Pickle Queen.
“Oh yes honey, I looooove pickles. I eat the cukes, the garlic, the dill, the pepper...heck, I even drink the juice when they’re gone! When I die they won’t have to embalm me,” she said with a cackle. “They can just put me right in the ground!” Photos by Hunter Causey