The waitress asked me if I wanted summer slaw, fries or a pickle with my sandwich.
I responded to please give me some of the fries, hold back on the rest, but give me a pickle to compensate.
She explained how she could not do this because it was one or the other, but not two items.
Visibly annoyed, I simply replied:
I’m worth the pickle.
Immediately, in my head, this post was born.
I will always be the no mayo, well done. light sauce, on the side type of patron.
My orders will always be an off the menu smorgasbord of complication with oodles of eventual gratitude for my food server.
But my requests, in restaurants as in life, will always be special, different and at times, complex.
I too am a pickle, but I’m worth it.
I tend to surround myself with individuals who challenge the status quo and require an array of condiments and accommodations in their buffet of life.
Most people in my life are also pickles and well worthy of my time.
They clearly merit the energy required to access the oft times sour jar of existence to accompany their plates of daily folly with the appropriate side dish of extra effort.
Serving the pickle to the pickle, without question, is an example of how affection coupled with mutual understanding can make the complex seem easy as pie, but getting from pickle to pie is never this easy.
I can be pie, but this is not always clearly evident, my sweetness not always being my freshest, most available ingredient.
Sometimes, to get to the pie we have to go through an array of extra challenge – this means digging deep into that pickle jar with the aromas of sweet and sour perfuming our midst. While tasty on the buds, the odor is not always pleasant to the nose. Pickles, like complex humans, are fickle.
This pickle is also quite the fickle creature as my annoyance becomes even more visible when my waitress brings out a piece of blueberry pie that I didn’t order, a morsel I will now be compelled to eat.
You are worth it, she says.
I smile as my annoyance leaves the table, pushed away by the feast that has been fed to my gluttonous ego under the guise of a flippant compliment.
I’m now know I’m worth the pickle, because as I just learned from my waitress, a solicited pickle can lead to unsolicited pie.
With my piece of humble pie, I stand corrected…
Getting from pickle to pie is as easy…well, as pie.