A PLEASANT DAY WITH THE CUCUMBERS

The recent making of Bread and Butter pickles evoked such a curious joy in me, akin to stepping outside some early morning to unexpectedly feel a soft, fragrant, southern breeze caress my cheek, or hearing the watery footsteps of rain approaching after a lengthy drought. I tried to account for the joy. Was it the simplicity of it? An old familiar thing to do? The good green odor of the vegetables? The knowledge that I was going to have something I had made to give away?

Yes, all of these things and more. Saturated with news of evil things -- murders, wars, corruption, starvation, accidents, drugs, petty partisanship and the general weight of living in the latter part of the century, it was good to get my mind occupied with cucumbers, onions, green peppers, brown sugar, vinegar and assorted spices, things the good earth, sunshine and rain had brought forth. Earthy.

The joy began a day ahead of time when I whispered to myself from time to time that, "Tomorrow, I'm going to make Bread and Butter pickles." Anticipation strengthens pleasures.

One must arise early on Bread and Butter Pickle Making Day, for there is a certain lag time when the vegetables much linger in a salty brine. This early rising hour is easy for me. Ingrained. Routine.

All through coffee, toast and cereal, I kept, cozy on my mind, "Today I'm making Bread and Butter pickles. Whatever else happens today, it will not disturb my plans." I felt like putting up the flag, singing, "Bringing In The Sheaves."

Viney had brought me a lot of cool, crisp cucumbers, the long, slender variety with few seeds. Like Grandma's old recipes always started, "First, sweep the kitchen and put things in order," I did so, even combed my hair and tied on an apron, choosing one with a ruffle at the bottom.

Then, out came my old, old, one-of-a-kind, adjustable, metal slicer. All who see it want it. I spent some quality time calculating how many bushels of cucumbers, potatoes, onions, carrots, and cabbage had been sliced with this handy little gadget.

These thoughts were accompanied by the early morning muted twitterings of the house finch I could hear through the now opened doors and windows. A current of contentment flows through this rosy-breasted flock. Not only do they dine on thistle seed, freely given, but they quench their thirst at the hummingbird fountain. Smart birds.

The TV is silent. The paper unread. Perhaps there had been another terrible plane crash or heinous murder or scandalous behavior somewhere. This day, I didn't want to know. This was my special Bread and Butter Pickle Making Day.

I washed the cucumbers thoroughly to be rid of any insecticide spray, thankful that I didn't have to contend with commercial wax or oil coating.

Slice, slice, slice went the cucumbers. A mound of green-rimmed white "dollars" piled up under the slicer. Mound after mound were removed to a large container. Then came the tearful slicing of the onions. I tried to think of some lines of poetry concerning cucumbers and onions to alleviate the sting. Couldn't remember any, so settled for, "The world is so full of a number of things (even onion tears), I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings." Too generic, I thought, so made up some lines of my own:

"Give us onions and cucumbers" the Israelites wept,

When leaving Egypt for their forty-year trek.

Forty years plus, without green cucumbers!

Those lonely months must have been real bummers!

Not quite as poetic as Edna St. Vincent Millay, nor even Edgar Guest.

Coarse salt? Where's my coarse salt? I found it way back on a top, hard-to-reach shelf, saved from last summer or maybe the year before, or two or three.

Tumeric, brown sugar, mustard seed, celery seed, vinegar, allspice answered the reveille call. Some of the seeds and spice boxes declared the contents to have expired some time ago, but, like Mr. Twain, I think the reports of their death were greatly exaggerated. A touch of my tongue to the allspice and a chew of a mustard seed told me they were very much alive.

Secretly I hoped someone would come to my door while the spicy syrup was heating. Oooh, the good smell. No one did, but a couple of blue jays in the maple tree must have caught a whiff of it. They made their alarming noise that said, "Something new is happening close by." Of course it might have been because of a squirrel at the ear-of-corn feeder.

While the syrup simmered, I went to sit a while in the swing to watch the pleasant day go by. Summer flowers were fading. That's in the sweet order of the season, I reasoned. Marigolds were taking center stage. All six of 'em. An old robin's nest had fallen from the oak tree. Summer beginning to show frazzled edges. The blooming autumn clematis perfumed the atmosphere, more so than the pickling syrup. White fleecy clouds formed in the blue sky. Such a wonderful day to make Bread and Butter pickles. Again parodying Edna St. Vincent Millay, I said softly aloud, "Oh, pickle making day, I cannot hold thee close enough!" Somehow, it didn't have the depth of Millay, but I was enjoying it.

"Biblical Isaiah, what was the lodge in a garden of cucumbers you spoke of (1:8)? After filling the shiny glass jars and immersing them in a boiling water bath, I went to research Isaiah's cucumber lodge. It was a crude little shelter set among the cucumber vines for some lonely person to occupy either to guard the plants from robbers or scare away the foxes and jackals. Such isolated and lonely watchmen were likened to the demoralized condition of Judah and Jerusalem among the other nations.

A shelter in a cucumber patch with blue skies overhead and, no doubt, bird song in the air? Didn't sound too bad to me. But, day after day of eating cucumbers, having only jackals for company, and having no one back home for spiritual support, would become a bit tiresome.

With the good green vegetables captured in gleaming glass and arranged in a row on the kitchen shelf, the kitchen itself still smelling of good things accomplished, my joyful day moving on toward sweet and tender twilight. Watching the fireflies come out, I wondered, somewhat lazily, why such pickles are called Bread and Butter pickles. More research on the morrows. I couldn't find a thing. Finally, after posing the question to several friends, someone said, "Well, when I was young, Mama made sandwiches for us of Bread and Butter pickles put between buttered slices of bread." So simple. I like simple, easy to understand explanations. I can hardly wait for my pickles to "ripen" so I can make a sandwich. Yeasty smelling, homemade bread, of course. Buttered.

REJOICE!