For the last few years at that time of the year when the cucumbers are getting to be about the size of dill pickles a disparate group from various parts of Portland and its greater metropolitan area (an area in which I include Seattle) begin to stir themselves from whatever other things may have been occupying their typically brief attention spans.
They begin to think of pickles.
The reason for those stirrings have never been clear to me. From such discussions as I have ever been able to have with other members of the group (in addition to being short of attention span, they are also a taciturn lot) it is apparent that the reasons for the annual migration are equally opaque to them.
For whatever reason, or perhaps no reason, we all just begin an annual migration to Northeast Portland about this time of the year. That – Northeast Portland - is from whence an inventory of ambrosia-like dill pickles emanates each year.
That emanation refills the pickle larder of each of us.
The fact that each such larder by this time of the year has been sorely diminished, or has disappeared altogether, may be the reason for the stirrings of each of us to the home of the magic pickle.
But who knows.
There are many tales to be told in relation to these annual stirrings, and this year I intend to tell them all. Four Months in Paris will, for a brief time be dedicated, not to political ravings, or stories from le 6iem, but instead, only to stories related to the annual pursuit of the pickle.
A couple of those incidents, and therefore tales, have already occurred.
But I am getting ahead of myself.