My Livid Experience

You don’t need to take any notes for this. There won’t be an exam afterwards or a sweaty study session with flash cards, protractors or moral compasses. Nor will I employ obscure statistics to further my point. So before you recoil in terror, disgust and a sudden bout math-induced nausea, understand that what you’re about to read is merely a story. That said, a few Alka-Seltzer tablets can’t help but soothe the situation. For this is a tale that indicates something deeper about humanity. Only it doesn’t involve any numbers. 

I had a jar of fresh cornichons, ready to be opened. You might call them gherkins. I wouldn’t though. What’s next? Pronouncing the hard “x” in “faux pas” during an evening of anti-etiquette? The French have very little to hold onto these days, besides the enduring image of a smooth, recently sharpened guillotine. And holding onto something like that is never easy, with its rough edges and karmic weight. Nevertheless, I wasn’t too bothered by the freshness - of the cornichons, not the blade. Does anyone lose sleep over such things when the subject is the previously pickled? These could’ve been brined by a Provençal farmer, living well before the electric light. 

How would I know for sure? One way would be to open the jar. But this I couldn’t do. The pantry was all out of elbow grease, the water from the faucet never rose above a cool drip, and none of my antique can openers were in working order. Had I only cared for them the way French Revolution re-enactors care for their cherished guillotines. The sort of people who know which kind of berets were worn in the 18th century. The old saying, “I can’t cut your head unless I can see my face” speaks to the executioner’s understated pride. Keep ‘em shiny or don’t keep ‘em at all.  

I momentarily considered tossing the jar from the fourth story onto the pavement. Perhaps a high-powered fan could blow the lid wide open. Or a colony of ants working together to slide it right off. The Museum of Glass in Corning is just a few hours away. Maybe someone there would know what to do, like melting the glass back to its primordial form. As long as the tiny pickles remained intact. 

I had to act fast. You can’t let your snacks encroach too much on dinnertime. I did the sensible thing. I grabbed a hammer from the closet and smashed the jar to bits. This solution created a new set of problems. Namely, pulverized bits of glass now indistinguishable from the classic cornichon gleam. Another appetizer ruined. Another snack destroyed.   

I guess it's cucumbers from here on out.