(This blog post is not profound. It will not make you cry or even make you feel warm and fuzzy. It’s just a human truth—a confession I had to get off my chest. Maybe you can relate….)
I’m pregnant—coming into the third trimester. In neither pregnancy have I gotten the crazy food cravings to which many women attest. I’m not scarfing down M&M’s and Cheetos, sending my hubby out for midnight McDonald’s fries, or—the most intriguing pregnancy craving—desiring to eat dirt. Sure, I’ve had a bit more ice cream, but it is summer, and I am taking advantage of the best excuse a girl can have.
Ice cream, yes, it’s good, but it’s pickles that are causing a bit of guilt and a lot of satisfaction during this pregnancy. Classic, dill pickles… I salivate just thinking about them. Pickles have always been my favorite food, but I usually can go a long time without buying them. Of course, if we go out to lunch, I will spend the entire meal eyeing your pickle, trying to remember if you like them, wondering if you’ll eat the spear or if you’ll decide to offer it to me. That’s normal, right?
But now, I’ve made pickles an almost daily treat. I usually consume them standing over the kitchen sink—one briny, crunchy bite at a time. At meals, I may be more civilized and eat them off my plate.
Now, don’t worry about my unborn child. I did check with my doctor, and he felt that we were okay. My baby girl will come out of the womb with the usual wrinkles, but she should not come out pickled. I do not down a whole jar at a time or follow my pickles with a swig of the savory juice—though I am tempted. Just a few pickles, then the lid goes painfully back on until the next day. After that, it is back to a well-balanced diet of fruits, non-enhanced veggies, grains, proteins, dairy; you know the drill.
But the next day, sometime mid-afternoon, you may hear the refrigerator open, the gentle turning of a lid, the cling of my fork on the glass. Heaven will arrive again—if only for just a few salty moments.