Katrina Bruna

A jar of homemade pickles means someone saying, I love you and I hope you are well, without so many words.

This is a piece of home, and here, so far away from all things familiar, it is a great comfort.

A picture paints itself in my mind of late summer, after the cucumber harvest.

My grandfather's rough hands, coated with a layer of dirt, the whole kitchen smelling like earth and cucumber stems.

My grandmother is boiling water, adding vinegar.

The smell burns all the way up to my brain.

Dill, tomatoes, blackcurrant leaves, nettle, bright green cucumbers, all filled in various jars with mismatched labels saying things like soup or beets.

Vaguely familiar melodies flow from the ancient radio on the other side of the stove, below rows of dried garlic and wild herbs.

This is a tradition that is slowly dying out.

Every next generation is less likely to stick to it.

Slow, conscious practices like these are being pushed out by the modern world.

There are never enough hours in a day, never enough days in a year, certainly not enough to wait for a cucumber harvest.

My mother has never made pickles, and I know that I won't either.

I call my grandmother to tell her about the jar of pickles, but not, of course, to tell her that they're making me a little homesick.

That kind of sentiment is not easily understood or accepted.

Eastern European grandmothers in their old age tend to be a little sharp, vinegar running through their veins.

Way to hear all that, Grandma.

I don't know, they had someone on the talk show last night.

And that makes them credible.

Don't be smart with me.