[a moment] and a pickle

 

[moment 144]

There is a pickle place, aptly named The Pickle Place at the Robin Hood's Medieval Faire in Harwinton, CT. They are purveyors of the most magnificent pickles imaginable. Dill pickles. And garlic half sour pickles. They are just the thing one needs during a hot day at a Faire. And after a hot day at a Faire. And on a moderately warm day at the Faire. Anytime, really - they're just always really good. 

Now that you understand the delectability of these luscious fruits, you may understand what came to pass days after we had the pleasure of buying nine Pickle Place pickles at the Faire: I received a text from my teen who was forty-five minutes from home at a friend's house, dogsitting. The text requested that the remainder of their partially eaten pickle be delivered to them at our earliest convenience. Their pickle - in a bag with their name on it, lest someone mistake it for someone else's pickle - was their main concern. 

So off we went to drop off the pickle on our way to their younger sibling's theater rehearsal. Whereupon Onyx called Austen to let them know we were on our way with their pickle, the conversation went something like:

"We have your pickle."

"Are you holding it for ransom? How much is it going to cost me?"

"A million dollars."

"Deal."

Onyx and I weren't quite sure where they came up with a cool million so fast - we could only guess that the family they're dogsitting for paid them in advance after coming into a lot of money and requiring some sort of luxury dogsitting services. We would soon discover that the agreement to the ransom was merely a ruse to get their pickle, which was disappointing, considering my dreams of using it to purchase a pickle fridge, a season pass to the Faire, and so many pickles.