Sweet Pickle Potty
July 8, 2023 – Euclid, Ohio, USA
When the invitation to his brother’s backyard barbecue arrived, a knot tightened in Simon’s stomach. Parties like this had a good chance of ending awkwardly. It was not his brother’s fault. Simon got along with his brother fine. The problem was his sister-in-law, Isabella.
Simon had known Isabella for five years and still could not tell when or if she was joking or being serious. She could be on stage at a comedy club and Simon would still question her intentions. Their personalities simply did not mesh, although she seemed to get along with everyone else just fine. For Simon, she was like a popular song without a catchy tune. He accepted that the issue was probably his own head and not the song.
One of the stupider things he and Isabella clashed about was pickles. Simon liked sweet pickles. Isabella insisted pickles should be crisp and sour. When the pickle topic first came up, Isabella declared that sweet pickles should be banned worldwide. Simon could not tell how serious she was about this pickle prohibition. But the pickle war continued to rage.
The text invitation from Simon’s brother to the barbecue included the words, “Isabella says bring your own pickles.” Simon was again left wondering if Isabella meant the suggestion as a little joke or if an entire section of the kitchen would be isolated for his rogue sweet pickles. Either way, he figured he was obligated to stop at his usual supermarket and pick out a jar of pinky-sized sweet pickles.
Simon arrived at his brother’s suburban house to find an expected summer barbecue scene. Most guests stayed inside to avoid the heat, only occasionally venturing out onto the backyard deck as if they were visiting a steam room at a sauna. Simon’s brother shuffled in and out delivering cooked hamburger patties from his gas-fired grill.
Isabella stood in front of a table loaded with hamburger buns, potato chips, and condiments. She wore a sleeveless dress. The printed fabric showed sunflowers on an aqua background. Simon did not think the colors flattered her skin tones.
“I brought the pickles,” he said eagerly, holding up the jar.
Isabella barely reacted, merely saying, “You can put them on the table with everything else.”
“They’re the sweet ones.”
“Okay.”
“Like you wanted me to bring.”
“Uh huh.”
Simon placed his jar on an empty spot on the table and retreated into the nearby family room. He found a place on a couch next to his father and nodded toward Isabella’s family members and recognizable friends.
The room’s center of attention was Simon’s little niece, Dara. As the first child of Isabella and his brother, Dara was used to infinite amounts of praise and adoration. Her big brown eyes and curly hair made her undeniably cute. The adults in the room acted like they were meeting a celebrity any time Dara allowed them to pick her up or hand her a potato chip.
Simon stopped chatting with his dad long enough to fill a paper plate with food and return to the couch. Like everyone else, he held out offerings of potato salad and watermelon, hoping Dara might show him some favor by taking them from his hand. Simon’s dad tried to lure her over with kissing noises, as if she was a dog.
The eating and entertainment chugged along until Isabella intruded. She walked into the room holding a green, plastic training potty and placed it on the floor.
“As you’ve heard, Mara has become a big girl and is learning to use the potty. We bought this special one for her, but she’s a little scared of it. Maybe you can tell her why it’s not scary and how fun it is to use the potty.”
Every eye in the room locked on the green potty like it was made from pure gold by leprechauns.
“What a beautiful potty!” Isabella’s mom cried. “Oh, Mara, you’re such a lucky girl to use it.”
Simon’s dad added to the gushing praise of the potty by saying, “I wish I had a fun potty like that one. A beautiful potty for a beautiful girl.”
Everyone took turns saying something encouraging, but Dara watched unconvinced from the edge of the room.
Her aunt said, “Show us how you would use it, Dara. Please, I want to see what a big girl you are.”
Dara shook her head shyly.
Simon’s brother had come inside from the grill and was standing behind his daughter. His face brightened like he had just remembered where he left a set of lost car keys. “How about if Daddy shows you how to use the potty and then you can do it?” He moved to the middle of the room and squatted over the potty. He grunted, smiled, and stood up.
“Yay for Daddy!” Isabella shouted. She clapped and everyone joined in. “You want to try sitting on it, Mara?”
Mara looked slightly curious but was still unwilling to get near the potty.
“I want to try!” Simon’s dad called. He rose from the couch and pretended to use the potty. He grinned and said, “Oh, that was fun.”
Mara inched closer to the potty and the adults in the room were convinced that pretend demonstrations were effective. One by one, they took a turn acting like potty sitting was the highlight of their day. Each performance earned applause and Mara’s face turned from skeptic to believer.
Simon knew his turn was coming and he was ready to throw his most enthusiastic self into the performance. And then a funny idea popped into his head. He chuckled to himself until his dad asked, “What are you laughing about?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, tell me.”
“I was thinking of something I could do, but I probably shouldn’t.”
“Why not? It can’t be any sillier than what we’re already doing.”
Simon stood up and slipped over to the food table. He picked out a perfect, dark-green pickle from his jar and held it in his closed hand. Then he shuffled to the open potty in the middle of the room and squatted over it. He strained, smiled, and dropped the pickle into the plastic bowl beneath the potty’s seat.
“Oh look, Mara! Look what’s in the potty!” Simon cried. He chuckled and was sure the other adults in the room would laugh right along with him.
Mara was close enough to the plastic potty that she had a clear view into the bowl. When she saw the pickle, her eyes panicked. She screamed and raced toward her mother. The others in the room, including Isabella, saw the pickle and let out a collective gasp. Isabella shouted, “What are you thinking? Now she’s never going to use the potty!”
Mara ran from the room, still whining. Simon put his head down as a roomful of condemning glares chilled the mood. His father, who had egged him on, piled on by saying, “You shouldn’t tease her like that.”
Simon mumbled something about wanting to make everyone laugh. Isabella snatched the green potty from the middle of the room, spilling out the pickle in the process. “Thanks a lot!” she snapped at Simon as she stormed after her daughter.
During the awkward silence that followed, a few people stood up and pretended to be interested in the food table. Simon kept his head down as a few grumbled conversations began. He sat through a scolding from his brother in which he said he could not wait to traumatize Simon’s future kids. Simon slipped out of the house without saying goodbye.
On his way home, he felt defensive and angry that no one could take a joke. Over the next two days, his anger turned to guilt and he worried that he had truly damaged Mara. What if she became seriously dysfunctional and it got traced back to the pickle incident? Everyone would know he was a jerk.
Simon sent Isabella and his brother a text message saying he was sorry and he hoped Mara was okay. They did not reply.
A few days later, the guilt felt like a backpack full of rocks weighing him down. He drove to a store and bought a pink potty chair. He took it to his brother’s house but no one answered the door. He left the chair on the front porch and sent another text saying he hoped Mara might like the new chair better than the old one. No reply from Mara’s parents. Simon worried about being disowned by his entire family. Was what he did so evil that he would never be forgiven? It was a mistake, a silly little mistake.
When he was on the verge of believing he would never hear from a relative again, a text arrived from his sister-in-law. All it said was, “Where do you buy pickles?”
Simon read the text a dozen times, looking for a hidden meaning. Was this her way of reminding him of his mistake? Was she offering to buy him pickles as repayment for the new chair? Simon began several reply texts before deciding he should call and talk it out.
Isabella answered her phone sounding emotionless.
“I wanted to call to find out if things are okay.”
“Fine.”
“You don’t have to buy me pickles. I mean, if you think you need to pay me back for the new chair. Totally unnecessary. I want Mara to have it.”
Isabella paused before saying, “No, they’re not for you. Mara changed her mind about her potty chair. The original one. Now she likes it. But she’ll only sit on it if we put a pickle inside. And it has to be one of Uncle Simon’s pickles. Your jar is empty, so I need some more.”
It was Simon’s turn for a long pause. He wanted to giggle but was not sure he should. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of Isabella’s laughter before she said, “I guess sweet pickles are good for something after all.”
“She calls them Uncle Simon’s pickles, huh? I’ll proudly take the credit for them.”
“So where do I get them?”
“How about I bring some over right now?”
“I’m sure Mara would like that. You can demo your pink potty for us.”
“Just to be clear, now we both think the pickle thing is funny, right?”
“Yes, Simon. Now we both think it’s funny.”
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