Pickled

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Chapter Six  

Diana was set to cooking brine that Monday evening. Her Dad was up front working the store's counter, though it was always so slow on weekdays that Diana was sure he was dusting jars or reorganizing shelves to pass the time.

It was broiling hot in the shop's kitchen, since both stoves were turned on and Diana was juggling five pots of brine at once. She'd been doing this long enough that there was some kind of a system; the classic and sweet brines were simmering, the garlic cloves sautéed in their pot, and ingredients for the other two brines were being chopped at the table.

There was still a lot of running back and forth, since Diana needed to stir, sauté, and chop on rotation. Her wild brown curls had been haphazardly thrown into a bun, and sweat was sticking to the back of her neck. She'd cracked a window behind the center table two hours ago, but it was one of those few days where the Seattle weather was not windy. There was no relief from the stovetop heat.

Diana chopped a handful of dill at an extraordinary pace, the knife whisking across the cutting board like a second hand. She crossed the kitchen and, removing the pot lid, scooped the pile of dill into the bubbling brine. Their Classic Pickles recipe called for an unhealthy amount of dill.

As she stirred the herb into the mix, Diana wiped the back of her wrist across her sweaty forehead. Cooking brine was always miserable, but usually her Mom was able to help out. They would play old hip-hop music from the radio really loudly, which made the entire process much more enjoyable. Today, however, Diana's Mom was lying upstairs with a migraine.

She replaced the lid and moved back to the table, reluctantly popping open the jar of jalapeños. Because she had learned from past experience, Diana slipped her hands into plastic gloves before reaching inside. It would only take one tiny papercut for the juices to make her hand feel like it was melting, and besides, the cut on her left palm was only just starting to scab over. She wasn't taking any chances.

Of course, there was nothing she could do to prevent the peppers from burning her eyes. The fumes were unavoidable as she cored out each jalapeño and began dicing them, blinking away tears through red-rimmed eyes. This was the worst part of working at the pickle shop, no doubt about it. One of these days, Diana was sure she'd go blind.

She was nearly finished chopping peppers when one of the pots behind her began to boil, so Diana set down the knife and gladly turned away from the cutting board. The classic brine was bubbling, so she switched off the heat and removed the pot from the burner. Diana was pleased to have a break from the jalapeños and took her time stirring the brine, wiping her teary eyes on her sleeve.

"I didn't know you were a chef, too."

Diana jumped at the sudden voice from behind her, but she knew who it was before she even turned around. Alex was making a habit of showing up at her family's shop – he had even mentioned it at lunch earlier that day – yet Diana was still surprised to see him.

Surprised, and slightly annoyed. He couldn't have possibly arrived at a worse time, because Diana's eyes were raw and still burning from chopping the peppers. As she turned to face him, Alex stood in the kitchen's doorway with a fresh jar of pickles held in both hands, taking in his surroundings.

When his gaze fell on Diana, his eyes widened and the smug note in his voice dissipated. "Why are you crying?"

Alex seemed so genuinely concerned for her that Diana simply stared back in return. Then she blinked and felt the burn of her eyes again, remembering the sting of the peppers' fumes. She shook her head quickly, pointing to the cutting board across from the ovens. "No, no. I was just cutting jalapeños."