An ode to a pickle.
Consider the pickle.
Lo, ye sweet briny treat. Ye cucumber made squishy and sweet, by clever alchemy and tricky techniques. The pleasure you provide by taste and crunch between the upper cheeks. Can one compare the concoction of the organic flesh and the chemical bath that to create this invention requires no math? Hark! the sound of the pickled one, completely silent all sound in shun. The tongue will marvel at the bumpy exterior only to purr at the exquisite interior.
And yet one must consider the process its self. Left in brine upon a shelf. Can you really claim any skill or technique to bring the cucumber to its peak? To remove it thus could be the secret? To line them up and make a set. Unnecessary.
A pickle is what a pickle does. But what does a pickle mean? What doth it say? Has it a mind of it's own? One would submit that it does not. Make it so a lesser thing? What to the table do it bring? A marvelous taste untold to believe. So carry five concealed in ye sleeve.
Although personally I don't like them all that much.
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