It all began quite innocently.

I wasn’t trying to get a proposal. That’s a lie, actually, I was, just not on that exact day.

My lover called to ask about dinner plans.

Clutching the phone between my face and shoulder while pulling hot jars from the oven I said,

“I can’t talk to you right now, I’m jarring pickles!”

“You’re what?!”

Now, this man, who I was completely mad about, was used to the fact that if it was strange, I was going to try it. But, having spent some years playing hockey in Europe and living the life of an athlete, he was just not used to the domestic deva type of girl.

His was more of a shiny, long-legged blond type.

I can assure you that I am very short of shiny or blond. Dating me was straying into the quirky, “how about we live in a cabin without running water” end of things.

Anyway, back to the pickles. It was late July, hotter than Hades, I was wearing a bikini and an apron and was slaving over a hot stove making pickles because I am Polish (pickles served at every meal) and a back-to-the-lander at heart.

He came over faster than you could say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

The story continues here…