Pickle (17 page)

“They'll probably be upset,” Bean said. She smiled.

“I don't care what Principal Lebonsky says, but I hope Ms. Ruiz doesn't take it too hard. She gets really excited about pickles,” I said. No one believed me.

“We don't have to do what they say all the time,” I said. “This is
our
club.” We went into the kitchen, and Diego got down to business giving us the what's what on chopping and measuring. Oliver asked him a lot of questions, so it took a while. We boiled carrots, onions, jalapenos, and tomatillos in vinegar, and I threw in some of the pickling spice from the jar in my backpack. Diego told us to add some oregano and a little bit of cumin, and then Bean threw in some cilantro. I added garlic, because everything is better with garlic, and we poured it all into jars. Diego got all fancy and dipped the jars into boiling water with tongs to get the lids sucked on to keep out germs.

My mom and dad came in just as the pickle makers were leaving, and we showed them what we had made. We had two jars of mild
escabeche
, and two jars of hot. Sienna carried them in an old tomato box.

“My dad would love this. He really likes Mexican food. I bet he would like Lupe's, too,” Sienna said. “I'm totally going to bring him here when he visits!”

“You bring him down for dinner. It will be our treat,” my mom said.

“Thanks, Mrs. Diaz!” Sienna said.

“Our pleasure. You guys did good,
m'ijo
! That
escabeche
looks great. I'm so proud of you!” She gave me a big hug and a kiss in front of everyone, leaving her crazy red lipstick on my cheek. But, I didn't care.

We had pickles for the fair, and they were pickles to be proud of.

 

40

The Day Before

“Are you all set for tomorrow?” Ms. Ruiz leaned forward over the big bowl on her desk. It was like the crystal one that my mom kept mints in by the cash register, but a lot bigger.

“I think so, yeah,” I said. I worried that she'd be mad that we didn't have the eggs. Maybe Principal Lebonsky would be mad at Ms. Ruiz, like it was her fault that we hadn't followed orders. “I wanted to talk to you about that. We've been working on something pretty unique.”

“Do
not
tell me! I want to be surprised tomorrow when I see your creation. In this.” She slid the big bowl across her desk toward me and smiled.

“Is this a pickle bowl?” I said. Ms. Ruiz laughed like I just asked her why six was afraid of seven.

“No, it's a punch bowl. It was my grandmother's, but I don't use it much. You could bring it tomorrow to display your lovely pickles.” I couldn't really picture the
escabeche
in the bowl. We could mix up the mild and the spicy to fill it up, but it just seemed kind of fancy. I don't know what kind of pickles she thought would look better in a bowl like this, but I was really glad that we didn't go with the pickled pig feet recipe from
The Joy of Pickling
.

“Did the pioneers have punch bowls?”

“I'm sure they carried many beloved family heirlooms on the trail. Carefully.”

Ms. Ruiz loved the bowl. Message received. I lifted it slowly off of the desk and promised to be extra careful with it. It made me kind of nervous, and I didn't really want to take it, but I didn't think I could say no. She was still watching me, so I wrapped my sweatshirt around it carefully for extra padding. I wanted to warn her that we were doing something different than what she expected. It looked like she had her hopes up.

“Ms. Ruiz, we used a different recipe than we first planned. Instead of the—”

“I don't need the details.” She held up a hand. “I'll just wait and be surprised tomorrow.”

Oh, crust. That's what I was afraid of.

 

41

Pioneer Preparations

I woke up early with a nervous stomach, so I had plenty of time to think about the fair. I still forgot Ms. Ruiz's punchbowl and had to run back to my apartment. I grabbed some corn chips that the judges could eat with the
escabeche
, if they wanted to. There were a lot more school buses than normal. They must have brought the other schools' clubs. Crowds of kids walked toward the gym carrying their pioneer projects. Knitted stuff, patchwork blankets, something that I could only hope was some kind of beef jerky … I couldn't believe how many kids were into this. Sienna and Oliver were already standing by the gym doors. They were far away, but I could see that Sienna looked upset. She tried to wipe her face, but she was holding a box. Oliver reached out and wiped her cheek off with a handkerchief from his shirt pocket. For real. I can't believe that guy carries a handkerchief.

Frank had been in charge of getting the
escabeche
out of the cupboard in the lab, and he stood waiting with Bean by the fountain. Bean noticed me looking at them and held up a Lee's Costume & Party bag with supplies she'd snagged from the store. Frank held up the
escabeche
. We were all set.

“Exciting day, huh?” Leo stood beside me. Maybe he really liked pickles, too. But Leo never tried to join the club, so he must have been talking about something else.

I just nodded and walked toward the gym. A couple of eighth graders passed carrying big, golden pies. The crust twisted around the top, fancy-style, and bits of apple and berry poked up through the little holes. They looked pretty good and they smelled even better. If we were competing against pies, we were doomed.

Coach Capell and Rick had put up dividers so that the gym was split into four sections. The Foods of Yore Pavilion was in the back. There was also the Colonist Craft Coliseum, Pioneer Playfield, and History of the Homesteaders Center. A woman wearing a sunbonnet walked toward the History of the Homesteaders Center carrying a pile of brown furs. Another woman with a long dress and an apron led a goat past with a yellow ribbon around his neck. I didn't know what I had gotten myself into.

Only the clubs and people with exhibits were allowed in the gym at the start to get ready. We found our table in the corner. Bean had brought a tablecloth with horseshoes and tumbleweeds all over it. Probably not so great for a birthday party, but kind of super for a pioneer fair. We mixed the mild and spicy
escabeche
together in Ms. Ruiz's punch bowl and put some chips on a plate beside the bowl. We spread out some napkins and little paper bowls. The napkins had horseshoes and the bowls were plain white. Bean had really pulled through. It looked classy and pioneer-ish, if something can be both of those things at once. Sienna had written the recipe for the
escabeche
on a blue card and glued it to the green banner with my Mexican settler article. She hung it on the front of the table. Oliver brought some salad tongs. He said he knew that we wouldn't think about how people would get the
escabeche
without using their fingers. He was right.

“I'm going to throw the trash away and check out the exhibits,” Sienna said. She grabbed a box from under the table and left. She still looked upset, and she didn't invite anyone to go with her.

“Has anyone tasted this stuff? To see if it's any good?” Bean asked. We hadn't. They wanted me to try it, but I thought we should all sample it. It was too late if the
escabeche
was nasty, but at least we would know. It tasted like sour chile garlic. I know it sounds weird, but it was kind of delicious. Bean and Oliver stopped after one bite, but Frank and I had some more with chips. Then Frank made me stop eating for a minute so that he could take pictures for the pickle page of the website. Good thinking.

We walked around to check out the competition. The other displays in our section were just plain old jars of pickles with a couple sliced up on a plate. Some had a bit of rag tied around the top of the jar, or handmade labels. Ours definitely had the most style.

 

42

The Fair

The Pioneer Fair instructions said to be by our display at 10:30 for judging, so we headed back fifteen minutes early. Principal Lebonsky stood in front of our table, looking down at the
escabeche
. She didn't look up when I walked over, but she sighed the way people do when they know someone is watching.

“I thought we had decided that you'd be entering pickled eggs into the competition, Ben.” I gave up all thoughts of escape and moved toward the table. She looked like the
escabeche
smelled. I mean, it did, but she was really making an effort to make that bad-smell face.

“We did. But … they didn't turn out like we hoped.”

“Well, did you follow my recipe?” She cocked her head and fake-smiled. She didn't blink while she waited for an answer. I broke eye contact and looked around. The pickle makers had split. When we signed in, the Pioneer Fair people had said, “a group representative should be present to offer tastings and share information.” I guess that was me.

“We did, I mean, we thought we did. I guess we got the recipe wrong.”

“How can you bungle pickled eggs?” Principal Lebonsky's bottom lip turned and puckered like dried fruit. “I gave you a very simple recipe, Ben.” I saw Frank and Bean heading into the Colonist Craft Coliseum. Oliver looked away when I spotted him and pretended to be totally fascinated with some dried apple ring wreaths at the other end of the aisle.

“I expected you to provide an authentic example of what local pioneers might have made,” she said.

“This
is
authentic,” I said. I wished that we had just brought the plastic eggs that Hector had switched for the real ones. I cleared my throat. “Maybe not for your forefathers, but for mine. And a lot of other kids at school. I looked it up.” Principal Lebonsky didn't interrupt, so I kept talking. “European settlers pickled things like cucumbers and eggs. Other stuff, too, like watermelons and beets. But not all of the pioneers were from Europe. People came from all over, including Mexico. They needed a way to preserve what grew in their gardens for the winter, too, so they made
escabeche
.” I pointed to the article.

“Interesting,” Principal Lebonsky said. “I'm impressed, Ben. It's not what I expected from your League of Pickle Makers.”

“It was a surprise for us, too, Principal Lebonsky. I didn't know there were Mexicans here back then.” I could feel my heart beating all the way to the top of my head. “But there were, and they probably ate this. If the judges don't think that's authentic, that's their problem. But we know it is.”

“You're right, Ben,” she said. “You've done your research and collaborated with your pickle-making peers. It is certainly not what we discussed, but I respect the value that you've placed on historical tradition. I trust you'll be able to answer any questions that the judging panel may have?”

I nodded.

“Very well. Good luck.” Principal Lebonsky walked on to make sure more Fountain Point exhibits were up to her standards. Oliver, Bean, and Frank walked toward our table like they'd been waiting for the very second that the coast was clear, which of course they had. Leo Saylor ran over from the other direction.

“Just wait until you guys see what we've got planned. It's going to be awesome!” Leo said. He ran down the aisle before we could even ask what he was talking about. Sienna came from the other direction.

“Hey, is your dad here?” I said.

“No, he said he had to work,” she said. Her face got blotchy and it looked like she had chewed off her lip gloss. She walked away to watch a woman knead dough.

We stood together at the table and waited for the judges. I snacked on more
escabeche
and chips. It wasn't like we were going to run out, but I stopped when I could see the judges coming down the aisle. There were three of them. Two men and a woman. I knew that they were the judges because they were dressed up and looked important. And they all wore big blue ribbons that said “JUDGE” in gold letters. They leaned down to inspect some bread. I watched them closely, but I still jumped when the woman judge screamed.