A Visit from St. Pickle-as

A Visit from St. Pickle-as(with apologies to CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE)

‘Twas the night before Crispmas, when all through the fridge

The pickles weren’t sleepy, not even a smidge;

The mason jars sat on the counter aware

That St. Pickle-as soon would be stopping by there;

The chow-chow was nestled all snug on the racks,

While sealed bins of pickled beets sat in neat stacks;

Papa Pimento in the crisper, and I on the door,

Sank down in our brine for a night’s nap or more,

When out in the kitchen there arose such a clatter,

I jumped from my jar to see what was the matter.

Away to the top shelf I flew like a flash,

Shoved open the icebox, hit the floor with a crash.

The moon through the window up above the sink,

Shone so brightly it made my pickle eyes blink,

When what to my moon-blinded eyes did appear,

But a brine barrel and eight tiny dill-deer,

And a little old driver with eyes bright as nickels,

I knew in a moment he must be St. Pickle.

More rapid than relish his cornichons came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

“Now, Vinegar! now, Viney! now Garlic and Dilly!

On, Cukey! on, Cumin! on, Briney and Billy!

To the top of the pantry, and then in through the larder!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away harder!

“As the pickling spices that swirl in the souse,

When they meet with the stirring spoon, and season the krauts;

So into the kitchen they whirled into view

With the sleigh full of fixings, and St. Pickle-as too

—And then, in a twinkling, the countertop clicked

As those cornichons landed so smooth and so quick

.

As I took a step back, and was turning around,

From the sleigh St. Pickle-as jumped with a bound.

He was covered in dill, from his head to his stem,

And the leaves on his vine sparkled bright just like gems;

A sackful of seasoning was slung on his back,

And it was fuller than full, like a baker’s spice rack.

His eyes were so shiny! His green skin was on fleek!

His expression so Kosher! His nose like paprika!

His droll little mouth was drawn up in a moue,

And the beard on his chin was as white as a roux;

The stump of a clove he held tight in his teeth,

And green vines, they encircled his head like a wreath;

He was verdant of face and had a little round belly

Like the olive oil bottles on display at the deli.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old cuke,

And I laughed when I saw him, no fear of rebuke;

A wink of his eye and a flick of his vines

Soon gave me to know everything was just fine;

He spoke not a word, but went to the icebox;

He filled all the jars, and he loaded the crocks,

And then leaping up to the top shelf of the fridge,

He crossed to the counter, without need of a bridge;

He sprang to his sleigh, tossed his team mustard seed,

And away they all flew like the downy green dillweed.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight

—“Happy Crispmas to all, and to all a good night!”