My paternal grandmother made sweet pickles every summer and they were the best. She always gave them freely to her children. So, we usually had some around.

One time, I visited her as an adult and she gave me a lesson in making them. (I’m pretty sure I made a point of asking for a lesson when we were planning the trip. I got a couple of other, less complicated recipes from her then, too.) When I got home, I made my own pickles and checked in a couple of times to be sure I was making them correctly.

When Nanny died in 1991, all of her descendents were scattered across 4 or 5 states. So, we tried to handle as much necessary business as we could before we headed home. After all the official stuff was done, we sorted out the small things and planned for who was coing back with trucks. Everyone got a piece of her cast iron cookwear. There were some quilts and quilt tops to sort out. And we started pulling out the canning.

My grandmother would put up anything that she wasn’t going to eat immediately and she always had a kitchen garden. One of the things she grew and we loved was Hamby green beans, an heirloom variety that are mostly grown in that part of Appalchia. She had grapevines and picked wild blackberries for preserves. And there were the pickles.

I think her children took the few half pint jars of preserves and, when we got everything else on the table, there were enough quarts of beans and pickles for everyone to take 3. I traded my pickles for beans because I had pickles and the recipe at home. My cousins thought I might be nuts. But, they didn’t hesitate to swap.

A couple of years later, I brought 2 quarts to a family reunion. When we’d gotten unpacked, I heard my uncle ask, “Who saved Nanny’s pickles for 2 years and broke them out to share with this bunch?” He had an open jar in one hand and a fork in the other. I said, “Your mother didn’t make those.” “Who did? You?” I grinned and nodded. He said, “They taste just like hers.” I said, “Who do you think taught me to make them?”

I got all the bragging I could hope for during that trip. (The smile my dad gave me when I caught him having a sandwich by himself with my pickles on his plate was worth a fortune.) And my cousin asked if I’d share the recipe. I said of course. Bec was her grandmother, too. I figured that recipe belonged to all of us.

When it was time to leave, there was still one jar unopened and a little bit in the bottom of the one we’d been working on. I asked my uncle if he’d like to take them with him. And he asked if I was sure. When I replied that I had 4 more jars just like those at home, he hid them under the front seat of his car.

My dad noticed they were missing and asked if we’d eaten all of them. I told him I’d given the rest to his brother and he suggested that he would have liked some. I told him I’d bring them when I came to visit in a few weeks and he was satisfied.

I kept him supplied for the rest of his life. My cousin made them for her dad and her family, too. My mother is still happy to get them and I have a couple of friends and other relatives who are glad for a jar to show up. Making them has been a part of my summer for at least 35 years.

We can buy sweet pickles at the grocery. But, my family thinks this recipe is better.