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The
word
on
the
jar
was
RELISH
.
And
he
was
glad
he
had
decided
to
live
.
RELISH
!
What
a
special
name
for
the
minced
pickle
sweetly
crushed
in
its
white
-
capped
jar
.
The
man
who
had
named
it
,
what
a
man
he
must
have
been
.
Roaring
,
stamping
around
,
he
must
have
tromped
the
joys
of
the
world
and
jammed
them
in
this
jar
and
writ
in
a
big
hand
,
shouting
,
RELISH
!
For
its
very
sound
meant
rolling
in
sweet
fields
with
roistering
chestnut
mares
,
mouths
bearded
with
grass
,
plunging
your
head
fathoms
deep
in
trough
water
so
the
sea
poured
cavernously
through
your
head
.
RELISH
!
He
put
out
his
hand
.
And
here
was
—
SAVORY
.
"
What
’
s
Grandma
cooking
for
dinner
tonight
?
"
said
Aunt
Rose
’
s
voice
from
the
real
world
of
afternoon
in
the
parlor
.
"
No
one
knows
what
Grandma
cooks
,
"
said
Grandfather
,
home
from
the
office
early
to
tend
this
immense
flower
,
"
until
we
sit
at
table
.
There
’
s
always
mystery
,
always
suspense
.
"
"
Well
,
I
always
like
to
know
what
I
’
m
going
to
eat
,
"
cried
Aunt
Rose
,
and
laughed
.
The
chandelier
prisms
in
the
dining
room
rang
with
pain
.
Douglas
moved
deeper
into
pantry
darkness
.
"
Savory
.
.
.
that
’
s
a
swell
word
.
And
Basil
and
Betel
.
Capsicum
.
Curry
.
All
great
.
But
Relish
,
now
,
Relish
with
a
capital
R
.
No
argument
,
that
’
s
the
best
.
"
Trailing
veils
of
steam
,
Grandma
came
and
went
and
came
again
with
covered
dishes
from
kitchen
to
table
while
the
assembled
company
waited
in
silence
.
No
one
lifted
lids
to
peer
in
at
the
hidden
victuals
.
At
last
Grandma
sat
down
,
Grandpa
said
grace
,
and
immediately
thereafter
the
silverware
flew
up
like
a
plague
of
locusts
on
the
air
.
