The first time I made pickles when I was not hopeful.

I was at home, empty. All my roommates moved out and went back to their own countries. The apartment felt larger after everyone left. In the early afternoon, the sun shined beautifully onto the living room floor. The air felt even quieter than before.

I was responsible for my apartment rent. I had no one to discuss things with. I could not go outside because there was not even one Asian person in my neighborhood. During the early pandemic, there were many hate crimes against Asians.

Pickling colorful carrots, radishes, beets, and jalapeños gave me some kind of expectation. I did not care much about the recipe. I had pickled vegetables many times before. It was tempting to taste them right away.
Be patient.
I needed to wait at least three days—72 hours or more.

Just like I needed to wait for the pandemic to stop, 72 hours did not feel very long. I was waiting for the right person God had prepared—my coworker, my companion, my future husband—someone to share faith and life with. I was waiting for the world to reopen. I was waiting for someone to call and break the silence.

Chopping carrots helped me practice patience, at least for a while. Vinegar changed the color of the pickling liquid. It became pink instead of yellow. The jars looked like gemstones to me. I counted days by jars, not by calendars.

Because there was no human to talk with, I needed visible change—something I could experience as raw vegetables slowly became sweet and sour pickles. I could not tell anyone how lonely and stressful it was to manage everything alone, without roommates, without family, without even church members.