Eleven Jars and One Quiet Lid
Every August, Aunt Corazon turned her small kitchen into a pickle factory, and this year Bram was drafted as an assistant, because the garden had produced cucumbers in such quantity that there was no escaping the job. By noon, twelve clean jars stood in a row along the counter. The whole house smelled strongly of vinegar and garlic.
Bram's responsibility was to pack each jar tightly, pour in the hot brine, and screw the lid on, while Aunt Corazon handled the part that required careful attention, which involved a large pot of simmering water and a pair of tongs. After the jars had sat in the water bath for a while, she lifted them out and set them on a folded towel to cool, and then she announced that it was time to listen.
Within a few minutes there came a sharp little pop from one jar, and then another. His aunt explained that this was the sound of a lid sealing, because as the jar cools, the air inside shrinks and pulls the lid down tight. A popping lid meant that the pickles would keep. They counted twelve jars but heard only eleven pops. One jar sat silently, its lid still springy when Bram pressed the center with his thumb.
He felt a flash of guilt, convinced that he had packed it wrong. But Aunt Corazon only smiled and said that it happens in the best kitchens, since the rim might have had a drop of brine on it. She stored the silent jar in the refrigerator, where it would be eaten first, and wrote a date on a piece of tape. Bram counted the eleven glossy jars on the shelf and admitted that he liked the job now that he knew what the popping means.