Pickle People
Artfully getting better with brine and time.
Pickles were calling, and two very sweet but vinegar-obsessed girls followed their feet into Bushwick to answer. Not just to find pickles, but to make them—with a peck of other pickle people, naturally. (Plz tell me you laughed.)
I chase these little moments because, honestly? Lately, everyone I know has been drowning in anxiety. From every corner of life—different backgrounds, different beliefs, different political views—people seem stuck in a loop of fight or flight. When the world feels too fast, too loud, too much, what do you do? You follow something small. Something ridiculous. Something that reminds you that not everything has to be urgent or heavy.
Somewhere along the way, we started believing that every thought must be broadcasted instantly, with certainty. That we have to be experts before we can even say, "I don’t know, I’ve just been thinking about this…" But what happened to wondering out loud? To talking through ideas not to prove something, but to see where they lead? Or talking out loud to be just excited to share something you learned.
You don’t need to be certain about global politics to care about the world. You don’t need to react to every headline in real time. You are allowed to wait. To let the dust settle, to see what’s true. And here’s a gentle reminder—your identity is not a reflection of thousands of journalists working to deliver news first. Because honestly? That would be impossible. There’s just too much to know. It’s just good that you care. That you’re invested enough to feel something, to share with the people you love, to hope for a world that makes you proud.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s also good to be proven wrong. Wrong is not failure. It’s proof that your curiosity took you somewhere new. The world is always changing—what was right one day may be different the next. We are not in every room, we do not hear every conversation or side conversations. And that’s not a reflection on you. It’s just life, unfolding.
I love your curiosity. I love the way your whole face changes when a topic you’ve been quietly collecting knowledge on suddenly comes up in conversation. The way you light up—not to prove something, but because it makes you feel alive. Or the way you light up to prove to me you love this opportunity for growth whether it’s history, politics, health, wealth, art, or perfect quick pickles.
I think about that a lot. How we spend so much time reacting—grabbing at every headline, every opinion, every urgent notification—when maybe we could just wait. Maybe we could breathe. Maybe we don’t need to respond to everything in real-time. Maybe curiosity is about observing before acting.
And then I read about alligators.
Recently I read a book about the power of influence. And it made me wonder—how much of our curiosity is still our own? And how much has been shaped by what we think we’re supposed to care about? Do we rush between too many things and forget to allow confusion and curiosity wash over us?
Alligators don’t chase things. When food lands outside their bite zone—that sweet spot between their nose and tail—they don’t move. When food sails directly into their jaws, they snap it up instantly. But if it lands just outside of reach? They ignore it. They wait. They don’t waste energy on things that aren’t immediate or necessary.
They have evolved for maximum efficiency, they need so little food that they can go up to three years without eating at all. They don’t waste physical or mental energy.
Our brains spend a lot of time in one of two states. Gator mode—when we move through familiar tasks effortlessly, like driving home from work. And judge mode—when we have to concentrate, problem-solve, and navigate uncertainty. It’s anything you can’t really control yet and you can’t multitask in judge mode.
And the tricky part? What’s gator mode for one person might be judge mode for another.
An expert swimmer hits a gator mode and just glides through laps to reset, where as a new swimmer is fighting for their life trying to figure out how to breath and stay afloat—judge mode.
Maybe curiosity is less about chasing and more about brining. Giving ideas time to sit, letting them soak up different flavors. Trusting that what you put in the jar—whether it’s questions, uncertainty, or a ridiculous little moment in Bushwick—will transform into something better with time.
And maybe that’s the whole thing—some things need time to soak. So let them. And while you’re at it, I can show you how to make electrolyte-infused pickles so we stay hydrated for the next debate.
