I’ve lived in Bozeman long enough to remember when the biggest decision you had to make at the grocery store was whether to get dill or sweet. Oh, how times have changed. I’m talking about pickles, folks. Our beloved, crunchy, briny companions. And I’m here to tell you, something is amiss in the pickle aisle.

It started subtly. A new brand here, a slightly smaller jar there. But lately, it’s become an epidemic. The selection has thinned out faster than the ice on Hyalite Lake in July. Where are the half-sours? The bread and butters that actually taste like bread and butter? And don’t even get me started on the lack of true kosher dills. I mean, truly kosher, not just “kosher style” which is, frankly, an insult to both pickles and style.

I visit all the local establishments. From the big chains out by North 19th to the smaller, more artisanal places downtown. It’s the same story everywhere. A veritable desert of pickle diversity. It’s like a collective decision was made to just… stop having good pickles.

I overheard a young man, probably an MSU student, in the pickle aisle just last week. He looked utterly bewildered, staring at a row of what I can only describe as “designer” pickles – pickled green beans, pickled carrots, even pickled asparagus. “Where are the actual pickles?” he muttered to his phone, which seemed to understand him better than the shelves did.

I understand change. Bozeman is changing. I see new buildings going up where prairie dogs used to roam free. I hear new accents in the coffee shops. And I even, occasionally, navigate one of those new roundabouts without a full-blown panic attack. But some things, some fundamental things, should remain sacred. And the integrity of the pickle aisle is one of them.

Is it a supply chain issue? Are the cucumbers simply not cucumbering like they used to? Or is it something more insidious? Is this another symptom of Bozeman losing its way, focusing on the shiny and new instead of the tried and true?

I spoke to a very kind young woman stocking shelves the other day, named Tiffany, who patiently listened to my concerns. She said, “Oh, we get what the distributor sends us, ma’am. Lots of demand for the organic fermented stuff these days.” Organic fermented stuff! I want a pickle, Tiffany, not a science experiment. I want the kind of pickle that reminds me of picnics at the park and summer barbecues.

My neighbor, Hank, who’s been here since before the first stoplight, agrees. “Used to be,” he grumbled over the fence while tending to his prize-winning tomatoes, “you could get a pickle that snapped. Now they just kinda… mush. It ain’t right.” Hank knows a thing or two about freshness. He understands the simple pleasure of a good, crisp pickle.

Perhaps it’s a sign of the times. Everything’s getting fancier, more expensive, and sometimes, well, just less good. We’re supposed to be a community that values the simple things, the honest things. A good pickle is an honest thing. It doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. It’s just a cucumber, vinegar, salt, and a little bit of dill, maybe some garlic. Perfection.

I’m not asking for the moon. I’m just asking for a return to common sense in our grocery stores. Let’s not let the humble pickle become another casualty of progress. Let’s stand together, Bozeman, and demand better. Demand more variety. Demand more crunch. Demand the pickles we deserve. Before it’s too late, and all we’re left with are pickled green beans.

Lorraine Hubcap is a longtime Bozeman resident and pickle enthusiast. She serves on no boards and holds no titles, which she believes qualifies her to speak freely on matters of public concern.