I remember when shopping for a jar of pickles was a meditative experience. You walked into the store, you looked at the shelf, and you chose the one that was there. It was a partnership between the jar and your pantry.

Recently, I walked into the store on North 19th and found myself standing in front of an entire wall of artisanal, cold-pressed, probiotic-infused, mountain-spring-fermented pickles. There were at least thirty varieties, ranging from “Himalayan Salt Crunch” to “Wild-Harvested Dill with a Hint of Foraged Juniper.”

I spent twenty minutes staring at these jars. I am a woman who values community, but I do not need my cucumber slices to tell me a story about where they spent their childhood. I just need them to be crunchy and keep well in the back of the fridge until the next blizzard.

My neighbor, Dale, who has lived on his ranch since 1978, says he doesn’t even recognize the checkout lines anymore. He told me, “Lorraine, I just went in for a bag of potatoes and a carton of milk, and the teenager at the counter asked me if I wanted to round up my change to support a foundation for sustainable soil education in the Andes.”

I told Dale that it’s probably fine, but it does make one wonder. If we have to save the soil in the Andes, does that mean we aren’t paying enough attention to the soil in the Gallatin Valley? Or perhaps we are just buying too many things we didn’t know we needed.

It feels like every time I go to get a loaf of bread, the store has rearranged itself to accommodate a new line of imported cheeses that cost more than a round-trip ticket to Belgrade. Everything is shiny, everything is labeled with a QR code, and everything makes me feel like I am doing something wrong if I don’t buy the organic, locally-sourced, fair-trade crackers to go with the pickles.

We are a town of people who like to think we are keeping it simple. We buy the big trucks and we wear the flannel shirts, but then we get inside and we demand a thousand variations of mustard. I miss the simplicity of a shelf that only had three options, all of them reliable.

Maybe the reason traffic is so bad on the way to the store is that we are all paralyzed by the decision-making process. If you spend forty minutes trying to choose a vinegar profile, you’re bound to be a bit sluggish pulling out into the lane.

I think I will just start growing my own cucumbers again. It’s the only way to be sure what’s in the jar.

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.