Blasick

"Dad, I want a blasick."

What?

"A bla-sick."

I have no idea what Smith is talking about. Smith perceives as much, and decides to take matters into his own hands. He walks to the fridge, opens the door, and begins excavating. I am as curious as he is determined, so I don't intevene. Finally, Smith attains the outer reaches of the bottom shelf, and hefts out a huge bottle of pickles.

"Dad, I want a blasick." I open the jar, and hand Smith a Vlasic, dill pickle, wrapped in a paper towel. He takes one satisfied bite, and says in a matter-of-fact tone, "Blasicks are juicy and crunchy!"