I’d like to speak about something really important to me and millions of other Americans like me: my personal relationship with the dill pickle. Consider this a Pickle Monologue.
The first batch of pickles I ever made was bittersweet –and I’m not talking bread & butter: those are nasty. No, I’m talking about a metaphorical kind of flavor, one that you can’t actually taste over the vinegary brine, fresh dill, or zesty peppercorns, but is nonetheless real. It was the summer before I would be moving to Brooklyn for my last year of high school, and I made pickles late into the night for a pickle-party where I would be parting with several friends. The secret ingredient that made the brine so good? Tears.
No – I really decided to make pickles as a selfish and misinformed act of appropriation. I had this idea that Brooklyn was full of bearded men making sun tea (see below), and I wanted to make sure I would fit into place.