One day at the beach, JG accompanied Mimi for the morning bakery run, which usually includes a dozen glazed pretzel-donuts, half a dozen chocolate frosteds, a handful of muffins, and something called “sticky pull-apart.” There are a few anomalous family members who eat things like cereal or fruit for breakfast, but most of us opt for the dessert-like items. Hey, we were on vacation!
I had returned from doing my C25K workout and was cooling off under a ceiling fan when JG and Mimi returned with pastry boxes full of baked bounty. JG called out, “RA, we got a present for you!”
A present?
“It’s a big pickle from a barrel!” JG crowed triumphantly, and he handed the small, waxed paper packet to me.
“You got me a pickle from the bakery?”
“No, it’s from the market next door.”
Oh, well, that made me feel a little better. It is no secret that I love pickles, but I hardly ever have them because they incite domestic unrest due to my alleged terrible breath. JG knows that I am especially partial to pickles from the giant vats on the street in New York City, so it really was a sweet thought. I put my present in the door of the fridge for safekeeping until lunchtime; even I can’t do pickles with donuts.
After a morning on the beach, I came back to the house, made myself a roast beef sandwich, and retrieved the pickle from the fridge. The cousins eyed it suspiciously, but there was no talk of sharing. That vinegar-soaked cucumber was meant for chomping, not cutting into spears and eating neatly. I took a few bites of my sandwich and then dug in eagerly.
It was a decent specimen of pickling. It didn’t hold a candle to my favorites, but it was refreshing to have alongside my sandwich, and it was mine, all mine. But I couldn’t quite tell what type it was. Dill? Half sour? Garlic? I turned to JG and asked, “What kind of pickle is this?”
He said matter-of-factly, “The barrel said, ‘Jewish pickles.’”
Despite my best efforts, I could not suppress the peals of laughter from pouring out of me. Ha! Now I know what to request for the next time!
9 comments
If you ever come to visit in NH I will take you to the old country store, where they make their own pickles in barrels. They’re not called “Jewish pickles”, since there are probably only about three Jews in the whole state, but they are delicious!
I adore pickles, and this post is making me crave one in a serious way. I wonder if they sell Jewish pickles anywhere nearby?
I also have a special place in my heart for pickles, but the ones soaking in big vats always kind of gross me out. Well, when I say “kind of” what I really mean is “totally and completely”.
Fave = half dills. YUMMERS. And I tend to think they do not give you such alarmingly pickle breath, not that I’m the one talking to me after I’ve eaten a pickle. Makes me yearn for Wolfs delicatessan…
I have never known a pickle to have religious beliefs. Hmm!
I love Dills, because my Farmer Grandpa always used to make his own dill-y delicious ones!
So I must tell you that I had to run out and get pickles last night after reading this post!
Mmm, pickle-fiend here, my personal favorites are Vlasic Baby Kosher Dills.
xox
Oh, man, Jewish Pickels! Way too funny.
I am a NYC barrel pickle lover myself.
My dad grew up on the LES so every time we went downtown to visit my grandparents we would get gallons of half sours…
MMMMM
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