The Saga of the Pickles.

Image From http://bridedesign.com/wesley-refrigerator-pickles-portland/. A bridal site. I know, right?

Dear World,

I love all things salty. Olives, saltine crackers, pretzels; I love them all. But pickles - oh man. Pickles. Maybe it's a genetic predisposition for all things tricked out in salt; maybe my sodium levels are always unbearably low, maybe I'm a simply a salt addict in denial (NOT). I adore pickles.


Coincidentally (or maybe not so coincidentally; I admit nothing), I also have strong feelings about them. I despise, for example, bread-and-butter flavor pickles and/or sweet pickles. Can't stand them. I mean really, why would you go and mess with something as perfect as a kosher dill pickle? What if Michelangelo had decided to shake things up at the Sistine Chapel with a bit of red finger paint and rainbow sparkles? Hmm? What then, world? You would cry; that's what. (Fine. Maybe you wouldn't. But I would. Sparkles on Adam would kill me.)

So, all that to say: sweet pickles. They're vile.

However. They are nothing in comparison to what I'm about to tell you.

See, I go grocery shopping every so often, and the same thing happens every time. I'm so busy analyzing costs (which can vary), brands (only a few of which I've tried), and false advertising (Newsflash for all you marketing people: Baking soda is not going to change my life, regardless of what you try to tell me), that I'm usually exhausted by the time I get to aisle two. Yes: two. I take my analyzing seriously, m'dears.

Anyway, back to the pickles. So after browsing the pickle section for what must have been at least five minutes (to the angst of all those who had to pass me), I snatched up what looked like a docile jar of pickles. And I, the savvy shopper, was happy. I may have, as a matter of fact, been looking forward to a nice pickle snack when I got home. I may have even picked up my shopping pace so I could get home.

I zoomed out of the store an hour later (record timing, I'll have you know), rushed home, unpacked my many groceries, and finally pulled out the jar of pickles. And the first bite was delectable: DE-LECT-ABLE. And my taste buds rejoiced.

But then, dear reader - then - my throat started to burn. My immediate thought was, "Are these . . . fermented?" And I looked at the jar and the jar looked back and it was then - only then - I realized I had selected, bought, and eaten Tabasco - flavored pickles.

And they burned.

And my taste buds screamed in agony.

And it was a day of utmost tragicalness. I still haven't recovered.

In the meantime, if someone could please send me a real jar (or two) of kosher dill pickles, I'd much appreciate it. It may help the healing process.

Yours most perturbed-ly,
Andrea