If you’ve ever been out for a casual lunch or dinner with me, you know that I Hate having a pickle put on my plate. If that happens, we have to just start over. I don’t even want to wipe off the pickle juice / brine. I just want it never to have been there.
So many friends will say for me – No Pickle. They just don’t want to hear the rant (at worst) or grumbling (at best).
This is all my sister’s fault. We shared a tiny bedroom and a regular double bed until I left home. And many, many days I would come into that room, or wake during the night, to the smell – and occasionally the crunch – of Kosher dill pickles. Mother ate ice cream and cookies while I was on the way. With Maureen, her diet was all about sour and tart and tang. Maureen is the only person I know for whom, after she has eaten an orange or lemon, not a speck of anything is left: no rind, no seeds, none of that white separation stuff. The only thing left is the barest whiff of the aroma.
And Kosher dills were her absolute favorite food. I rest my case.