Ode to the Pickle Pickle, I have loved you for as long as I can remember. Some of my fondest memories are with you. I recall the jars of pickling baby cucumbers my grandfather would have sitting out on his back porch in the summertime. I remember how the warm sunlight would illuminate the jars so beautifully. It was truly a joy plucking a freshly pickled pickle out of the jar and crunching into it. My next memory of you, pickle, is when my keen culinary prowess began to bloom. I was six years old and thought how good your sharp acidity would taste with the sour of sour cream. (Don’t knock it until you have tried it people!) So, I lathered up two sides of rye bread with sour cream, placed a few pickle spears inside, and have been enjoying that staple Stefanie sandwich ever since. You were at every family summer BBQ. Your pickling juices started the game of “I Dare You to Eat/Drink This” with my brothers. One of my brothers, who shall remain nameless, still enjoys a gulp of pickling liquid every now and then. No judgement. I have always ordered extra pickles on sandwiches and …

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